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Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: As an excercise at lunch, I gave myself a character and an object. Scott Summers. Pen. This is the result. Title's from Sleeper's "Sale of the Century" which is the refuge for broken romantics everywhere.
Rating: PG13.
Set: vaguely current, possibly future. I'm a bit hazy on canon, right now, since I keep reading about it and keep thinking it sounds like utter tripe.
Made Small Again by ALC Punk! Click. Click. Clickclick. Click. Click. He stops before he can do the movement twice as fast, tilts his head to the side and watches the ball-point protrude from the end. Ballpoint pen. Clicky pen. The words are almost abstract in his brain, and if Scott thinks about them long enough, he won't think about anything else. To deviate from a planned course of action is to deny one's own true destiny. Scott Summers doesn't believe in destiny, half-baked truths, or pens without ink. But he does believe in not thinking. In not connecting this moment to the next -- a sound distracts him. Movement, and he turns from the pen. Looks at the bed, at the woman occupying it. The IV leading from one arm is matched on the other side by more tubes and wires. There are patches on her temples that were shaved off so that electrodes dipped in viscous jelly could suction on. Pads on her chest (and several reddened patches of skin where they had to shock her. Again.), and monitors that beep every other minute. Sometimes quietly, sometimes not. Although maybe it always sounds the same and it's just his perception that changes. She shouldn't be here. Click. Click. CkickClick. "Stop that." He's surprised, suddenly, that she can speak. That there's anything in her body capable of the muscular movements that produce sound, voice, breathing... "Sorry," he mumbles. The sound of his voice is rusty and disused, and he's not surprised by that. Click. "Scott." Dark eyes stare over at him, framed in pale and frayed skin, lank hair that should have been washed, but also shouldn't exist. It should be turned into its component molecules, burned into the crisp soil of the moon, spread and scattered across Jamaica Bay, plastered over Genosha... "I can't do this anymore." Her eyes close. Acceptance, pain, betrayal, rage, none of the emotions he ever wanted to engender in her. And she doesn't speak for a long time, but he can see the tears sliding from her so helplessly. Click. Click. "Scott." Jean's voice is stronger, now, and it's almost completely devoid of emotion. Click. The pen is yanked from his hand, dashed against the wall with enough force to break it. Those dark eyes are glaring, now, her lips pulled into something that might be anger, something that might be hurt. He doesn't want to know. She stops him at the door, the telekinetic hold gentle. "Talk to me, Scott." There's a chasm underneath her words. A pleading sound that he wants to touch, wants to fold, spindle, mutilate--because Jean Grey is not supposed to sound lost and alone when it comes to Scott Summers. And he's sure there's someone in the big bad universe who is laughing maniacally at him. But he can't, for the life of himself, step back in. He can't go on waiting for her to die again. Waiting for her to come back to him. "Goodbye, Jean." Click. Click. He doesn't have the pen anymore, he thinks. But his fingers learned the movement well, and it's like a phamton limb. Phantom pen syndrome? A laugh forces its way past his throat. The telekinetic hold leaves him, and he hears a soft sigh from the bed. And then he leaves. -finis- © 2005 ALC Punk! |