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Scott wakes up in the dark on a Wednesday.
He rubs gently at his brow and yawns, reaching for his phone next to his pillow. He presses random keys but it doesn't light up. The batter is probably dead; he can't remember when he last charged it. The curtains must be closed too, there's a street lamp just outside his window.
Scott rolls over and his legs twist uncomfortably in the sheets, around his waist. He pulls them off and stands, feeling around blindly for the nearest wall to find the light switch. Alex's voice is groggy with sleep when he calls after him, “Scott? What are you doing?”
"Trying to find the light switch, dumbass. Hold on," he touches the walls and feels across it.
"Why?”
He finds the switch, flicking it back and forth twice before cursing, “Fuck, the bulb is out. Where's your phone? Light up the room.”
"Scott, quit messing around.”
"Just turn your phone on. It's dark as hell in here.”
"Scott,” Alex's voice is crisp but wavering, “the lights are on.”
"No they aren't,” Scott can feel his nails digging into his palms.
"Yeah, they are.”
Scott can't keep himself from screaming. “Then why is it dark?”
"What? That's not funny, Scott.”
The room is dark, Scott's phone is plugged into the charge, it has been all night. The window is even open, Scott can feel the breeze through it. “Are the lights on, Lex?”
"Yes,” he scrambles up across the floor and Scott feels his hands at his cheeks. “Your eyes are open. I—Scott, are you okay?”
"I—,” his voice breaks and he can't even think this through for a moment, it sounds ridiculous, “I can't see—anything."
Scott wakes up blind on a Wednesday.
-
The Summers do what any parents would do in their situation: they freak. They speed all the way to the ER. They don't get pulled over, surprisingly, seeing as they scream directions to the nearest hospital at each the entire way.
Mom sits in the back with Scott, clutching his hand and sobbing but Scott can't cry just yet. His hands are numb where his mother is clinging to him. He just can't register the concept yet—there's no way he’s actually—Scott shuts his eyes so tight that his lashes tickle his cheeks and he tries to breathe.
The ER is loud. Scott can hear children crying and the squeak of rubber soled shoes. It smells like antiseptic and Alex's coconut shampoo. His mother's shampoo is the same, maybe they enjoy the smell. Scott can barely stand it.
Mother stutters when she tells the nurses her oldest son is randomly blind but Scott doesn't. His voice is steady and he keeps it that way. He sits next to Alex in triage and tells him there's probably a reasonable explanation. “Don't worry.”
Alex says his eyes are freaking him out. “Close them, dude.”
His voice sounds shaky to Scott but at least he's not crying. Scott chuckles lightly but obliges with a sarcastic comment. “Sorry my new disability disturbs you.”
"I'll live,” Alex promises, squeezing his hand momentarily.
The doctors have a spaz attack when they get to Scott. They prod and poke him with needles and stick him under MRI machines and radiation and bend over backwards to find a reason. They go through Scott's urine and blood, his brain matter and x-rays before they announce anything. When they finally do, it's all bullshit. “Our tests have come back inconclusive. Scott's data is all up and down the scale and after exhausting all our immediate resources, we have decided to pass Scott's case on. There are specialists…”
Scott tunes out after that. Alex brought him a Rubik's cube with shapes etched into the side to bide his time and Scott is nowhere near finishing any of the sides. He just wants to go home. He wants to sleep in his own bed and have a meltdown in the privacy of his own home.
Alex's shampoo still smells like coconut but these days, so does his father's shampoo. In the car, two hours later, he says, “You guys smell way too much like coconut. Let's go to the store.”
-
As it turns out, Scott has no such thing as privacy now. Alex leaves him alone, that's a plus, but it's more because he gets anxious sitting still for more than twelve seconds, unlike a normal human being. His parents, however, are checking on him every five minutes.
"Are you alright?”
"Are you hungry?”
"Are you tired?”
"Do you need help with that?”
"Would you like me to send Alex?"
"Are you sure you want to go to school?”
It seems ridiculous of him to post-pone school, he's only falling farther behind until his parents can find him a school and he needs to get out of the house. Even if he now carries a cane and has to have someone guide him through the school, he wanted to try. It doesn't matter, though. He has to drop baseball and his role in the spring musical, and he can't go to the fucking bathroom without someone asking him if he needs help.
He wears dark glasses and when Alex shows up, he's never been happier to smell his brother. Their dad takes them home and goes straight into the kitchen to have an Adult Discussion with his mother. The same Adult Discussion can be heard across the house.
Alex leads him to their room and clears the path for Scott inside. They bump into each other accidentally and Alex's face meets his arm awkwardly. Alex laughs quietly but it's weak and when Scott's hand comes away wet, something inside of Scott snaps.
