I apologize in advance to the ScottJean people... Jean
isn't in it. *G*
Author: Elizabeth Wilde
Distribution: Anyone who has my fic, anyone who asks
for it, http://www.geocities.com/aloysiusj/xfic.html
Disclaimer: I don't own the X-Men. Don't sue!!!
Summary: The story of how Scott came to Xavier's
school. Set a week after the prom incident in the
Spoilers: the novelization of the movie
Feedback: to wilde_moon@...
Notes: The graphic for this story is at
"Hey... Scotty... you're back." The coach sounded
less than thrilled, though he had a nice, fake smile
plastered across his pasty, sweaty face.
"Yep, I'm back. Just... needed time to rest," the boy
said, forcing a smile and shifting nervously from foot
to foot, barely looking at the coach or at the ten
other boys gathered on the field waiting for track
practice to begin. "I'm fine now. Really." He
looked up hopefully.
The coach nodded, though his expression was far from
one of certainty. "Sure... sure, kid. Good to hear."
The stocky man cleared his throat. "Listen up, guys.
Summers is back with us. He's, uh, feelin' better."
A couple of the guys offered comments to the effect
that they were pleased, but most just stared at Scott
as if he were a bomb about to explode. //In all
fairness,// Scott reminded himself, //I just might
be.// His parents hadn't wanted him to go back to
school. They said they felt it was "premature".
"After all, Scott, you've only just... just gotten
better," his mother stammered, fingers of her right
hand toying absently with her necklace as she spoke.
"M-maybe you should wait another week and-"
"I've already missed a week of school. I don't want
to get more behind," the boy had protested with a
stubbornness reserved solely for teenagers who had
their minds set on something. "I'm going back. I'm
fine. It... it was a fluke," he mumbled, looking down
at the carpet, studying the places were it had been
trampled down and worn over the tears. "It won't
What else could he say? "Aw, heck, mom, they had a
few gym walls to spare anyway. No big deal." He knew
better and so did they. They knew what the incident
at prom meant. He was a mutant.
But that didn't mean he had to admit it. "We're gonna
have a great season next year," one of the boys
commented to Scott, feigning nonchalance.
"Yeah, should be a good one. Lots of people coming
back," Scott agreed, basking in the normalcy of the
inane conversation. "You're gonna be back, right?"
"Yeah. Sure. I mean, why not, right?"
"Right." Scott tried to remember the guy's name and
finally recalled that it was something like Josh or
The guy-Jimmy? Jamie?-stood idly by for a moment,
glancing around at the others while they stretched
out. Finally, he asked, "So... what happened? I mean,
with the gym? Y'know?"
"I know. I mean, I don't know. It... just... It's
fine now," Scott finally offered, playing the incident
off with a smile and a shrug.
"That's cool, I guess."
"Yeah. It's good. Hey, you... you haven't seen
Selena around, have you? I kinda wanted to, y'know,
tell her I'm sorry about... whatever." Scott seemed
suddenly fascinated by the grass growing around the
soles of his running shoes.
"Sorry, man. Can't help ya there. I don't know if
anybody's seen her. She hasn't been around since, uh,
Scott masked his disappointment with another shrug.
"Oh. Yeah. Okay. No big deal. I mean, I'm sure
I'll catch up with her later."
"Sure." The whistle blew and the kid, whatever his
name was, bounded off to join the others, Scott
trailing behind, feeling the vaguest beginnings of a
headache building behind his eyes.
* * * * *
"Hey, mom, we got any aspirin?" Scott called out, eyes
scanning the room for any sign of his mother as he
threw his backpack down beside the couch. He raised
his voice a notch. "Mom?"
"In the kitchen, honey!"
When Scott entered the kitchen, he smiled. His mother
held a tray of freshly-baked cookies in front of her.
She gave him a gentle swat on the arm after setting
the cookies down on the top of the stove. "I don't
think so. But I also don't think a couple now would
Scott kissed his mother on the cheek and grabbed a
cookie. "Have I mentioned lately that you're the best
"Sure have, but it's always good to hear. What were
you yelling about when you came in?" she asked, moving
the cookies from the baking sheet to a plate.
"Oh, yeah. We have any aspirin?"
Her smile immediately shifted to a worried frown.
"Are you feeling alright?" There was fear behind the
concern in her voice.
"I'm fine. Just a little headache. Too much sun and
too little water. No big."
The woman breathed a sigh of relief and smiled again,
pushing her chin-length brown hair behind her ears,
hoop earrings flashing in the sun coming through the
spotless kitchen windows. "Of course. Let me see...
oh! In the medicine cabinet. Top shelf. In our
bathroom, that is. Your father's been getting those
migraines again and-"
"Thanks, mom!" Scott was already halfway out of the
room. He bounded up the stairs, moving into his
parents' bedroom. Their blue flowered bedspread was
smooth across the mattress and pillows, no dust
revealed on anything in the harsh light coming into
the room from outside. In the bathroom, he pulled
open the cabinet, briefly searching the bottles there
until he found a family size bottle of aspirin.
