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clonerightsenthusiast · 9 months

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Ringer

[X-Men Comics, Gen, 4.5k words]

It was really Bobby's fault, they'd all decided (except Scott, who stoically shouldered all the blame himself, as usual). Bobby thought that if they were gonna blame him, then really it was the professor's fault for having the horseshoes where he could find them in the first place. And for leaving them unsupervised for the weekend. Was it Bobby's fault he was bored and curious?

(Yes, apparently. Whatever.)

"So it's a… game?" Scott asked skeptically, watching Bobby finish setting up the stakes outside the mansion.

"Yeah, you just throw it, dude," Bobby said, tossing a horseshoe to demonstrate.

Scott's forehead creased. "And the objective is to hook the horseshoe onto the stake?"

"Uh huh." Bobby twirled his last horseshoe on his finger. "You get points based on how close to it you get. I think. I've mostly just watched my dad play it at barbecues and stuff."

Scott hummed thoughtfully. Bobby held out the horseshoe. "It's a game for old people, so you'll probably love it," he joked.

"Very funny, Bobby," Scott said scathingly, but he took the horseshoe. He cocked his head, giving the stake a long, considering look, then tossed it.

[read on ao3]

It landed several feet short. Scott hrmed. Bobby couldn't tell if he was mad at himself for not hitting the stake immediately or just thinking too hard. Knowing Scott, he reasoned, probably both.

"Hand me another one," Scott ordered, sticking out his hand. Oh, that was his field leader voice. He was getting serious. Bobby rolled his eyes but complied.

Scott gave the stake another measured look and tossed the horseshoe. Short again.

Bobby threw the last one. It bounced off the stake and landed a few inches away. Scott gave him such an affronted look that Bobby burst out laughing.

"Sorry, Slim," he said when he got his breath back, still snickering. "Some of us are just naturally talented."

Scott harrumphed and set off in a determined stride to collect the horseshoes.

"Just keep practicing," Bobby called after him. "Maybe some day you'll get on my level."

"It's just geometry and physics," Scott said, taking his place at the first stake again. "I'm good at geometry and physics."

"Sure, suck the joy out of it," Bobby said, elbowing him until he reluctantly gave up half the horseshoes. Scott didn't seem liable to budge, so Bobby trudged over to take the other side.

"The joy comes from figuring out how it works and executing a successful strategy," Scott corrected him, eyeing the stake again.

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say, Scott. I say the joy comes from kicking your butt at something for once."

Bobby won the next game, and frankly, that was enough horseshoes for him - especially when Scott was getting visibly frustrated. He handed over the whole lot of the horseshoes and said, "You keep playing if you want. I think I've proven my superiority here."

"You've proven that you have more practice at the game," Scott said stubbornly.

Bobby snickered and waved him off to go back inside the mansion, leaving Scott to keep up his attempts to hit the ring solo.

Inside the kitchen, he found Warren poking at a bowl of half-melted ice cream with one hand and reading a book with the other. Bobby promptly flopped over his shoulder, getting a facefull of feathers for his trouble but successfully stealing a bite of ice cream in the confusion.

"Get your own, you pest," Warren said without any real heat, hunkering over the bowl. His wings lifted defensively.

"Guess what I just did," Bobby said, ignoring him to reach around and get a finger on the side of the bowl. With a little concentration, frost spread out from the point of contact across the bowl and the ice cream inside refroze. Warren begrudgingly lowered his shoulder to give him another bite in exchange for services rendered.

"What," he said flatly, elbowing Bobby until he slid off of him and onto the stool beside.

"I got Scott to play a game," he said archly. "He's outside being, like, really intense about horseshoes."

"Horseshoes barely counts as a game," Warren scoffed. "You just stand there and throw them."

"Barely is still a game," Bobby said, reaching out for the ice cream again. Warren slid it out of his reach. "This is just the first step. Next is some other grandpa game like croquet or whatever. Then we work up to stuff like Frisbee. In a few months maybe he'll even play monopoly. Hey, is there more?"

There was, indeed, more ice cream, and all thoughts of Scott and horseshoes quickly faded in its favor.

–

Scott tossed the horseshoe a couple times in his hand, feeling the weight of it. It was an odd shape. Naturally; that was what made the game what it was. Finding the proper grip on it was a process.

He held it lightly, tossing it with a flick of his wrist. The horseshoe spun off sideways, landing some feet away from the stake next to its fellows.

Scott's feet moved on their own, mechanically carrying him over to the pile of horseshoes to recollect them. His mind was occupied, considering the mechanics of that throw. Too much torque, clearly. He was throwing too much with the wrist. Maybe if he kept his wrist straight and instead rotated more at the elbow…

He would get this. There was no doubt in his mind as he took his place at the line again. He would figure this out. It was only a matter of time.