He can hear their parents fighting about something through the walls. It sounds warbled and shitty but it gets the point across. They're at a loss. They don't know what to do. It's been more than two weeks and Scott's condition shows no signs of change.
That's when it really hits Scott that he is blind.
Alex has been crying—since when, God, Scott can't even know because he can't see his baby brother's face. Alex is only fourteen and Scott will probably never see him again. He won't see Alex in his graduation gown or his mother's glacial glare after they've gotten in trouble. He won't see his next girlfriend or distinguish a fucking salt shaker from a pepper shaker.
He had to quit baseball today. He can't act in the spring play. And maybe it's all temporary but it burns like the long-term in Scott's chest. He can't be a pilot anymore. History of random complete blindness won't bode well on a resume.
Scott sits on his bed, the white cane leaning against his leg, and mangles the blankets and listens. That's all he can do now. He's seventeen, goddamn it, he's only seventeen, he's just a fucking kid and he's blind.
"Alex," he says and his voice sounds worse than he expected, he can feel a new twinge in his throat.
Alex comes instantly, quick to respond and Scott hugs him to his chest, listening to his sobbing, because he's only seventeen, and he's blind and this is all he can do now. Listen.
-
Alex comes home from school the next day and his parents are arguing again. His parents are always arguing these days. Scott is in their room, listening to heavy metal on his headphones, completely oblivious to the yelling and Alex's arrival. He wants to reach out to him, maybe take him to get some pizza but he knows his parents won't allow it.
Scott's has to be so tired of their bullshit by now. They treat him like a five year old these days, like a burden. They never stop screaming and Scott has to stay here during the day and listen to them.
In the kitchen, he can hear their argument clear as day. He doesn't expect for it to make him so angry. Alex is furious, Alex is livid, Alex can feel it tear through him and they don't notice him enter until red is streaking the sky.
-
For once, when Erik walks into the coffee shop, he's early. Disbelievingly ecstatic, he finds their usual booth in the back and lounges smugly as he waits. The waiter makes a beeline for him, accustomed to Erik's less-than-savory moods. “What will it be today, sir?”
“The usual, can't stay long.”
“One black coffee, two sugars, one coffee, milk and three sugars, and a java chip frappucino for the Little Miss, got it. Where is Little Miss, if you don't mind my asking, sir?”
“At home, I'm afraid I have to wait for Moira on my own today.”
The waiter, Jonah, Joseph, Jensen, maybe, looks between Erik and the door, smiling softly, “And you're early?”
“You're my witness,” Erik says.
Jon-seph-sen laughs and heads towards the kitchen for their drinks just as Moira scrambled in, rushing and looking harried. There's a file cramped haphazardly under her arm and her hair is windswept, heels clacking loudly across the linoleum as she rushes towards Erik.
“You're late,” Erik says in sing-song.
“I am not,” she returns, tossing the file down to rearrange herself. “Have you ordered already?”
“He has,” Jon-seph-sen says, appearing with a tray of drinks and a slice of chocolate cake, probably for Moira. Erik suspects he fancies the girl. “You're late, Ms. McTaggert!”
Moira rolls her eyes good-naturedly, “I am not!”
"He's my witness," Erik repeats.
"I saw the whole thing,” Jon-seph-sen teases, setting the drinks down for Erik and the cake before Moira. “On the house, you look like you're having a rough day.”
“Oh, Frank, you're the sweetest.”
Frank, not Jon-seph-sen, apparently, smiles back at her, “Not a problem. Would you like anything else?”
“No, thank you, I can't stay.”
Once he's out of earshot, Moira turns her gaze on Erik, and says excitedly, “You're not going to believe this.”
-
He didn't mean to.
-
“About a month ago, a boy in Nowhere, Iowa goes blind. Just, out of the blue, he wakes up and he's completely, absolutely, blind. The doctors can't explain it, the specialists can't explain it, and no one knows what happened or what's wrong or anything.”
“Sounds familiar,” Erik remarks.
“Shut up, I'm talking.”
-
He's heard about the devil and demons—at church, at school, even at home, maybe that's what happened. Maybe he's possessed. Maybe he is a demon and he's here to kill everyone. Maybe he's a demon and all he has inside is fire and pain to inflict on others. All he knows is how to hurt the ones he loves.
-
"So the parents—Jesus, could you imagine your kid spontaneously going blind—the parents make a goddamn commotion. They call doctors from all over the place, right, but no one will touch it. This kids case gets tossed around by all these specialists but no one will bite. Until the 'government',” she says with air quotes, “steps in. Some shady bastard on the phone telling these people their son is wrong, he's got some obscure genetic disorder that could put them in danger—could kill their son. He tells them all these horrible things and then says he can help.
