apachefirecat (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
apachefirecat) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
halfamoon2024-02-12 09:11 pm
apachefirecat) wrote in halfamoon2024-02-12 09:11 pm
Day 9: Aging - X-Men - Scott/Jean, Ororo - Best Friends and Blue Skies
Title: Best Friends and Blue Skies
Fandom: X-Men
Author: Apache Firecat
Characters: Scott/Jean, Ororo, also mentions Charles/Jean, Scott/Emma, Scott/Madelyn, and Logan/Jean
Rating: PG/K+
Summary: Jean reflects on a gray day.
Word Count: 2,062
Written For: Half A Moon Day 9: Aging, X-Men 15 10. Cry, and 50Disney Fandoms for 2024 #3. Ororo Munroe (I'm not really that much of a fan of Jean!)
Warnings: Spoilers, Canon Character Deaths
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to their rightful owners, not the author, and are used without permission.
She pressed long fingers onto the white, silken cloth. When she had first worn the uniform, she had never wondered about its design or history, but ever since beginning to realize her beloved Professor's true capabilities, she had often times wondered just where he had found the nurse's uniform on such short notice. She had been too young and naive to question anything he did back then. The man had seemed a paragon to her, both through his kindness and wisdom. She was very well aware of his flaws now, perhaps more so than some, possibly even more so than anyone save himself. But she still loved him.
She wondered, as she folded the little nurse's uniform she had managed to keep through all these years, despite the numerous times she and her family had all had to start over again, just where it had come from originally. Charles had a tendency to like nurses (and redheads, she thought, but pushed that thought aside as quickly as it sprang into her mind). There was any number of women, truly, who could have worn the uniform before her first time caring for the boys. She remembered, with a half-smile, how Charles had had all the beds lined up in the sickbay. They had been traditional beds, however, not hospital beds, but that was another thing she had never thought to question.
She never would have thought to question the Professor if not for Onslaught. There were scores of their very own X-Men who still did not trust Charles after those terrible days back in the '90s, but Jean could not find it within herself to hate a man who had been the dearest father figure, even beyond her own dad, she had ever known. He had not only been a parent to her, but also to her beloved Scott and to all the rest of the founding X-Men. He had done his best by them all, she firmly believed, and if Onslaught was his worse -- Well, he was still beatable, and all the heroes who had died, sacrificing their lives to stop him, were again alive.
Death was a funny thing; it both held tremendous power and did not, it seemed, in this realm. She had died too many times to be able to count them all, and even if it had not been for the Phoenix resurrecting her nearly each and every time, there were plenty of other X-Men and human heroes, too, who had died time and again only to come back through one means or another. Caressing the uniform's pristine skirt again, she remembered the boys making fools of themselves. She had been called an Angel more times than she cared to remember, and by more people than she cared to recall. She was no Angel, but with as many times as they had all been resurrected, perhaps they were meant to be some sort of Guardian Angels to this troubled world.
But the trouble never ended. No matter what they did, no matter what sacrifices they made, no matter what lives were lost, the trouble never ended. She had seen so many wars now, and she was very, very tired. She silently crossed over the bedroom she shared with her husband, much smaller than the boathouse with which Charles had blessed them so many years ago when they'd first wed, and looked out the window. Her fingers touched the cool pane of glass, and she found herself momentarily staring at her reflection -- particularly at her long, red hair.
Jean tilted her head slightly to one side as she studied her features. Her age was beginning to show in her face and hands, but of course, it was an easy, telepathic trick to keep anyone from seeing her wrinkles and knowing just how truly fatigued she was, or guessing at her actual age. Her hair would be more of a giveaway, but with the world's now-strongest telepathic force at her beck and call, she needn't even dye the gray strands to match her red.
Jean closely observed her features. There was nothing special about her appearance except her hair. There had never been anything special about her appearance, except the red hair she had come to learn so many men coveted. She wondered, if she had ever dyed her hair or simply been born an altogether different shade, how her life might have changed. She still believed she would have been led to her husband for, as much as she and Scott had endured, as many times as they had been killed or he had cheated on her, or even she on him, as much as he fantasized about other women (she could clearly read his thoughts about Emma currently, if she had not been striving to block them from her mind), they had always, always been led back together.
Furthermore, for every futuristic world they had visited or that had found a way to visit them, they had always ended up married at one point or another, and often had at least one child. His grown son might not have been hers, but she had cared for the baby and raised him far more than Madelyn would have ever done. She needn't fear Emma for, no matter what the other woman offered him, it could never compare to the bond they shared, just as nothing Logan could ever possibly offer could compare. Her heart was Scott's, as his was hers.
Scott was somewhere down below, taking a walk over the newest school grounds and trying to force away the images for which he'd not asked. He'd come and make mad love to her later, she knew, and neither of them would mention the fantasizes they both knew his head was currently determined to push on him. They were only mortal mutants, after all, no matter how many times they'd returned from the grave. There was only so much they could do.