–

"Has anyone seen Scott?" Jean asked, levitating a slice of pizza out of Hank's reach. "I tried to tell him the pizza was here but he didn't answer."

Hank planted one giant hand on Warren's face and shoved him back long enough to snatch his own slice. "Scott understands the consequences of being tardy to pizza night," he said, fending off Bobby with his other elbow.

"He's never been 'tardy' in his life," Warren said, shoving Hank's hand aside with a pointed glare. "It's good for him."

"Maybe he's still playing horseshoes," Bobby joked through a mouthful of pizza, squirming into the narrow space on the couch between Hank and Warren. "Or he got kidnapped by Magneto."

"Ugh, don't even mention Magneto," Warren groaned, begrudgingly shifting over to make room. "We're on vacation."

"If only the enemies of mutantkind likewise went 'on vacation'," Hank teased. "Maybe we could work out a schedule."

"Bobby, what do you mean, playing horseshoes?" Jean asked, settling herself on the arm of the couch.

"I found stakes and horseshoes in the garage under a bunch of tarps and stuff," Bobby said. "Scott was playing it earlier. But that was, like, hours ago. He's probably just reading one of the professor's old man books and didn't notice you calling."

"It's not an old man book just because it doesn't have pictures, Bob," Warren said, smirking as Bobby stuck his tongue out at him.

"Scott's a big boy, Jeannie," Hank said, patting her arm. "He'll come in when he gets hungry. Although," he added, eyes lighting up in inspiration, "perhaps we could entice him with the siren sounds of a motion picture?"

"Only if it's one of the professor's old movies from back before the dawn of time," Warren snarked.

"We are not watching a black and white movie!" Bobby squawked, popping up straight-backed with an expression of pure affront.

"A film's quality isn't determined by its use of color photography, Robert," Hank said, looking down at him over his glasses.

"Uh, yes it is," Bobby shot back.

"You boys argue about this," Jean said, hopping down from the arm of the couch. "I'll go make popcorn. You better make a decision by the time I get back, or I get to pick the movie."

That set off a new wave of arguing, and Scott was quickly forgotten.

–

Thunk.

The horseshoe hit the stake solidly and bounced off, skipping along the grass once before coming to rest. Scott hummed, weighing the last horseshoe in his hand. Shoulder. Elbow. Wrist. His grip, the placement of his fingers along the groove of the horseshoe. His hips and feet, the bend in his knees… there were so many variables that went into a throw even before it left his hand. The wind, the angle of the stake, how hard the ground was - these also affected his outcomes, but he couldn't control those.

Distinguishing between what was in and out of his control was a vital skill as field leader, and one of the first things Scott determined in every situation he walked into. He couldn't change the weather (wouldn't that be something, having a mutant power to change the weather!) but he could control himself, break each throw down into its component elements and through trial and error and intuition determine the ideal state of each one to achieve his goal. Make a plan, and then put it into action. There was nothing more satisfying than successfully executing a plan.

The light faded around him but it barely registered to Scott. The night was clear and the moon was bright enough that he could make out the stake and collect the horseshoes - and by now he was certain he could hit the stake with his eyes closed. It was just another variable to account for. And he could account for it. He would.

Thunk.

Scott's heart skipped a beat as the horseshoe hit the stake and rattled around it before bouncing off to hit the ground close by. That was the sound of progress. He almost had it.

He just had to keep going.

–

Jean slept in, a rare luxury born of the professor's absence. She woke to bright sunlight filtering through her gauzy curtains, and took her time stretching and basking in the warmth and joy of one last day of no responsibilities before finally sliding out of bed to get dressed and see what the boys were up to.

Warren and Hank were both in the kitchen, divvying up the newspaper. Hank called a garbled greeting around the pencil in his mouth as he set to the crossword. Jean hummed pleasantly in response as she opened the fridge to retrieve the milk, using her telekinesis to get the pantry at the same time.

The box of cereal abruptly dropped to the counter as she got distracted, frowning at the contents of the fridge. The last slice of pizza she'd jealously guarded from the boys and set away for Scott last night was still there. She leaned back and half-closed the door again and sure enough the note in her own neat handwriting letting him know was still stuck to it.

"All right, Jeannie?" Warren's voice prompted her to grab the milk and let the fridge close properly, shaking her head.

"Yes, just – is Scott up yet?" Jean asked, picking up the cereal again with her telekinesis to shake some into a bowl while she poured the milk. She brought it over to the table where the boys were sitting, and Warren graciously pulled out a chair for her.

She knew him well enough to catch the disappointment that flashed across his face as she asked about Scott, but didn't say anything; she didn't want to encourage their silly rivalry. Warren, to his credit, gave no hint of it as he replied.