"He says they should send him over right away, that's he's got funding, and a lab, and an experimental cure.”
"Shaw?”
Moira takes a bite from the cake, talking around the food, “Maybe.”
-
Maybe he is wrong. Maybe his insides are black and smoked dry. Maybe's he's a monster, a horrible nightmare creatures. Maybe his parents should have left him on the edge of a cliff when he was born, like the deformed children of ancient Rome. Maybe he isn't even a child. He's certainly not human—humans don't—
He should leave.
-
"So," she continues, "they're going out of their minds and don't know what to do, and for the first time in weeks, someone actually wants to help—they say yes."
"—they said yes," Erik repeats, the very stirrings of long suppressed rage rising in his stomach. "They signed their son up for a medical experiment—over the fucking phone?"
"I know, I know, Erik," Moira says, raising her arms to appease him, "But listen, listen. They agree to this, but they aren't paying attention and the kid's younger brother is listening to them from the next room. He's heard everything."
-
He should run. Gather money and go north, maybe Canada, then anywhere. They won't want him anyway, he's dangerous, he's a demon or a monster, and Scott—maybe Scott would come with him. Scott is his brother and even when Scott hits foul balls at championship games, Alex loves him.
-
“This boy is fourteen years-old, Erik. Fourteen. His parents are sending his only brother to a medical experiment facility in the West after a fucking phone call, and what? Two and a half weeks of nothing? How weak do they have to be to even consider—”
“I get it, what happened?”
“He goes into the room and starts laying it on them, screaming so loud the neighbors can hear it—they don't know how to support his brother, the last thing he needs is to be treated like an invalid, the sheer stupidity of it all—all of it, screaming so loud the older brother comes out. But by then it's too late. The parents told the little boy there were no other options. They told their fourteen-year old son he doesn't know what he's talking about, he's stupid—”
“What—what happened, Moira,” Erik presses.
“He blew them up.”
-
He didn't mean to—but maybe running isn't the answer. He belongs in jail. He's committed enough damage, hurt enough people; he should be locked in a cage where he can't hurt anyone ever again. He's like a rat without a cage. He deserves to be caged.
-
“What?”
“It turns out that he can shoot fire—or like plasma or lava, we're not sure, the results are inconclusive—out of his chest.”
“Are they alive, his parents?”
“Just barely, they're in ICU for the time being.”
“Where are the kids living?”
“With some aunt—it's all in the file,” Moira says, pushing the rumpled file towards him.
“Jesus Christ,” Erik swears, slumping back in his chair.
“He's got to be terrified, Erik. He's a child, he'll blame himself.”
The plate sits empty and dirty between them.
“That kind of power—in a kid, no less,” Erik says, “Shaw's going to be coming after him.”
“Both of them,” Moira agrees, “And hard. You and Charles need to saddle up on this one and quick—there's no telling what or who will—”
“I know,” he says, and he must because he grabs the file and leaves, caffeinated beverages forgotten on the table. Moira pays for him and chews her nails all the way back to the office.
-
"Alex?” Scott calls from behind the door. Alex has locked himself in the bathroom all day. His cousins are all watching him with hateful eyes and he just wants to go home. There is nothing here for him and Scott.
The door opens with a twist and a click that means Scott picked the lock. Alex thinks about pushing it closed again and barricading it but he wouldn't shut Scott out like that.
"Hey,” Scott calls quietly, wandering into the room.
His hair is tousled, pointing in all directions like he's been running his through it all day.
"Hi,” Alex responds. He stands and leads Scott to the toilet lid where he was sitting before. “How're you feeling?”
"No less blind,” Scott answers, smiling softly.
"Oh my god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it—”
"Hey, no, it is fine, it's okay, here, sit,” he gestures to his feet and Alex drops down in front of him. “So you want to tell me why you've been pouting in here all day?”
"Scott,” Alex starts, warningly.
"No, okay, look, I get it. If I had done something like that, I wouldn't be any better, but, I mean, they're going to be alright, Alex. Wounds heal; they will heal and you are fine. You will be fine.”
"But they way they all look at me, like I'm some kind of m—“
"Don't,” Scott says sharply, “Don't you ever say that. You are a lot of things, but you are no fucking murderer. Anyone that tells you differently will have to deal with me.”
Alex is quiet for a moment before asking, “Scott?”
"What is it?”
"Do you think what I did—the red glow, do you think that's what could be happening to your eyes?”
