Xavier convinces Scott to attend therapy sessions after the events of X2. Contains spoilers for X3. Includes aspects from the comics. (Scott Summers, Emma Frost)
by dilly r
SS: I don't want to get over it. I don't want to move on. I don't want to heal. And I sure as hell don't want to recover, whatever that's supposed to mean.
EF: If you get over it, do you think you're betraying her?
SS: Do you think I'm not?
Scott hates her waiting room. There are no magazines. The chairs are the kind of white that stains if you look at them long enough. All form, no function. He spends half of the time he's waiting squirming around in the seat, trying to find some comfortable corner that doesn't exist. There is a coffee table -- all glass, even the legs -- with a designer vase and a single, drooping white rose. White carpet. White curtains. White paint on the walls with alternating matte and gloss stripes. Off-white arms on a white clock.
People think it wouldn't bother him, that the red wash from the ruby-quartz doesn't let him see color. He does. Just not the way everyone else does.
The first day he visited her, he wore white sneakers, and he stared at them against the carpet so long that he could see himself disappearing into the floor. Today, he wears all black.
A nervous looking man with flaps on his neck that might be gills edges out of the office door. His shoulder brushes the wall as he walks to the glass elevator doors. He and his elevator are gone by the time she appears. White heels, white skirt, white blazer, white clipboard, white pen.
"Mr. Summers?" she says, as if she can't see him sitting alone in her waiting room. As if she hasn't met with him eight times in the past month.
He stands slowly. His left knee pops, an old injury. "Dr. Frost?" he says, playing her game.
She grins wickedly at him, looking at him over her rimless reading glasses.
SS: Can I ask you something?
EF: My time is your money.
SS: How do you know Professor Xavier?
EF: He found me with that machine of his when I was a teenager. He helped me control my ability.
SS: [pause] Did you know her?
EF: I met her a few times. She was always hiding behind his chair, staring out with those big eyes. She looked a bit like a frog. I guess she grew into her eyes. [pause] Would you prefer that I'd never met her?
"Are you listening to me?"
He blinks. The world comes back into focus. "I'm sorry, Ororo. I was... distracted."
She's worried. Scott hates looking her in the face anymore. She doesn't hide her pity as well as Xavier, and unlike Logan, she has real emotion.
"I said that Rogue is still holding back in exercises. I think something's going on with her. Have you noticed anything?"
"Not really. She's always been a little..." He stops. "Did you hear that?"
Ororo furrows her brow. "Hear what?"
He holds up a hand to quiet her.
Scott. First whispering, then louder. Scott! Don't, Scott!
"Don't tell me you didn't hear that."
She's worried again. "Maybe you should get some sleep. It's late."
SS: I've been hearing voices.
SS: Maybe. I don't know. I think I hear someone calling me, and no one else hears it.
EF: Did you have many telepathic conversations with Jean?
SS: Sometimes. I don't know. When she was having trouble controlling her powers, she might wake me up telepathically so that I could wake her up.
EF: When she woke you, did it sound like the voices you're maybe-I-don't-know hearing now?
The ninth time he visits, he decides he hates her office more than her waiting room. There is some color. Books on the white bookshelf, a glass globe with blue oceans and gold land, two greenish clay horse sculptures that look ancient and authentic to his untrained eye. But the silence is worse than all the white in the waiting room. Everything is sound-proofed, even the window. When she clicks her recorder on or makes a note on her clipboard, the miniscule sound is deafening.
Most of all, he hates the sound of his own voice beating against his eardrums both from the inside and the outside. Sometimes he thinks his ears might be bleeding.
Her desk is glass, like the coffee table, and he can see her cross one leg over the other. "How are you feeling today, Scott?"
He doesn't know what to say, so he says the first thing that comes to mind: "Cold."
"It's the same temperature in here as it always is." There are never any readable emotions on her face. He thinks she's had botox between her eyebrows and around the corners of her eyes. "I'd like to try a new technique today. It will be a bit invasive, mentally, but it's effective."
Black room. No furniture. No nothing except four walls, one ceiling, one floor. And Dr. Frost. Her hair is down. He's never seen it down before.
"Well. Isn't this dull," she says. Her voice echoes.
"Sorry my mind isn't furnished to your liking." He can't see himself. Only Dr. Frost. "You can't record our sessions here."
She smiles. "These sort of sessions are usually fairly memorable. And I take notes afterwards. You do know that you can think of me as Emma here. It's rather intimate a place to call me Dr. Frost."
"I didn't call you anything."
"Dialogue and thought are the same here." She pauses. "Does that scare you?"
Her laugh bounces around the room until it's so diffused and altered that it sounds like summer cicadas. Her heels click as she approaches him. "Are you going to let me see you?"
He holds up his hands and focuses. Slowly, they begin to appear. Hazy, translucent.
"How about Jean? Can I see her?"
A light comes on somewhere, and it's suddenly clear that the room is dark red, not black. There are paintings, sketches, photos all over the walls. All Jean.
"That's interesting," Emma says, her eyes fixed on him. "Most people would have shown her to me as a person. Are you sure you haven't gotten over her death?"
"Do we have to talk this time, or will you allow me to finish a telepathic session without interruption?"
"I don't know."
She tilts her head, smiling. "You don't know much, do you?"
His lip twitches. "I don't know."
"Was that a joke, Mr. Summers?"
"Let's just get to the session."
He's sitting on something warm, soft. He lets his hands sink into it, and he realizes that it's fur. White fur. White walls.
"This isn't my mind."
"In a sense, you're right," Emma says. "I decided to do the decorating this time. You're no fun."
She's sitting next to him on a fur rug in front of a fireplace. The fire seems unnaturally hot, but comforting.