"I saw him this morning when I went out for an early flight," he said. "He was out there by himself playing horseshoes. Didn't even look up when I buzzed him." He did sound disappointed by that, and Jean snorted into her cornflakes. Boys.

Hank glanced up from the crossword, adjusting his glasses. "Pardon me, Warren – did you say you saw Scott playing horseshoes early this morning?"

"Sure did, Hank," Warren said. "Why, what's all the interest in Scott this morning?"

"It's only that when I went out to retrieve the morning's paper – hardly ten minutes ago – he was out on the lawn, tossing horseshoes, as you say," Hank said. "I'm merely surprised such a simple game has captivated our fearless leader for so long. It seems rather below a strategic mind of his caliber."

Warren whistled. "That's what, a couple hours straight of horseshoes? He must be going stir-crazy without the professor giving him X-Men duties. I was wondering why he hasn't bullied us into the Danger Room all weekend."

"Be nice," Jean admonished him, elbowing his side. "It's good that he's having fun."

"Personally, I'm glad he's found a way to have fun that doesn't involve shooting at me with eye blasts," Warren said with a smirk. "But I bet you and I could come up with something way more fun to do than horseshoes."

Jean smiled at him beatifically. "That sounds like a great idea, Warren," she said blithely. "You go get Bobby, and I'll pick a board game."

Warren looked pained for just a second before manfully accepting that he'd blundered into a trap of his own making and accepting his fate. "Sounds great, Jeannie," he said, getting up from the table and tucking his section of the paper under one arm. "You coming, Hankster?"

"Give me just a moment to complete today's puzzle and I'll gladly join you," Hank said, and Warren waved in acknowledgment and slouched off to find Bobby, hands slung in his pockets. Hank turned an admonishing eye on Jean. "That was mean of you," he said.

"Oh, he asked for it, and you know it," she said, snickering. Jean tipped her bowl back to slurp the last of the milk and stood up, wiping her mouth. "I'll see you in the living room. Bring Scott if he comes in."

"Naturally," Hank said, bending back to his crossword. "I'll only be a moment."

–

The horseshoe sliced through the air and dropped in a neat arc over the top of the stake, clanking against the others sitting at its base. Mechanically, Scott pulled his arm back, transferred the next horseshoe to his throwing arm, reset his stance, and tossed it.

It followed the same path through the air and hooked itself on the stake, sliding down to rest on the small pile of its fellows. A satisfied smile broke through Scott's focused expression as he walked the well-trodden path from the line to the stake and back again, laden once again with horseshoes. He barely had to think about it anymore; he'd done it, he'd solved it, and now it was just throw, retrieve, repeat, in smooth, soothing, repetitive motions, with the bonus satisfaction of seeing each throw land exactly where he wanted it to.

He could do this forever.

–

"HaHA! Take that, Harvard boy!" Bobby crowed, leaping to his feet. "Who's the businessman now?"

Warren groaned and tipped back against the couch in defeat. "You know I haven't actually gone to Harvard," he grumbled. "And Monopoly is hardly a test of real business acumen."

"Oh, don't break out the big words just because you lost," Bobby said, jabbing a finger at him, still grinning.

"It's not a big word just because you don't know what it means, Bob," Warren said, swatting his finger out of his face.

"Oh, don't be a sore loser, Warren," Jean piped up. She and Hank, long since eliminated from the game, had curled up instead in the armchairs to heckle the both of them.

"Go easy on him, Jeannie," Hank said, affecting a serious expression while barely suppressing a laugh. "Bankruptcy is a new experience for him."

"Yeah, and being rich is a new one for me!" Bobby said, tossing handfuls of flimsy paper money in the air.

"Yes, we can tell," Warren said dryly.

"Okay, okay," Jean broke in before Bobby could get out whatever affronted response bubbled up, covering her mouth with one hand to hide her snickering. "Good job, Bobby, you won fair and square."

"Thank you, Jean," Bobby said, sticking his tongue out at Warren.

Warren tossed his top hat token at him, bouncing it off his forehead. "All right, enough Monopoly," he said before Bobby could respond. His wings shot out at awkward angles as he levered himself to his feet, sweeping dice and money off the coffee table. "There's no getting those hours of our lives back. Let's clean up this mess and find something more worthwhile to do with our time."

Jean made eye contact with Hank before rolling her eyes, provoking snickers from him as they both got up to help pack away the game.

"You just hate when I win anything," Bobby said, elbowing Warren.

"New experiences are always difficult," Warren said smoothly. He caught a sputtering Bobby in a headlock and dug the knuckles of his free hand into his scalp for a few seconds before releasing him. "There, there's your victory noogie, mister winner," he said.

"All I ask is acknowledgement," Bobby sniffed, dropping onto his stomach to fish out the money that had found its way under the couch. "Where's Scott? I want him to witness my victory."

