Riding Horses -or- Five Things That Should Never Happen to Scott Summers




(you're not dead. you're not. not even if you want to. hurts, doesn't it?)

Scott had been involved with (fucked) three telepaths in his lifetime and none of them worked out (you'd think you'd get a clue by now). Because of this, however, he knew the Astral Plane in all its permutations. Still, it was quite pleasant to be in the largest bed known to man with a two-four of beer on his left (we all know where your priorities are) and Jean wearing...

"What isthat?" he asked her, caressing something lacy with his right hand.

"This is a merry widow," she said, quite proudly.

"It doesn't look comfortable."

"Neither is widowhood."

Scott cocked one eyebrow up. "But you're not a widow. I am. A widower, I mean."

"Oh, Scott, you don't really mean that." She slid up next to him, knee to groin to chest to lips with him. "I always get better. No matter what, I'll always come back to you."

They kissed. She never used lipstick any more, just lipgloss, but she loved to get all the different flavours, just like a teenager giggling through the make-up department. She painted him with lipgloss once, re-creating his uniform in Wacky Watermelon, Pink Passionfruit, and Perky Peach. She rubbed Raspberry Rhythm on her nipples and his then traced her labia with Bubbly Blueberry so, she said, he would taste the same afterward. (don't get too excited, we're about to switch)

Scott had led (in what universe is bumbling synonymous to leading?) the X-Men for nearly five years but never had he been prouder than this moment (that's because this moment never happened). As he stood on the steps of the Capitol Building with the Professor (manipulative bastard) and half a dozen other X-Men, he looked out into the colourful mass of humanity congregated on the grounds (you know this isn't true because the grass is green) holding streamers, posters, and flags.

"My jacket's strangling me," whispered Bobby.

"If your uniform wasn't designed to be an open jacket, this wouldn't be a problem," Warren retorted.

"I wouldn't talk, Mr. I'm-too-Sexy-For-Some-Sleeves."

"Guys," Scott said in warning. They smiled beatifically (oh, come on, bobby can't even spell beatifically!).

The applause that erupted when the professor shook hands with the president was enough to impress Banshee (he's dead, too). The party later that day would be even more impressive, involving football the way only the X-Men could play it, a hellish number of barbeques on the go, and, for the first time, a peaceful sleep. (don't bet on that, we're about to switch)

Scott had gone through (been kicked out of) three schools so far but he knew Xavier's was going to be different (your naïveté is amusing). After the professor finished showing him around while his classmates chattered on with disarmingly ridiculous asides, he ate the biggest, juiciest steak in the world. For lunch! Heaven.

Then she walked in (cue the saccherine pop song).

"Hi, I'm Jean." She stuck her hand out. "Marvel Girl."

"Scott," he replied. "Nothing Yet." (smooth, kiddo).

She giggled (she never giggled like that) and his stomach twisted around like it was doing barrel rolls at zero-gees.

Twirling a red curl around her fingers, she asked, "You're the new guy?"


"But I guess you've been shown around already."

"Just the basics. I saw a rose garden outside; I haven't seen that yet and there's still plenty of light out." (get real; you couldn't string two words together around her) Scott stuck his hands in his pockets.

They talked about school (boring) and being a mutant (even more so). Scott cut a rose for her and zapped the thorns off (oh, gag me!); she wore it in her ponytail. By the end of the first week, he knew that he was never going to be whole without her (well, you got something sort of right in a way).

Scott had practiced (a lot of good that did) jumping out of a plane countless times. It was a game, only a game, until now, until this moment when Dad wrapped strapped the parachute around him and Alex both and Mom wound a rope around them for good measure (she didn't look like that, she never wore her hair like that).

"We'll be right behind you," Dad said (liar. liar!)

His hands sweat around Alex as he strained to keep his baby brother safe (fantastic job you've done so far). With a *fwwwoooooooomp*, the parachute strings stiffened. Scott cried out as the weight of his body and Alex's jerked his arms nearly out of their sockets.

"Shhhh, it's okay, Alex." (no, it's not) He tried to pat his brother on the head but he was too scared to let go the strings.

The chute drifted slowly towards a clearing. Already, he could see people rush out of their houses, tiny colourful ants. (it was dark. no one saw you. no one cared.) Memory took over from there. Somehow, he steered them towards the biggest patch of grass he could see. He bent his knees in preparation for impact.

They landed with the barest of injuries considering Scott's lack of experience (that's always been the problem with you). The news called them the Luckiest Boys in Omaha (hah!) and Scott tried to feel that way, he really did. He was lucky that they were flying over farmland and he was lucky that the parachute didn't fail, and he was lucky that neither one of them got anything more than bruises and scratches. Already, Alex was jumping around, hyper as always. But he still missed his dad and mom. (don't hang on too tightly.)

Within a month, a childless couple adopted them both (while you're at it, ask for a pony) and took them to California where Scott basked in the sun all day while Alex played basketball. (this is as interesting as the brady bunch. let's switch)

Scott had just finished a third round of knuckles with Alex when he smelled the fire. Immediately, Mom dashed to the fire extinguisher and contained the flames before it could get --

(okay, just stop it now. stop it! i can't handle any more of this useless day dreaming. wishing isn't going to get you anywhere, summers.)

(wake up, your team needs you. emma's got something up her sleeve and you know her better than most people.)

[well, a part of her anyway]

(that's good enough.)

(wake the fuck up, summers.)

(wake up.)

(wake up.)

(wake up.)

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