And it wasn't as if Jean had never fantasized herself! The Professor hadn't been able to help the way he had admired her, Jean thought, looking back, and he had never acted on it. He had even chastised himself every time those thoughts had crept into his brain, not unlike her own husband was doing now with his memories and fantasies of Emma Frost. That woman was a hard woman to resist. So was she, Jean reflected, or so she'd been told. She had had so many men hit on her over the years, so many men try to seduce her, even use every bit of their power to make her their willing love slave. Scott was the only man to whom her heart had ever and would ever belong.
"It appears to be a gloomy day."
The dilected voice speaking to her from her open doorway did not startle Jean. It would not even if her powers had not warned her Ororo was coming. As much as Scott was the man to whom she had always been destined, Ororo was the sister she had never had. Her heart stung suddenly at the memory of her true sister, and how she had died, followed swiftly by Annie, her best friend whose death she had witnessed shortly before the Professor had come to whisk her away from the horror her young childhood life had quickly been becoming. She'd experienced Annie's death in her own mind. It had taken quite some coaxing for her parents to make her realize she still lived, but even then, she'd yearned to have given her life for Annie's.
"You could fix that," Jean said, clearing her throat and trying to push away the tragic memories. She really had lived such a very long life.
"I could," Ororo spoke gently, a breeze whispering through the room, "but it seems rather... fitting for most of us today." She glanced at Jean's open suitcase. "Are you packing?"
"Only memories."
"Ones you would like to share?"
Jean mutely shook her head. She turned from the window, her eyes sweeping over her current bedroom. Already, it was filled with items from photographs to pieces of furniture that brought memories with it.
"I can listen," Ororo offered, "or merely linger by you, Jean, if you would like company." Ororo truly was a leader, Jean thought. There she went again -- with that gentle offering to be all the support any of them could ever truly need.
"I was just..." She sighed. "I was thinking. Today's a... certain anniversary of mine. Not a good one." It was the day when, at such a tender age (had she been six? Eight? Ten? She could no longer exactly recall.) -- when she had held Annie in her arms as she had died. Her best friend's life had been stolen from her by a careless driver as such a young age, and Jean had lived so long and come back from death so many, many times. The world truly was not a fair place.
Ororo smiled at her, a gentle light in her blue eyes. There was no judgement, only understanding, in her wise, compassionate gaze. Jean half expected that the other woman knew exactly what day it was, and to which anniversary she referred. "The Goddess always has a reason for everything that happens, Jean," she spoke softly.
"Some would call the Phoenix a Goddess."
"Would you?"
"No." She might call the cosmic force a curse, but never a Goddess or a blessing. "Ororo," she asked softly, her eyes falling to the former goddess' tall, silver boots, "do you..." She bit her bottom lip.
"Go ahead," Ororo said, her light breeze caressing Jean's hair, cheeks, shoulders, and tense back. "Ask me anything. We have known each other a very long time, my friend. I dare say any secrets we might have once held are pointless now."
"Do you ever get tired of living?" Jean blurted out. "I've lived so long, died so many times. I don't know why I'm still here." A single tear escaped her control, but Ororo was in front of her in a heartbeat. She wiped away her tear, then pulled Jean into a hug. She tucked her head underneath her regal chin but held her both tightly and reassuringly, a comforting sister's bond. Jean laid her head on Ororo's strong shoulder and realized she was crying.
There was no condemnation or judgement, however, only reassurance as Ororo slowly stroked Jean's long, red hair, which the Windrider knew had a few telltale, gray hairs in it, likely more if Jean did not persist in using her powers to shield what she perceived to be weaknesses in her appearance. "We are only here, my friend, for as long as our Gods choose it, no matter how long or short or how many resurrections. It is up to us what to do with the time we are given, and that is truly what makes the difference in people. You, my dear, have made thousands of lives far happier, touching us all with a warmth no less radiant than the Phoenix's fire. You have been a Phoenix, always rising to the occasion and constantly being the light that we all need. If you grow tired sometimes, none of us can fault you."
She did grow tired, so very, very tired, but the Phoenix had made it clear decades ago that she was not allowed to die. Nonetheless, Jean couldn't help smiling through her tears for Ororo's words rang true to her about the Goddess herself. "I could say the same for you, 'Ro," she said, hugging her back and beginning to smile through her tears. "Like the sun breaking through clouds, you always know when we need you, and you always come."
Ororo smiled, lightly squeezed her best friend, and waved her hand behind her back. Outside, the gray clouds broke, and the sun shined. "You know," she ventured, "it has been quite a while since we've gone for a flight, just the two of us."
"It has, but -- "
"It looks like rain?" Ororo grinned teasingly at her. "Come, Jean. You know me."