"Maybe he's still playing horseshoes," Warren said, reaching out to accept the tokens from Hank and drop them in the box. "I take back what I said about having more fun than him."

"Oh come on, he's not still playing horseshoes," Bobby said. "It's been a whole day."

"What? No, I mean since this morning," Warren said, giving him a strange look.

"He went back out this morning? He must really like horseshoes," Bobby said, flopping down on the couch.

Jean checked her watch. "It's been hours," she said. "He must have come in. Hank, did you see him come in while we were in here?"

"No, I can't say I did, Jeannie," Hank said.

Jean frowned and looked over her shoulder at the foyer. "I'll just…" she trailed off as she got up and headed for the door.

The boys exchanged glances before Warren shut the Monopoly box and they all got up to follow her.

Jean propped herself up against the threshold of the big front door, watching Scott on the lawn. He threw a horseshoe, neatly hooking it over the stake in front of him. Two more followed in quick succession. Scott threw his whole complement of horseshoes, then marched up to the stake, picked them up, and started all over again.

"Wow, he got really good at that."

Bobby's voice made her jump. She looked over her shoulder to see the other three boys coming up behind her. Jean looked at them, then back at Scott, who seemed perfectly oblivious to being watched. She squinted, taking in his practiced, mechanical movements, and the way he swayed slightly when he stopped by the near stake.

"Did anybody see him come in last night?" she asked, biting her thumbnail.

The boys muttered, conferring with each other, and the consensus was reached that no, nobody had. Making up her mind, Jean planted a hand on Bobby's shoulder and shoved him forward.

"Go ask him how long he's been playing," she ordered him.

"What?" Bobby squawked. "Why me?"

"Just do it, Bob," Warren said.

Outnumbered, Bobby shot them a mutinous look before tromping off across the lawn towards Scott.

Scott didn't respond as Bobby approached, and Bobby took the opportunity to look him up and down. Okay, so maybe he did look a little tired. And there was a muddy line through the grass between the stakes that definitely hadn't been there when he set them up yesterday. So maybe Jean had a point.

Bobby cleared his throat. "Hey, Scotty," he said from a safe distance. Not that there was a particularly safe distance to surprise Scott Summers from.

Scott's head snapped up sharply at the sound of his voice and fixed on Bobby. He couldn't see his eyes behind his glasses, but he could imagine Scott's focus shifting.

"Hi, Bobby," Scott said, then cleared his throat when it came out hoarse.

"So, uh," Bobby said, scuffing the grass with the toe of his shoe. "You like horseshoes, huh?"

"Huh? Oh." Scott looked down at the horseshoes in his hand. "Yeah, it's really satisfying."

"I guess you took me kicking your butt pretty seriously, huh?" Bobby joked. When Scott gave him a blank look, he cleared his own throat and asked, "How long have you been out here practicing?"

"Oh. Since we played, I guess," Scott said.

Bobby stared at him.

Scott looked back.

"Cool." Bobby said. "Uh. Be right back." He turned and fled back to the others, waiting anxiously in the doorway.

"Well?" Hank asked as he skidded to a stop, peering at him from around Warren's wings and over Jean's shoulder.

"He's lost it," Bobby blurted out. "He's been playing since yesterday. Like, straight. That's, like. More than twenty four hours! What time is it?" He grabbed Warren's wrist to check his watch. "Twenty seven hours! Twenty seven hours of horseshoes! We're gonna be in so much trouble. We have to tell the professor we broke Scott!"

"Bobby, calm down," Jean said firmly. She planted both hands on Bobby's shoulders. "We didn't break Scott."

"Besides, it's not a we. You got him playing," Warren said. "This is your fault."

"I hate to say it, Robert, but he has a point," Hank said.

"Hey!" Bobby protested.

"Boys," Jean snapped. "It doesn't matter whose fault it is. What matters is that we snap Scott out of it before the professor comes back tomorrow. So. Bobby." She used her grip on his shoulders to turn him around so he was facing the lawn again. "Go pull out the stakes."

"What?" Bobby yelped. "I can't do that!"

"Sure you can," she said encouragingly. "Just yank them out."

"Why me?" he complained. "What if he blasts me?"

"He's not gonna blast you," Jean said. "And you have to do it because you started it."

"Jean."

"Bobby. Go." With a firm push to his shoulders, Jean sent him stumbling once again back towards Scott.

Bobby trudged back over, shoulders hunched and grumbling to himself under his breath the whole way.

"Okay, Scott," he said, walking past him to the target stake. His shoulder itched where he could tell Scott was staring at him. "Game's over. This is for your own good, so don't blast me, got it?" Bobby tried to sound authoritative, and then realized he was doing an impression of Scott, and quickly changed tack. "Jean says you can't play anymore, and you should probably, like, sleep, dude," he said.

