Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Scott Summers sat at the edge of his bed, his hands clasped together tightly, elbows on his knees, head bowed low. His breathing was shallow, and he could feel a bead of sweat trickling down the back of his neck, a cold shiver chasing it down his spine. He stared at the exposed skin on his wrist, the thin scars crisscrossing like the faint remnants of a battlefield.

The walls seemed to inch closer, a pressure squeezing in on him, suffocating. Every breath felt like a struggle. His chest tightened as if someone had cinched a belt around his ribcage and kept pulling, tighter and tighter. The ruby-quartz visor that protected the world from him felt like a weight, its band digging into his temples. He wanted to rip it off, to feel the air against his skin without the restriction of his mutation, but he couldn't. He never could.

He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. It was almost time for dinner. He could hear the faint sounds of the others in the hallway, the chatter, the laughter, the sound of plates clinking as they set the table. It felt like another world, one he was supposed to be a part of but didn’t belong to. One he couldn’t belong to.

The thought of food made his stomach turn. His last meal had been that morning — a protein bar, tasteless and dense, but enough to keep him going. It sat in his stomach like a rock, the discomfort a constant reminder of his failure. He hadn’t meant for it to be this way. He hadn’t meant to count every calorie with the same precision he used in battle, hadn’t meant to see every meal as an enemy to be defeated. But control had slipped away from him, and now, it was all he had left.

“Focus,” he whispered to himself, the word harsh and sharp in the quiet room. His voice sounded foreign, hollow, like it belonged to someone else. He clenched his hands tighter, feeling his nails dig into his palms, the small burst of pain grounding him, centering him. “You’re a leader. Act like it.”

But the words felt like a lie. A leader? The team needed him to be strong, his confidence unwavering. They needed him to guide them, to make the hard decisions, to be the one who stood tall when everything else fell apart. And he had done it, for years. He had carried that weight, borne it with pride, but lately… lately, it felt like it was crushing him.

His stomach growled, loud in the silence. Scott winced, his hand moving to his stomach reflexively, as if he could silence the noise with sheer willpower. The hunger was a constant companion now, gnawing at his insides like an itch he couldn’t scratch. The emptiness was familiar, almost comforting. It was a reminder that he was still in control, still calling the shots, even when everything else felt like chaos.

He heard footsteps approaching, and his heart rate spiked. Jean. He could tell from the soft tread, the way she walked lightly as if afraid to disturb him. She always knew when he was close to breaking. The curse of living with a telepath, he supposed. He hated that she knew. Hated that he couldn’t hide from her the way he could from the others.

“Scott?” Her voice was soft, hesitant. He didn’t answer, hoping she’d go away, give him a few more minutes of solitude. But she knocked again, more insistently this time. “Scott, are you okay?”

He swallowed hard, fighting to steady his voice. “Yeah,” he called out, his tone strained, a little too high. “Just… give me a minute.”

There was a pause, a silence that stretched out like a knife-edge. He imagined her on the other side, her hand hovering just above the door, fingers gently brushing the wood. He could feel her concern through their psychic link, like a physical thing, pressing against the door. “Okay,” she said finally, but he could hear the doubt, the worry, that threaded through the single word.

Her footsteps retreated, and he exhaled, a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He leaned back against the wall, his shoulders slumping. Jean knew something was wrong; but he couldn’t tell her. How could he explain it? How could he put into words the twisting knot in his chest, the way his mind seemed to split in two every time he sat down to eat?

He pushed himself to his feet, feeling the blood rush from his head, a wave of dizziness washing over him. He braced himself against the wall, waiting for it to pass. He hadn’t eaten much today, just the bar and a couple of bites of an apple he’d left half-eaten on the counter. He knew he needed more, that his body was screaming for sustenance, but the thought of food made his throat close up.

Scott stumbled into the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink to steady himself. He turned the faucet on, letting the cold water run over his hands. It helped, a little. The cold was real, tangible. He splashed some water on his face, the shock of it chasing away some of the fog in his brain. He looked up into the mirror, catching his reflection.

He hardly recognized himself. His face looked thinner, the lines of his jaw more pronounced. His cheeks were hollow, his skin pale, almost sallow in the harsh bathroom light. Dark circles hung under his eyes, shadows that no amount of sleep seemed to erase. His visor hid most of the damage, but he could see it, every flaw, every crack in his psyche.

His hand drifted to his wrist again, fingers tracing over the scars. The urge came back, sharp and insistent, like a blade pressing against his skin. He wanted to feel something, anything, other than this emptiness. He clenched his hand into a fist, nails biting into his palm, but it wasn’t enough. The pain was dull, too distant to cut through the fog in his head.

“Stop it,” he muttered, his voice low and angry. “Don’t be weak.”

Weak. The word felt like poison on his tongue. Charles — no, Professor X, had taught him that weakness was unacceptable, that he had to be strong, that he had to be better, always better. But lately, he felt like he was drowning, and every time he tried to claw his way to the surface, something pulled him back under.