"I do," Jean agreed, taking her hand and turning back toward the window where she could see the skies were rapidly growing again as much of a clear, brilliant blue as her best friend's eyes, "and I thank your goddess I do."
The End
Fandom: X-Men
Author: Apache Firecat
Characters: Scott/Jean, Ororo, also mentions Charles/Jean, Scott/Emma, Scott/Madelyn, and Logan/Jean
Rating: PG/K+
Summary: Jean reflects on a gray day.
Word Count: 2,062
Written For: Half A Moon Day 9: Aging, X-Men 15 10. Cry, and 50
Warnings: Spoilers, Canon Character Deaths
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to their rightful owners, not the author, and are used without permission.
She pressed long fingers onto the white, silken cloth. When she had first worn the uniform, she had never wondered about its design or history, but ever since beginning to realize her beloved Professor's true capabilities, she had often times wondered just where he had found the nurse's uniform on such short notice. She had been too young and naive to question anything he did back then. The man had seemed a paragon to her, both through his kindness and wisdom. She was very well aware of his flaws now, perhaps more so than some, possibly even more so than anyone save himself. But she still loved him.
She wondered, as she folded the little nurse's uniform she had managed to keep through all these years, despite the numerous times she and her family had all had to start over again, just where it had come from originally. Charles had a tendency to like nurses (and redheads, she thought, but pushed that thought aside as quickly as it sprang into her mind). There was any number of women, truly, who could have worn the uniform before her first time caring for the boys. She remembered, with a half-smile, how Charles had had all the beds lined up in the sickbay. They had been traditional beds, however, not hospital beds, but that was another thing she had never thought to question.
She never would have thought to question the Professor if not for Onslaught. There were scores of their very own X-Men who still did not trust Charles after those terrible days back in the '90s, but Jean could not find it within herself to hate a man who had been the dearest father figure, even beyond her own dad, she had ever known. He had not only been a parent to her, but also to her beloved Scott and to all the rest of the founding X-Men. He had done his best by them all, she firmly believed, and if Onslaught was his worse -- Well, he was still beatable, and all the heroes who had died, sacrificing their lives to stop him, were again alive.
Death was a funny thing; it both held tremendous power and did not, it seemed, in this realm. She had died too many times to be able to count them all, and even if it had not been for the Phoenix resurrecting her nearly each and every time, there were plenty of other X-Men and human heroes, too, who had died time and again only to come back through one means or another. Caressing the uniform's pristine skirt again, she remembered the boys making fools of themselves. She had been called an Angel more times than she cared to remember, and by more people than she cared to recall. She was no Angel, but with as many times as they had all been resurrected, perhaps they were meant to be some sort of Guardian Angels to this troubled world.
But the trouble never ended. No matter what they did, no matter what sacrifices they made, no matter what lives were lost, the trouble never ended. She had seen so many wars now, and she was very, very tired. She silently crossed over the bedroom she shared with her husband, much smaller than the boathouse with which Charles had blessed them so many years ago when they'd first wed, and looked out the window. Her fingers touched the cool pane of glass, and she found herself momentarily staring at her reflection -- particularly at her long, red hair.
Jean tilted her head slightly to one side as she studied her features. Her age was beginning to show in her face and hands, but of course, it was an easy, telepathic trick to keep anyone from seeing her wrinkles and knowing just how truly fatigued she was, or guessing at her actual age. Her hair would be more of a giveaway, but with the world's now-strongest telepathic force at her beck and call, she needn't even dye the gray strands to match her red.
Jean closely observed her features. There was nothing special about her appearance except her hair. There had never been anything special about her appearance, except the red hair she had come to learn so many men coveted. She wondered, if she had ever dyed her hair or simply been born an altogether different shade, how her life might have changed. She still believed she would have been led to her husband for, as much as she and Scott had endured, as many times as they had been killed or he had cheated on her, or even she on him, as much as he fantasized about other women (she could clearly read his thoughts about Emma currently, if she had not been striving to block them from her mind), they had always, always been led back together.
Furthermore, for every futuristic world they had visited or that had found a way to visit them, they had always ended up married at one point or another, and often had at least one child. His grown son might not have been hers, but she had cared for the baby and raised him far more than Madelyn would have ever done. She needn't fear Emma for, no matter what the other woman offered him, it could never compare to the bond they shared, just as nothing Logan could ever possibly offer could compare. Her heart was Scott's, as his was hers.
Scott was somewhere down below, taking a walk over the newest school grounds and trying to force away the images for which he'd not asked. He'd come and make mad love to her later, she knew, and neither of them would mention the fantasizes they both knew his head was currently determined to push on him. They were only mortal mutants, after all, no matter how many times they'd returned from the grave. There was only so much they could do.