"Hey, what're–" Scott started to say as Bobby grabbed the stake. He made a strangled noise as Bobby ignored him and yanked it out of the ground, slinging it over his shoulder.

"Scott, you've been playing for twenty seven hours, dude," Bobby said, pointing the stake at him. "Pack it in."

Scott stopped short, cocking his head. Does not compute. Recalculating, Bobby thought hysterically, resisting the urge to laugh at him.

"Has it really been that long?" Scott finally asked, a little sheepishly.

"Yeah, Scotty," Bobby said. "And if the professor finds out we let you do that he's gonna be pissed at us, so go sleep it off before the rest of us get in trouble."

Scott huffed and shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose right below his glasses. "Sure. Yeah, Bobby, okay, let's go inside."

Bobby's shoulders slumped in relief. "Great. C'mon." He slung an arm around Scott's shoulders and steered him towards the door where the rest of the team waited.

–

It was like Bobby had broken a spell, and all at once Scott found himself exhausted, sore, starving, thirsty, and in desperate need of the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later found him perched on a stool at the counter, trying to eat a cold slice of pizza like a human being and not a rabid monster. He raised it slowly with his right arm and winced as the sore muscles screamed at him. He shifted uncomfortably and swapped it to the other hand.

A second later, a blessed cold landed on his upper arm, and Scott glanced sideways to see Bobby pressing an icy hand to his bicep. The corner of his lips twitched upwards into a grateful smile and Bobby smiled sheepishly back.

"So," Warren said, breaking the awkward silence and forcing Scott to acknowledge the rest of his teammates standing around and staring at him. His shoulders hunched self-consciously. "I think I speak for all of us when I say: what the hell, Scott?"

Scott cleared his throat. "I, uh. I guess I just didn't notice how long I'd been out there." It sounded lame, even though it was true. He'd known, abstractly, that he'd been at it for a while. It just hadn't registered as worthy of his attention when he had horseshoes to throw.

"Right. Well," Jean said. "The professor doesn't get back till tomorrow morning, so you can get plenty of sleep tonight and it'll be like nothing happened."

"Okay," Scott said. He didn't know what else to say. He kind of wanted to curl up into a ball until he was so small his friends couldn't see him so they'd stop looking at him.

Jean, bless her, flapped her hands at Warren and Hank, both on the same side of the counter as her, ushering them away. "Okay, okay, let him eat," she said. "Go turn the TV on. We have one more night of doing nothing left. See you tomorrow, Scott."

Hank and Warren let themselves be herded, calling their own goodnights back to Scott as they left the kitchen. Scott waved as they left, then glanced back at Bobby and took another bite of pizza.

"So, uh," Bobby said. "I guess we can say you probably win the next match. You definitely have more practice than me now."

Scott huffed again. "I think I should probably stay away from horseshoes from now on," he said ruefully. "We can chalk this up as a learning experience and move on."

"That's fair," Bobby said. "Eternal draw, then?"

A smile crept over Scott's face and he ducked his head. "Sure. Eternal draw." A huge yawn split his face and he shook his head. "Okay, okay, I should go to bed. See you tomorrow, Bobby."

"G'night, Scotty," Bobby chirped, taking his hand back and heading off after the other three.

Scott shoved the last of the pizza in his mouth and dug his fingers into his sore muscles, filling up a glass of water to take with him upstairs. He wondered what he would say if the professor asked him what he did with his weekend. Training, sir, he imagined himself saying. He had, after all, proved the point he'd set out to prove: repetition and practice were enough to master any skill. Even if he wouldn't be repeating this particular experiment any time soon. Or probably ever.

Professor Xavier probably wouldn't even question him. He didn't need to know the exact form the training took. It would be their little secret, the five of them. Scott muffled his private smile in his shirt and trudged up the stairs to bed, the sounds of his teammates bickering and shushing each other floating up after him.

#scott summers #x men #xmen #bobby drake #jean grey #warren worthington iii #hank mccoy #my fic #im FREE im free of the curse of the 27 hours of horseshoes ive excised the brainworms and put them in this fic

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stormxpadme · 2 years

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Whumptober 2022 No. 8 - Stomach Pain & Head Trauma

1988

"Ten bucks say, he's not gonna make it."

"I'm not doing bets with you, Worthington. You're loaded enough." Ignoring the chatty presence of the guy next to her as well as possible, Jean did her best, never leaving their target in the distance out of sight.