"You still wear those here," she says. She reaches up and takes off his shades. He squeezes his eyes shut instinctively. "I've been wondering what color your eyes are."
He doesn't open his eyes. "Blue."
"I've been meaning to ask you, Mr. Summers. Do you find me attractive?"
He stares at her. It takes him a moment to realize that his eyes aren't closed anymore. She is smiling again, that way she smiles, and he has to look away. There is a window, and outside it he can see a buzzing blue forcefield.
"It's there to protect us. Just in case."
"Just in case what?"
Emma puts her hand on his cheek to turn his head back to her. "Next time you're here, we're going to get to the hard part. For now, I just want you to relax. Do you remember how to relax?"
"Here." She holds up a hand, and a spindly glass of champagne appears. "This is how you relax," she says, and she puts the glass to his lips.
"Someone's here to see you," Logan says. There's something strange in his voice (and in the fact that he's escorted someone here instead of grunting directions to whomever came to the door), so Scott looks up.
Emma stands in the doorway. She has a stranglehold on her purse and she's eying Logan distastefully. Now, Scott understands why Logan's escorted this guest.
When Scott doesn't say anything, Emma speaks up, "You may now go back to your lumberjacking or rig driving or whatever someone like you does, thank you."
Logan looks at her ass as he walks away. It makes Scott angry. On Jean's behalf.
"That's not very rational, Scott," Emma says.
Scott frowns. "I told you not to read my thoughts without permission."
"Sorry. Your thoughts were obnoxiously loud." She stepped further into his room and closed the door. "You didn't show up for your appointment this morning."
"Guess should've called."
"No, you should have shown up." She's wandered over to Scott's desk now. She picks up a framed photograph -- an old one from when Scott first came to the school. "Let me guess, you've decided you're cured."
"I decided I'm not coming anymore." He stands up from the bed.
"Mm." She's turning the photo sideways, squinting like she's looking for something.
When he's close enough, he grabs her wrist. She drops the photograph. Its metal frame clatters on the floor. "Don't touch my things."
"You have so many rules."
Scott notices, suddenly, that she's not very tall. That her wrist is very thin in his hand. She always seemed bigger somehow in her blazers. Now, she's wearing a sundress and clunky sandals with straps that wrap around her calves and tie just below her knees. Even in her heels, she barely comes up to his chin.
"Are you going to hold my wrist all afternoon, Mr. Summers?"
He lets her go. "Sorry." He leans down to pick the picture up off the floor.
"You were very thin when you were younger," she says.
"Yeah. Everyone called me Slim," he says. He wonders if she heard what he was thinking about how small she was. He wonders if this is some kind of joke.
"I wish you'd continue your sessions. I think we were starting to get somewhere."
Her dress is not all white. There are flowers printed in the lightest blue. They match the gauzy little scarf she has tied around her neck.
He shakes his head. "We weren't."
"I'm the doctor. I think I get to decide."
"Do you harass all your patients like this?" he asks.
"Just the ones who need me."
Anger hits him hard, like a shot of whisky. He pushes her against the wall this time. Her bony shoulders make a hollow thump. "I don't need you," he growls.
She narrows her eyes, unafraid. "Yes, you do. The sooner you admit that, the better."
"STOP." He pulls her forward, then pushes her against the wall again. "Stay OUT of my mind."
"It reminds you of her when I communicate like this, doesn't it? The kind of intimacy that you never thought you could have with another woman. The way I can know you without you having to put all of those frightening thoughts into words."
He's holding her shoulders so hard that his knuckles are white, like her dress, her purse, her shoes, her waiting room. Her lips are not white. Neither are her eyes. Her skin is pale, but not white against her unrelentingly stark wardrobe.
"You're nothing like her," he says.
"I know." Her voice is quiet. Husky. "That's the problem, isn't it? I'm not her, but to some part of you, that doesn't matter. And to the rest--"
He kisses her. Hard. He kisses her so that she can't finish that sentence. He kisses her to feel something other than vast, black emptiness.
I'm here, Scott.
It's not Emma. The voice isn't Emma. There are no distinctive voices in the mind, not the way they are distinctive outside of it. Just a feeling to the voice that identifies them better than any intonation or accent.
He's not imagining it. He can't convince himself he's imagining it anymore.
Find me, Scott. Find me. I'm lost. Find me.
He jerks away from Emma so quickly that he nearly falls backwards. Her face is red where he kissed her. Her eyes are wide. Almost frightened, if she were capable of such an expression.
"It's her," she whispered.
"Go," he says. "Now."
Emma doesn't hesitate. She'd heard it too. Scott wonders what words Jean had put into Emma's mind. He listens to the dull clatter of Emma's sandals against the hall floor as she leaves. This time, he won't see her again.
He goes to the bathroom and washes his mouth out, then washes his face. He holds the water in his cupped hands, and he's sure that he sees Jean's reflection there.
He swears that she's smiling.
Scott Summers psychological profile -- Dr. Emma Frost.
The patient is dead.
I suppose I could delete this file. Shred what paper there is. I could go to bed and tell myself to forget all of this in the morning. Morning is a forgiving sort that way.
Yet, here I am. In a dark room. Typing away, like some soulless, work addicted psychopath.
From what I've gathered, Scott spent another day at Xavier's school before he left. Jean Grey was alive, as some part of him always knew she was -- the part who told me, in our first session, that he had no interest in recovering from his loss. She killed him. She left no body, which is rather thoughtless. She should have known that the lack of a corpse can make closure difficult for those left behind. She must have been a cruel woman. She is dead too now. At least, in theory. They've buried her next to Xavier. And next to Scott's empty grave.
The fact is, I can't sleep, can't delete these files, can't forget all of this... because I made a mistake.
Scott wasn't the one I should have been telling to let go.
Now I'm the only one left who has to live with that.