Popping a couple of pills into his mouth, Scott poured
a glass of water from the tap and swallowed them. The
faintly bitter taste lingered on his tongue as he left
the room. //Just a headache.//
* * * * *
It was three days before the headache became a
migraine, constant, grinding slowly away at Scott's
mind. He tried to concentrate in class, reminding
himself that the semester was almost over. It was
stress. He needed more rest. Four more days and his
parents rushed him to the hospital in the middle of
the night because the pain had grown so intense Scott
could no longer eat or sleep or speak without the
greatest effort. "Everything is going to be just
fine, honey," his mother assured him as they sat in
the waiting room filling out forms.
Scott merely grunted and pressed his hand tighter
against the throbbing in his temples. It felt like
pressure was building there. He squeezed his eyes
shut and willed the pain away with every ounce of
strength he possessed, though that was precious little
after so long fighting the same pain. He felt himself
being ushered to a room by one of the nurses. It was
another fifteen minutes-an eternity-until the doctor
"I hear you've got a severe headache?" the man asked,
smiling pleasantly, as if it weren't nearly three in
the morning and the young man in front of him wasn't
doubled over in the chair, hands pressed to his head.
Scott managed to press the pain back long enough to
give the man a sufficiently homicidal glare. The
doctor merely grinned in response before frowning down
at his file folder of special information. The frown
deepened as he actually read the words on the page.
"You were brought here a week ago after an... incident
at the school?"
Scott nodded, the slight motion making him want to
throw up. His head swam for a moment, the pressure
building, and he forced it back. //Just a headache,//
he chanted over and over silently. //Just a
"I see. Do you think this is related?"
Disgusted with the entire situation and, in all
honesty, with himself, Scott snapped, "You're the
The man's expression darkened. "Yes. I am. You,
however, are more familiar with how you feel than I
am. Is what you're feeling now similar to how you
felt that night?"
"No." The pain encroached on his concentration again,
and Scott had to struggle just to keep his eyes
focused on the doctor. "Maybe." He closed his eyes
and rubbed them with his palms. "I dunno."
"I see. Scott, we're going to give you some
medication that should help with the pain and keep you
here overnight for observation. How does that sound?"
//Like I don't have a choice.// "Fine." Scott let
the pain take over again when the doctor left to make
the proper arrangements. //Just a headache.//
* * * * *
Scott heard whispers, harsh in the quiet cocoon the
medication had created for him. He wanted to open his
mouth and tell the people talking to shut up and leave
him alone, but he couldn't convince the muscles of his
jaw to move, couldn't coax his eyes into opening. Or
were they open? Maybe it was dark. The whispers
continued, but they grew louder as he focused on them.
"...brought here last night."
"You're sure he's one of them?"
"Pretty damn sure. Look at this chart! You can't
tell me you consider that normal, doctor." The voice
sounded casually derisive.
"I... well, no." It was the doctor's slightly nasal
voice, but not as commanding, as certain as before.
"No, it isn't. That's why I called you."
"Of course. We appreciate that, doctor. Without
concerned citizens like yourself, this problem would
be far greater than it is."
"Yes. Thank you." The doctor didn't sound
"You've done your duty. Why don't you slip out and
we'll take care of this. It'll all be over before
anyone notices." Scott's sluggish, narcotic-laced
brain began to function a bit then. //What'll be
over? What are they talking about? Who is he talking
to?// "We've done this before."
"Yes. I'm sure you have. Just be quick about it."
Footsteps retreated from the room and Scott tried to
open his eyes. They remained closed. He tried to
scream, but no sound passed his lips. Panic flooded
his brain, slowly edging out the calming apathy of the
drugs. //What is happening?//
"Chart says he's due for meds. Give him a shot of
something. We don't want him waking up. That could
No voice responded, but Scott felt the sting of a
needle in his arm and the panic receded, edged out by
* * * * *
Consciousness returned in a manner Scott deemed
painfully quick. In an instant, he was fully aware of
the itchy rope holding his hands behind his back and
his feet to the wooden chair he sat in, the material
tied tightly around his eyes, the familiar pain
whirling in his brain, the musty smell of the room.
He groaned, wondering if it was a good idea to call
attention to himself at all. //Too late now.//
"Looks like you've finally decided to wake up." The
voice from the hospital.
"Where am I?" Scott asked, figuring his situation
couldn't really get much worse.
"That would be telling," the voice taunted, almost
sing-song in its mocking. "We just figured you should
know why you're here before we finish this."
"Finish... finish what?" The panic was returning
full-force, and it did nothing to ease the throbbing
behind his eyes. "What are you going to do with me?