A whole minute already, and there was no movement at the door of that deserted hut in the woods behind their home to detect to speak of. No vibrations from a scrawny teenager's body trying to crash through it, no rattling at the lock. The newest, so very talented member of their training group was up to something, and Jean didn't like that she couldn't find out what it was. Not without trying to read his mind which would have been highly unethical, and in a power-prohibited simulation like this, just as much cheating as Scott blasting his way out of his improvised prison cell before the bomb he was being locked up with could go off. A dummy, of course, not even Warren who had been responsible for the setup today, could be enough of an asshole to put their young colleague into serious danger, just to tend to his hurt ego because that kid was quickly outwitting all of them … Still, Jean's nerves would have stopped fluttering if she'd seen some sign of their would-be-captive trying to fulfill his assignment. Had that idiot fallen asleep in there? Given that he spent most nights trying to catch up both in theory and practice with what he'd missed out on during his years in the streets, rather than resting, not impossible but …

"He's probably trying to diffuse the explosives for extra credits or something. Like he needs even more points on his boot camp score." Warren rolled his eyes a little too dramatically for Jean's taste, never losing his grin. He'd never admit it, of course, but Jean didn't need her powers to know, Warren was being equally impressed with both the instinctive and the street-smart skills that this growling, gawky, rude husky that was their latest housemate had proven from the day Charles had started to encourage him to become part of his mission. Warren was a lot of exhausting things but not a bad loser. "Or you know, maybe he's just waiting for you to sweep in and save him white knight style. Probably thinks it's romantic … What?" Chuckling, Warren used one of his wings to cushion his unprotected side when Jean tried to hit him, her irritation growing. "Come on, everyone has seen how he swoons whenever you walk by. I'm giving you two a month before you're driving off into the sunset."

"You know, I will give you ten bucks just to shut up." Jean rubbed her temples, feeling one of her headaches kicking in that happened to be one of those things their new training mate and she had in common. She could have reminded Warren, the kid was three years younger than her and that between med school, giving riding lessons, and trying not to get herself killed while learning how to save the world, the last thing she needed in her life was a boyfriend. But knowing Warren, he'd probably take that as another nonexistent hint to go back to his own tireless flirting attempts, and Jean had only just managed to shut those down. Maybe she should try to hook up with Ororo for a night of fun one of these days, just to get the males in this house off her back. "No. Way." She looked up at the hut again just in time to notice the quiet screeching noise of something rusty unlocking and the door opening, revealing their teammate's tall silhouette in those tight, resilient leather clothes Charles and Erik had come up with back at the time for going in the field.

Scott didn't have his own yet, and Warren's were more than just a little too wide for him … But right now, a little pale and dusty but with his chin held high and his chest swollen with legit pride, his hand on that device covering his eyes that Charles and he had come up with to use his powers as a precaution, Jean thought she could see it too, for the first time maybe, what Charles had known immediately when he had found that guy.

The brief moment of impressed awe lasted only for a second before her anger bloomed again because of course, Warren had nothing better to do than blame her for forgetting to lock the damn door of that hut properly.

"I'm not stupid, you prick. You watched me turn this twice." She threw the key that had been safely stored in her belt in Warren's face, stopping it with her powers just in time before she could punch his eye out. "Scott bet Ororo that he's better at lock-picking than her. He probably just trained really well. Maybe you should try to do the same for once. Guy's starting to make you look really old." She got up from her cowering position between a few bushes, shaking the stiffness from crouching there for too long from her limbs, to prepare for the inevitable next part of the training unit. Jean yelped in surprise when she was swept in long, strong arms, losing solid ground under her feet a second later.

One thing Warren had on her were reflexes, and he'd seen faster than her that their fake prisoner was making a run for it.

Scott knew perfectly well he was outnumbered and in a shitty tactical position, having no idea where they were and being in the middle of thick undergrowth. So he tried to get to a more advantageous location on some clearing instead.

"Smart," Warren grumbled reluctantly, his sharp eyes fixed on the ground, on their target, his embrace around Jean's waist and thighs reliable and unwavering. Technically, using his wings was cheating as well but since these things weren't powers that could just be taken out by some inhibitor that Charles was certain their enemies would come up with at some point, he could get away with it.

Unlike Jean who wasn't allowed to just use her telekinesis to stop their captive on the run from above who, on top of everything else, was fucking fast, too. How the fuck had he gotten out there? Warren and she should have heard at least some scratching from something ruining that massive lock, or the bang if the guy had maybe used his blasts on it after all …