Alex watches the expressions fleet across Scott's face, frowns, concern, even fear. Scott says, “I don't know, Alex. I wish I did but I don't. But, do you want to know what I do know?”
Alex rests his head on Scott's knee, the muscles in his shoulders tights. “What?”
Scott runs his hand through his hair a few times, sighing quietly. “This doesn't change anything. We take care of ourselves, of each other, and we'll be fine. I promise you, Alex, we're going to be fine.”
Alex doesn't even hesitate, “I believe you.”
Scott keeps petting him, tangling his fingers in the longer hairs at the back of Alex's head. He's momentarily distracted by them, Alex grows so fast these days, he turned fourteen just last month and now Scott's not sure what will happen to them by his fifteenth birthday. He doesn't know if he'll ever see him again. “You need a haircut, man.”
Alex smiles, Scott can feel that pull of his cheeks near his temples. “I don't trust our uncle to do it, though. And I'd ask you,” he chuckles, “but I don't want you accidentally stab me.”
"I'll only stab you on purpose then,” Scott says, standing. “C'mon, we'll work together.”
They both stand to find a pair of scissors or the nearest barber shop but the doorbell rings. Their aunt and uncle are out, their litany of brats is away, and it's just Scott and Alex home. They answer the door.
-
"Charles,” Erik bellows, slamming the door behind him. The house is quiet but it is midday, so they should be training in the backyard. Erik bolts up the stairs, storming into their room and bellowing once again, “Charles!” knowing he will hear.
Erik is packing hurriedly, trying to find his black leather jacket when Charles appears in the doorway. “It's in the drawing room.”
Erik startles, turning to frown at him. “That's still no less unsettling but thank you,” he says as he goes off into the bathroom, and returns, “Call Raven for me, will you? Tell her to get her bag ready and meet me in the garage. And that I'm sorry but I forgot her coffee.”
"Erik,” Charles says calmly, trying to rouse his attention.
Erik stops packing and looks up, Charles looks tired, dark circles under his eyes and a slouch in his posture. He's wearing a cardigan, the kind he only wears when he's cold. “Where are you going?” he asks with a downward turn to his mouth.
Erik crosses the room and pulls him into his arms. “A boy in the Midwest almost killed his parents trying to protect his brother. I need to go to him.”
Charles buries his nose in the crook of Erik's neck, “Good lord. Raven says she will be there in fifteen minutes.”
"Thank you,” he kisses the top of Charles' head, “How're you feeling?”
Charles hums gently, “I'm tired is all. I didn't get much sleep last night.”
"What time did you get to bed?” Erik keeps the accusation carefully out of his voice.
"It's not important,” Charles sighs, kissing his neck chastely before turning away. "Do you have room to take anyone else? Hank hasn't left the house in a while. You should take him. He keeps teetering back and forth like he's not sure what to do with himself and Sean is having trouble focusing.”
“Of course, send him my way.”
Charles closes his eyes for a second and when he opens them again, he smiles tiredly back at Erik. “He'll be there in a few.”
"Do you still want me to talk to him?”
"Would you?”
"Of course,” Erik replies, and then kisses him slowly, one hand fisted in his shirt. The bag behind them zips itself up and the metal they fixed into the strap lifts it off the bed and onto Erik's shoulder.
Charles breathes in deeply, eyes lightening some, and he doesn't need to read Erik's mind to know what he's thinking. “Help him.”
"I will,” Erik promises.
-
Hank is standing on the balcony ledge when Erik steps out to smoke. He's leaning over the edge and hanging his head tiredly. They each drove for eight hours today, gunning down abandoned roads at ninety until Raven looked like she was going to hurl. They've made it to the Summers Brother's town, but must wait until morning before going to see them.
"It's late, Hank,” he says, because it is and Hank is usually the first to bed, snoring loudly.
Hank sighs, “I know. I just couldn't sleep,” he says and scrubs a hand through his hair rapidly.
"Is it Sean?” Erik lights a cigarette, blowing smoke away from him. He leans over the rail, bumping his shoulder encouragingly. “I know it's not my business and if you want to tell me to mind my own, I will, but the house has been kind of tense lately. Charles says Sean can't focus enough to train, you haven't been at dinner much these days. We're worried about you.”
"Are you?”
"Hank—“
"You know I don't have any idea whats actually happening. He won't talk to me. It's insane and I was already crazy to begin with and now my best friend and boyfriend is shutting me out. How am I supposed to—I don't understand it. But if you'd like to take a crack at it, feel free. If he didn't tell me, he's sure as hell going to tell you, right? Because you have the greatest track record. Or rather, Charles does.”