Who are you?"
"So many questions! We are a concerned group of
citizens. You see, this country of ours is currently
being visited with a plague. Oh, it's other places
too, but that really isn't all that important just
yet." Scott could hear the voice moving closer and
wished he had the leverage to scoot the chair back
without throwing himself to the floor. "For now we
need to take care of our own."
"Own what?" Scott demanded, twisting his hands, the
rope digging into his skin. He winced as he felt
blood trickling across his palms.
"The damn muties, of course! Not the brightest crayon
in the box, are you, boy?" the voice demanded with a
snort. "Damn muties like you."
"I-I'm not! I... That thing at the gym, it... it
just... It wasn't... I'm not!" A meaty hand connected
with Scott's jaw and his head snapped sideways. He
let out a moan as the throbbing behind his eyes
upgraded to a more piercing level of attack.
"Don't you argue with me, boy! Don't you-" There
were shouts coming from another part of the building,
loud and frantic. "Shit!" the voice hissed. "Don't
move a fucking muscle. I'm gonna be back and we're
gonna finish this!"
Scott waited until the footsteps ran out of range. He
twisted his hips, the chair shifting to the right.
//Yeah, that did a lot of good. Now you're facing a
different direction. Very helpful.// Deciding that
his only chance would be to break the chair, Scott
took a deep breath and threw his weight backwards,
knowing there was a greater chance of breaking his
hands. Something snapped. Not the chair. A finger.
Scott bit back a howl of pain and tried jerking his
legs against the chair, tried leaning forward enough
to lift his hands over the back of the seat. A red
haze of pain settled over everything as he worked.
The shouts were fewer, then gone. Scott cursed,
assuming the man would be back to "finish," a word
whose meaning was all too clear to Scott. He heard
footsteps approaching and froze. He was dead anyway.
No sense in struggling more, in making it worse.
Maybe they'd just shoot him and be done with it.
Instead he felt the chair being lifted upright again,
hands brushing against his as the rope was untied.
"You okay?" a new voice asked calmly. It was a
cultured voice, so polished it almost sounded English.
The hands were untying his feet.
"Yeah, I know. We're going to take care of that in
just a minute. There we go," the voice said as the
last rope fell to the floor. "I'm going to take off
this blindfold, but don't open your eyes until I say
Scott nodded, feeling nauseous again. The pain and
overdose of medication were threatening to take his
focus away again. The blindfold was tugged away
gently and Scott felt something slide onto his face.
Glasses. //Why the hell do I need glasses?// "I
don't wear glasses," he pointed out, voice sounding
sluggish, words slurring slightly.
"Do now," the voice replied. "You can open them now."
Scott complied, blinking a few times. Everything
looked red. The shades ranged from pink to a
near-black blood color, but it was all red. He felt
the pressure behind his eyes ebbing and rolled his
head from side to side before looking up at the man
standing in front of him. He looked clean-cut,
all-American. Pale hair that Scott assumed was blond,
pale eyes. He wore a strange, tight uniform type
thing that Scott would have doubled over laughing at
if he hadn't been so doped up. //I'm having a
hallucination.// Then it struck him what the white
things peeking up over the man's shoulders were. "Am
The man smiled and laughed quietly. "No, you're not
dead. My name's Angel-well, Warren. It's good to
meet you, Cyclops."
"Cy-My name's Scott!" he protested, standing on legs
that obviously weren't ready for it. The index finger
of his left hand screamed in protest at the motion.
The man reached out, taking Scott's hand and looking
at it. "Broken. But we can fix that up no problem.
Scott, this is Charles Xavier," he said, gesturing to
an older man in a wheel chair who Scott hadn't even
"Who are you? What the hell is going on?" Scott
demanded, swaying slightly until Angel's hand landed
on his shoulder.
"As Angel said, I am Charles Xavier. Professor
Charles Xavier. I run a school for people with...
special abilities. Like yours, Scott," the man said,
smiling benevolently. "Those glasses should keep your
optic blasts in check until we come up with something
that will allow you to control them."
"Control...? Optic blasts? You mean-"
"Yes, Scott. Those men were right about one thing.
You are a mutant."
Scott sank back into the chair. "I know," he said,
"It isn't a curse. It is a gift. A gift you will
learn to use, hopefully to help others as Angel has
just helped you." Xavier smiled again, wheeling
closer and reaching out to pat Scott's hand. "You
have a grand adventure ahead of you, Scott."
Scott looked up, meeting the man's gaze. There was
something there, something that whispered, "I know
you." He took a deep breath and nodded, finally
returning the smile. "Where do I sign up?"
Xavier nodded his approval. "You already have."
Catch Your Breath [my index site] ~ http://www.catchyourbreath.net
"We've always been ready for female superheroes because women want to be them and men want to do them." -Famke Janssen
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