There was no more time to think about it because, for some reason, Scott's impressive sprint had significantly slowed down in the last few seconds so that Warren didn't even have to get up to his full speed to catch up with him. He landed right in front of his younger teammate, dropping Jean not exactly gently behind him before. They hadn't lost the training unit yet, not as long as their fake captive hadn't made it to the Institute perimeter and thus to safety. And while the boy could throw a respectable punch, in this case, Jean was pretty sure he'd just run out of his luck. Warren and she had too many years of close combat training on him. The fight was quick, and dirty because if you couldn’t do it in simulations and against people who weren't actually trying to injure, assault or kill you, you didn't learn how to stay alive out there when all the safety nets and settings and blank rounds and cushioned floors were gone. That, too, was something no one had needed to teach Scott first. His nose was bleeding soon, and he was going easy on his right shoulder because Warren sometimes didn't know yet how to limit his accelerated strength right, and Jean's ankle was hurting from taking a bad sidestep on a protruding oak root. Next, Warren's lip was split from a nasty contact with a quick, pointed elbow, and fascinatingly enough, their fake target was still on his feet. For far too long for Warren's taste apparently. When Jean managed to land a solid punch to Scott's midsection and her younger teammate toppled over for a moment with a pained grimace, Warren used the chance immediately to yank the guy up in the air with a punishing grip around his arms and chest and fling him towards the nearest tree. Not exactly a gentle maneuver but neither of them was worried about that a lot, because they'd both seen this guy doing his athletic late-night routines half asleep from far too much studying and on nothing but a cup of coffee and still not fucking up a single flip or twist …

But instead of rolling into a protective position and landing smoothly on his feet, Scott crashed against the trunk of that half-withered tree headfirst and into a heap of wheezing, panting mess, VISOR half-slipped from his eyes and colored red from a nasty cut on his forehead … and with a shaking hand pressed against his stomach where Jean had just hit him, she suddenly realized with growing dread.

"Shit … Hey, you alright, kid?" Warren was there before Jean in her briefly frozen shock could and awkwardly put his hand on Scott's thin shoulder, mumbling an apology Jean knew didn't come easily.

From the way she'd got to know Scott, she wasn't surprised that he raised his other, just as unsteady hand immediately for a soothing gesture and then to put his VISOR back into place, but that expression of agony was still on his far too white face. And when he tried to open his mouth for what was hopefully capitulation before this could get even more dangerous, he started to gag instead suddenly. What came from his lips was dark red and thick, and it let the restless, shrieking animal called panic inside Jean's soul off its leash for good.

***

"I'm so sorry, Professor. I just don't know what happened." Jean didn't even seem to realize she was repeating herself for what was the sixth time since her group had stormed through the backyard gate and right towards the sick bay, with a half-unconscious, blood-covered member of their unit unmoving on Warren's arms. "I never realized I hit him so hard …"

"You didn't. Jean. Calm down. Come here. Look at this. Your lecturers at med-school will be thrilled if you tell them about this. That's not something you see every day." Hank waved her over with a gloved paw to the monitor of the ultrasound machine that he'd drawn up to the stretcher where his patient lay. Out cold now by the looks of it, probably from that nasty head injury that Hank had already identified as being only superficial though, thankfully. Next, he'd gone to see what caused those worrying stomach issues, and the results of that examination left everyone in the room stunned for a moment.

"Is that … a key?" Jean stared at the outlines of that object on the image that certainly didn't belong there with wide eyes, then looked down at Scott's pale shape with a kind of expression in her eyes Charles knew she would not be aware of for another few years to come, and back on the ultrasound.

"Yeah, that's the second part of this." Warren held up two more keys they'd found when getting Scott out of his uniform, a look somewhere between disbelief and respect on his face. "Skeleton keys. The chain must have been brittle. It probably dissolved from the acid inside. Kid probably didn't even realize one was missing. I mean, hey, that's one way to keep your enemies from finding something when they pat you down. Are you sure you found that dude in Hell's Kitchen and not in the psych ward, Professor?"

"That's enough, Warren. Tell the others things will be alright here and write your report." Charles sent the young man away with a sharp nod of his chin and turned his wheelchair back to the bed again with a sigh, gently resting his hand on Jean's far too-cold one for a moment. "It's not your fault. Scott has lived in the streets long enough to pick up a few unhealthy habits. We'll work on that when he wakes up. He'll recover soon. Right, Henry?"

"Give him two days, then he's probably back in the gym." Hank gently led Jean away from the stretcher because she was still staring at her younger teammate with a visibly bad conscience and tears in her eyes. "Come on, go take a shower. You look like you just shot some slasher movie. I just need to get that thing out and get the bleeding under control. It's not a big deal. Membranes heal quickly, especially with a layer of Shi’ar tissue adhesive pumped onto them. I don't even need to cut him open. When you come back tomorrow, he'll be awake enough for you to yell at him for his stupidity."

"Thank you." Jean wrapped her arms around Hank's stout shape for a moment and obeyed then, albeit with a reluctant pout.

Charles waited until the young woman was out of earshot before he brought his chair back to the x-ray wall and the results from that CT a few minutes ago there, with a frown on his face he'd successfully fought the whole time, while his old friend started to rummage for tubes and IVs and syringes in the cabinets.

Charles hadn't missed that look Hank had given him when he'd hung those images up. One that had said, just because these scans were clean of more recent damage, there wasn't something else to discover in them.