And it wasn't as if Jean had never fantasized herself! The Professor hadn't been able to help the way he had admired her, Jean thought, looking back, and he had never acted on it. He had even chastised himself every time those thoughts had crept into his brain, not unlike her own husband was doing now with his memories and fantasies of Emma Frost. That woman was a hard woman to resist. So was she, Jean reflected, or so she'd been told. She had had so many men hit on her over the years, so many men try to seduce her, even use every bit of their power to make her their willing love slave. Scott was the only man to whom her heart had ever and would ever belong.
"It appears to be a gloomy day."
The dilected voice speaking to her from her open doorway did not startle Jean. It would not even if her powers had not warned her Ororo was coming. As much as Scott was the man to whom she had always been destined, Ororo was the sister she had never had. Her heart stung suddenly at the memory of her true sister, and how she had died, followed swiftly by Annie, her best friend whose death she had witnessed shortly before the Professor had come to whisk her away from the horror her young childhood life had quickly been becoming. She'd experienced Annie's death in her own mind. It had taken quite some coaxing for her parents to make her realize she still lived, but even then, she'd yearned to have given her life for Annie's.
"You could fix that," Jean said, clearing her throat and trying to push away the tragic memories. She really had lived such a very long life.
"I could," Ororo spoke gently, a breeze whispering through the room, "but it seems rather... fitting for most of us today." She glanced at Jean's open suitcase. "Are you packing?"
"Only memories."
"Ones you would like to share?"
Jean mutely shook her head. She turned from the window, her eyes sweeping over her current bedroom. Already, it was filled with items from photographs to pieces of furniture that brought memories with it.
"I can listen," Ororo offered, "or merely linger by you, Jean, if you would like company." Ororo truly was a leader, Jean thought. There she went again -- with that gentle offering to be all the support any of them could ever truly need.
"I was just..." She sighed. "I was thinking. Today's a... certain anniversary of mine. Not a good one." It was the day when, at such a tender age (had she been six? Eight? Ten? She could no longer exactly recall.) -- when she had held Annie in her arms as she had died. Her best friend's life had been stolen from her by a careless driver as such a young age, and Jean had lived so long and come back from death so many, many times. The world truly was not a fair place.
Ororo smiled at her, a gentle light in her blue eyes. There was no judgement, only understanding, in her wise, compassionate gaze. Jean half expected that the other woman knew exactly what day it was, and to which anniversary she referred. "The Goddess always has a reason for everything that happens, Jean," she spoke softly.
"Some would call the Phoenix a Goddess."
"Would you?"
"No." She might call the cosmic force a curse, but never a Goddess or a blessing. "Ororo," she asked softly, her eyes falling to the former goddess' tall, silver boots, "do you..." She bit her bottom lip.
"Go ahead," Ororo said, her light breeze caressing Jean's hair, cheeks, shoulders, and tense back. "Ask me anything. We have known each other a very long time, my friend. I dare say any secrets we might have once held are pointless now."
"Do you ever get tired of living?" Jean blurted out. "I've lived so long, died so many times. I don't know why I'm still here." A single tear escaped her control, but Ororo was in front of her in a heartbeat. She wiped away her tear, then pulled Jean into a hug. She tucked her head underneath her regal chin but held her both tightly and reassuringly, a comforting sister's bond. Jean laid her head on Ororo's strong shoulder and realized she was crying.
There was no condemnation or judgement, however, only reassurance as Ororo slowly stroked Jean's long, red hair, which the Windrider knew had a few telltale, gray hairs in it, likely more if Jean did not persist in using her powers to shield what she perceived to be weaknesses in her appearance. "We are only here, my friend, for as long as our Gods choose it, no matter how long or short or how many resurrections. It is up to us what to do with the time we are given, and that is truly what makes the difference in people. You, my dear, have made thousands of lives far happier, touching us all with a warmth no less radiant than the Phoenix's fire. You have been a Phoenix, always rising to the occasion and constantly being the light that we all need. If you grow tired sometimes, none of us can fault you."
She did grow tired, so very, very tired, but the Phoenix had made it clear decades ago that she was not allowed to die. Nonetheless, Jean couldn't help smiling through her tears for Ororo's words rang true to her about the Goddess herself. "I could say the same for you, 'Ro," she said, hugging her back and beginning to smile through her tears. "Like the sun breaking through clouds, you always know when we need you, and you always come."
Ororo smiled, lightly squeezed her best friend, and waved her hand behind her back. Outside, the gray clouds broke, and the sun shined. "You know," she ventured, "it has been quite a while since we've gone for a flight, just the two of us."
"It has, but -- "
"It looks like rain?" Ororo grinned teasingly at her. "Come, Jean. You know me."
"I do," Jean agreed, taking her hand and turning back toward the window where she could see the skies were rapidly growing again as much of a clear, brilliant blue as her best friend's eyes, "and I thank your goddess I do."
The End
no subject