"Hank—” Erik starts but stops himself, tightening his jaw to keep himself calm. Hank is just a kid, after all, no matter what age he graduated Harvard the first time. “Well, alright, I deserve that. I don't have the best track record. But I'm here now, aren't I? I came back to Charles and I owned up to my faults and I'm only trying to help you. I don't want you to make the same mistakes I did, but if you're going to shut me out, at least do it politely.”
He stands to walk away, cigarette be damned. He makes it to the door before Hank says anything, “Wait.”
Erik steps back, biting his lip to refrain from smiling victoriously. It keeps getting harder and harder to talk to these kids. “I—I don't know what gotten into Sean, I really don't. I don't want to lose him.” Hank's voice is low like he doesn't want Erik to hear but he wants to tell someone. Erik steps closer. “He—I don't know, he's the love of my fucking pathetic life and I can't—but I don't know—”
Erik places a heavy hand on his shoulder. “It'll be fine. All couples have rough patches. You'll work it out.”
Hank glances at the hand on his shoulder and takes the cigarette from it, blowing smoke between his lips with practiced ease. It always surprises Erik when Hank does this and he has to bite back the urge to refuse Hank the cigarette. He always forgets what kind of life Hank has had. He forgets Hank is an adult.
"We're so young, Erik. We're so young to be so in love and in so much pain.”
"I know. Why do you think Charles and I fight so hard to protect you? All of you?”
"Okay, but what are you really protecting? Look at Raven in there, Erik. Raven is fifteen and so old, so aged. Tomorrow, the boy that we're meeting, he's fourteen. Jean is lying in a hospital bed and we can't help her and she's eleven. How old where you when you were first almost killed?”
"Nine,” Erik says, though Hank knows.
"We don't deserve this, Erik. We—” he stops and takes a drag from the cigarette. Erik lights another for himself. “I am twenty-two in four months. Twenty-two, a supposed prodigy, a doctor, a mutant, an abandoned child, an old man and if I don't fix this with Sean, I'll be alone.”
"You won't let it come to that.”
He finishes the cigarette, stubbing it out angrily. “I don't know—I suppose I will,” he stops crushing ashes into the rail, “It's late. I should go to bed.”
"Yes, of course. I'm going to call Charles and I'll be inside in a bit.”
"Don't take so long. We'll need you in top form if we're going to recruit more children for this crusade.”
Erik reaches out to stop Hank, to correct him, maybe to slap some sense into him, but Hank has already closed the door behind him.
Erik didn't realize how dark it got after sunset.
-
Erik Lehnsherr is a fast talker. He taps his foot nervously in a 4/4 beat and talks fast. He has people with him. Dr. Hank McCoy and Ms. Raven Darkholme. They sit on the couches in the living room and plead their case.
They say words like “mutant” and “gifted” and “special.” It's all rehearsed, Scott can tell. They talk about the Academy and how they want to help and Scott doesn't buy their bullshit. That is until Alex gasps and there is awe in his voice when he says, “Scott. She's like a—they're not lying.”
He feels the girl, Raven, take his hand, her palms are smooth and small but when she turns it over, he can feel her skin flick back and forth: strong hands, like an older man, then long hands like his mothers, and finally, calloused hands, like his own. “What—what are you doing?”
“I'm a shape-shifter,” she supplies, and her voice, she sounds all of fifteen.
-
"Erik?” Charles answers, “Has something happened? Is everyone alright?”
"Yes, Charles, all is fine. I know it's late, but I wanted to hear your voice.” Erik says.
"Are you alright?” he repeats, sounding even more concerned.
"Yes, I think so. I spoke to Hank,” he says and holds smoke inside his lungs.
There is rustling on the phone, like Charles is shifting in their bed, “And what happened?”
"I think he's realizing something. I think they both are. He says we can't protect him anymore and we can't protect Raven or anyone else. Tell me, my love, do you remember what you said to me that night in Russia, when Shaw was hunting us for the first time and your arm was broken and my ribs were broken. We were so scared and we were so young, do you remember that? Do you remember what we realized?”
"Yes,” Charles says and he sounds so tired.
"Have you been working yourself too hard?”
"You know me,” Charles says evasively.
"Yes, I do.” Erik says and the cigarette is the only light he has right now. “I do know you. Tell me what you said.”
"I said we were going to die like this,” Charles sighs, "like mutants."
-
"Scott,” Alex says in the kitchen, “Lehnsherr controls metal. He's—he folded a paperclip into an origami and it wasn't a trick, I saw it. They can do stuff, Scott. They're like me.”
Scott packs their bags, and they don't have much anyway, not after the fire at their old house, and they run.
The note they leave says:
Don’t look for us
.