And that meant, depending on the conclusions Hank had drawn, either another of those tiring discussions they kept on having or maybe even one of these drastic interventions Charles hated so much. "What am I looking at, Henry? I thought you said the head trauma was only on the outside."

"You tell me," Hank gave back in a tight voice, his upper lip drawn back between his fangs while lubing up the tube he needed to get in his patient for the procedure. "I know how you look when you are blindsided, Charles. Right now, you're not. This isn't the first time you're learning about that scarring on his brain. And here I was wondering why you wouldn't let me put the boy in a scanning tube so far."

"One of the doctors in the foster home he was in last gave me a hint or two." Charles gently, unobtrusively reached out his mind to his friend's without turning away for longer than a second from the neon light wall, to make sure there wasn't any unsettling amount of distrust or skepticism he had to deal with there. He was relieved to find mostly mild irritation and confusion. As long as it was just Hank's untiring scientist pride hurt, that was easy to deal with. "But they never took a closer look. They just wanted him gone. You know how humans get when they're afraid. Besides, you've seen the state the boy was in when I brought him in. He was unstable enough without learning, that plane crash back then left worse injuries than he knows. So this is what I think then?"

"I want to do an MRI for a more detailed look when he's no longer bleeding inside, but yes … With that damage right there on the lobe responsible for power manipulation and vegetative functions? Young Mister Summers will not be controlling those blasts anytime soon. Probably never. But you already knew that, didn't you?" Hank wasn't done yet provoking him, unfortunately, his hands shaking for a moment almost too badly to start threading the NG tube into place. "You're a terrible actor, anyone ever tell you that? Do I get to guess what kind of things you blocked in this boy's mind that taught you about this condition of his long before you let me find out? Or do you prefer to wipe that right out of my head, too?"

"If I was someone to use their powers for unethical procedures of this kind, Henry, don't you think I would long have started by repairing that hate and loathing you have for your own body in your soul?" It was maybe not entirely the truth but it also was not a lie and a blow low enough to immediately have Hank go silent and back to his work.

And the short twinge of deeply-rooted anger, of decades of grief and hate in his head, distracted him enough for Charles to put just a little surge of extra negative energy regarding that other, just as unpleasant subject into his thoughts, to keep him from pondering about it and especially from asking. No manipulation, technically, not really. Just the mental equivalent of well-meant advice.

It was still not something he liked to do or was exactly proud of, but sometimes, sacrificing your own peace of mind and choosing methods usually more suited to his ex-lover's ways of attempting to fix this world was the only way to keep this Institute running.

That now inevitable-become conversation with Scott about this handicap being indeed a permanent one that Charles had wanted to put off at least for another few months, would be difficult enough, without risking that deeply traumatized young man losing all the progress he'd made since he'd got here. It would take many more years of healing and counseling before Charles could even consider making Scott remember where and how he'd spent the first year right after mutating back then. At least if he didn't want to lose this so promising, so powerful young man to even more trauma and a kind of rage that could tear this place and the rest of this world to pieces. Sometimes, he wondered if Scott would ever be doing well enough to risk these kinds of crucial revelations at all. Probably not. At least not in Charles' lifetime.

But these were his own demons to deal with, not Hank's, and as long as he possibly could help it, he wouldn't put that kind of burden on anyone else. Things and people like Essex, that wasn't something anyone on this dear Earth should have to struggle with needlessly, especially now that this lunatic had stopped being an issue. "That said, even if I was who you still think me to be sometimes, Henry: There would have been no need for me to put up any barriers in this boy's mind. Most of what happened since his parents died he blocks out himself, too strong even for me to see much of his past in his thoughts." And that, too, was true, though, of course, it wasn't a serious obstacle for powers of Charles' kind.

If it hadn't been for those layers of ignorance, of self-protection in Scott's head, Charles doubted he would actually have come in time all those months ago to save half of a district from being razed to the ground soon, and such a talented young person from being killed by the authorities or at least put away in chains forever. Scott knew best, probably even better than Charles himself, that for him, there was no choice but to start living within well-defined limits of control and discipline if he wanted to live at all. His mind going unhinged with an overload of bad memories, enough to blast right through those shields in front of his eyes and into whatever or whoever was standing in the way, wasn't exactly an ideal scenario for either of them.

"He doesn't know most of what happened to him in the past, and I can only guess. And for the moment, that is better for all of us, believe me."

"One day, maybe, you'll tell me what gives you the idea you get to decide that, Charles." The minor mental suggestion in Hank's head had helped; that didn't sound aggressive anymore, just tired.

A notion Charles could very well feel in his own bones after once more having to cut out a part of his own heart for the greater good. "Call me when he's awake."

*******************************************************************************

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