difficulties... // ...open or narrative
Jean lived in the medlabs because it was easier for her than trying to live up there. There was a simple room with a simple cot and the hum of medical equipment. Scott might have been hurt by that decision, she wasn't sure, but Jean was insistent. It was the best course of action if she was to stay under this roof, no matter how bad of an idea it was.
The logical half of her mind that kept tapping at her reincarnated identity with disbelief suggested that this decision to stay in the disinfected section of Xavier's property came from her unconscious denial of her living body. She needed to be beneath the soil to feel comfort here.
But there was also another theory. The more fiery aspect of her personality still insisted that her old friends had ceased to be loyal the moment they left her body in the lake. She was not the same person they knew and yet they expected to see her as she was despite such disloyalty. She was uncomfortable being in their midst because of their expectations and because of the distance she felt from them.
On the other hand, what Jean had confided to Scott was also true. She believed herself to be dangerous (though not just because of her power, she was angry after reincarnation) and being around people wasn't good for a mutant who was dangerous. No one really understood just what it was that Jean could do and she wasn't inclined to tell them. Maybe John was the only one who had a clue and she'd revealed that only on impulse. Already Jean could feel the familiar weight of her history at her back, regardless of the things she still couldn't remember, and with that came the constant fear that no matter what she'd become, she'd find a way to fuck it all up in the end.
"Fuck" had become a resident in her internal vocabulary. It was far from the lady-like speech she'd maintained throughout her life. She wondered what that meant about her temper.
Jean was sitting on her pristinely clean bed, staring at flourescent lighting, and flicking through memories she thought she had in order. It was difficult to keep track of where they went. Although it would be easy enough to peer into Scott's mind (all it meant was picking up the link she'd refused to touch), Jean was determined to be independent in ordering events. It didn't take long to decide that she needed to jog her memory. The best way to do that was to revisit a familiar place. She'd done that with her parents' home in Annandale and the hospital she'd been kept once.
That's what led her to the room Scott hadn't touched since her death. The one filled with dust and old scents of a life she'd once worn so well. Getting through the door wasn't hard. She left it open just a crack, so no one would hear it shut. Jean stepped into the room, looking at the carpet, the bed, the dresser. There was a hairbrush on the floor. She remembered dropping it, in the morning, before the chaos, before Stryker, before Scott disappeared. She never put it away. Maybe it'd been a little omen--one of the many that was so often ignored as she passed.
Jean picked the brush up with her telekinesis and caught it with her hand. She didn't take care of her hair like she used to. It wasn't styled now. Just long and unruly. She touched the bristles. Control and image had been so important to her once. It made her think of the Statue of Liberty and the headaches that came after they'd saved Rogue. She'd been scared, then. Right up until she died she was scared.
Scared of what?
The brush got hot. The cheap plastic started to melt in her hand.
Of this?
The brush was whole and perfect again. Warm to the touch.
Of that.
Jean looked in the mirror and noticed the faint glow in her eyes.
Talking to yourself?
She shrugged.
Better than talking to the brush.
The logical half of her mind that kept tapping at her reincarnated identity with disbelief suggested that this decision to stay in the disinfected section of Xavier's property came from her unconscious denial of her living body. She needed to be beneath the soil to feel comfort here.
But there was also another theory. The more fiery aspect of her personality still insisted that her old friends had ceased to be loyal the moment they left her body in the lake. She was not the same person they knew and yet they expected to see her as she was despite such disloyalty. She was uncomfortable being in their midst because of their expectations and because of the distance she felt from them.
On the other hand, what Jean had confided to Scott was also true. She believed herself to be dangerous (though not just because of her power, she was angry after reincarnation) and being around people wasn't good for a mutant who was dangerous. No one really understood just what it was that Jean could do and she wasn't inclined to tell them. Maybe John was the only one who had a clue and she'd revealed that only on impulse. Already Jean could feel the familiar weight of her history at her back, regardless of the things she still couldn't remember, and with that came the constant fear that no matter what she'd become, she'd find a way to fuck it all up in the end.
"Fuck" had become a resident in her internal vocabulary. It was far from the lady-like speech she'd maintained throughout her life. She wondered what that meant about her temper.
Jean was sitting on her pristinely clean bed, staring at flourescent lighting, and flicking through memories she thought she had in order. It was difficult to keep track of where they went. Although it would be easy enough to peer into Scott's mind (all it meant was picking up the link she'd refused to touch), Jean was determined to be independent in ordering events. It didn't take long to decide that she needed to jog her memory. The best way to do that was to revisit a familiar place. She'd done that with her parents' home in Annandale and the hospital she'd been kept once.
That's what led her to the room Scott hadn't touched since her death. The one filled with dust and old scents of a life she'd once worn so well. Getting through the door wasn't hard. She left it open just a crack, so no one would hear it shut. Jean stepped into the room, looking at the carpet, the bed, the dresser. There was a hairbrush on the floor. She remembered dropping it, in the morning, before the chaos, before Stryker, before Scott disappeared. She never put it away. Maybe it'd been a little omen--one of the many that was so often ignored as she passed.
Jean picked the brush up with her telekinesis and caught it with her hand. She didn't take care of her hair like she used to. It wasn't styled now. Just long and unruly. She touched the bristles. Control and image had been so important to her once. It made her think of the Statue of Liberty and the headaches that came after they'd saved Rogue. She'd been scared, then. Right up until she died she was scared.
Scared of what?
The brush got hot. The cheap plastic started to melt in her hand.
Of this?
The brush was whole and perfect again. Warm to the touch.
Of that.
Jean looked in the mirror and noticed the faint glow in her eyes.
Talking to yourself?
She shrugged.
Better than talking to the brush.