He turned away from the mirror, unable to stand the sight of himself any longer. He reached for the drawer under the sink, fingers fumbling, trembling slightly. He found the razor buried beneath a pile of old bandages and gauze. It was small, barely more than a sliver of metal, but it felt heavy in his hand.

His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic, uneven rhythm. He could hear his pulse in his ears, feel it in his throat. He stared at the razor, his hand shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Just a little, he told himself. Just enough to make the pain go away, just for a little while.

But he couldn’t do it. Not today. He threw the razor back into the drawer, slamming it shut with a force that rattled the mirror. He gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles white, his breathing harsh and uneven. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them back, swallowing hard.

He couldn’t fall apart. Not now. Not ever.

Scott turned the faucet off and wiped his hands on a towel, forcing himself to calm down. He had to go out there. He had to face them, had to pretend everything was okay. He was their leader; they needed him to appear strong. He took a deep, steadying breath and opened the bathroom door, stepping out into the hallway.

Jean was waiting for him, leaning slightly against the wall, her arms crossed. Her eyes softened when she saw him, her expression a mix of concern and something else — something he didn’t want to name. “Hey,” she said gently, her voice low. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

He forced a smile, a small, tight thing that felt more like a grimace. “Do what?”

“Pretend.” She stepped closer, her hand reaching out, hovering near his arm but not quite touching. “Scott, I can see it. We all can. You’re not okay.”

He stiffened, every muscle in his body tensing. “I’m fine,” he insisted, the words coming out too quickly, too forcefully. “I’m just… tired, that’s all.”

“Scott—”

“I said I’m fine.” His voice was sharp, harsher than he intended, and her hand moved away quickly. He softened, feeling a pang of guilt twist in his chest. “I’m sorry, I just… I need some space, okay?”

Jean hesitated, searching his face for a moment before nodding slowly. “Okay,” she said softly. “But I’m here if you need me. We all are.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He turned away, heading down the hallway toward the dining room. He could hear the others already gathered, the murmur of conversation, the clatter of silverware. He took another deep breath, straightening his shoulders, forcing himself to walk with purpose.

The room fell silent when he entered, all eyes turning to him. He hated it, the way they looked at him, like he was something fragile, something broken. He forced another smile, feeling the strain in his cheeks. “Hello,” he said, trying to sound casual, normal. “Sorry, I’m late.”

“No worries, Scott,” Bobby said, flashing a grin, though his eyes flickered, betraying his concern. “We were just getting started.”

Scott nodded and took a seat at the head of the table, his usual spot. A plate was already set for him, a small portion of chicken, some vegetables, and a roll. He stared at it, his stomach churning, the sight of the food making his mouth dry.

He picked up his fork, his hand shaking slightly. He stabbed a piece of chicken, lifting it to his mouth, forcing himself to chew. The taste was bland, almost nonexistent, but it felt like sawdust in his mouth. He swallowed with difficulty, feeling the food settle heavily in his stomach.

“Scott,” Hank said gently, his voice a low rumble. “You haven’t been eating much lately. Is everything okay?”

Scott’s grip tightened on the fork, his knuckles white. “I’m fine,” he said, the words clipped, too quick. “Just not very hungry.”

Hank didn’t push, but Scott could feel the weight of his gaze, the concern in his eyes. He could feel all their eyes on him, watching, waiting. He forced another bite, then another, each a struggle, each feeling like a small defeat. He felt like he was on display, like they were all waiting for him to crack.

The meal dragged on, every second stretching into an eternity. Scott pushed the food around his plate, taking small bites, forcing them down. He could feel the tension in the room, the unspoken worry, the way they all seemed to hold their breath.

When dinner finally ended, Scott excused himself quickly, muttering something about needing to get some air. He could feel their eyes burning into his back as he left the room, their hushed murmurs following him down the hallway. He pushed the door open and stepped out onto the back porch, the cool night air hitting him like a slap in the face.

He leaned against the railing, his hands gripping the wood so tightly he could feel the grain biting into his skin. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to calm the racing of his heart, the frantic pounding in his chest.

He felt a presence behind him before he heard the footsteps. “Scott?” It was Jean again, her voice soft, careful, almost hesitant. It made him feel sick.

He didn’t turn around. “I thought I said I needed space,” he said quietly.

“I know,” she replied. “But you don’t have to go through this alone. You don’t have to pretend. Not with me.”

His shoulders slumped, a shuddering breath escaping his lips. “I don’t know how to stop,” he admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I don’t know how to… how to feel okay again.”

Jean stepped closer, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out,” she promised, her voice steady. “Together.”

Scott didn’t reply, but he didn’t pull away either. He stood there, staring out into the darkness, feeling the weight of her hand on his shoulder, a small anchor in the storm raging inside him.

Maybe he wasn’t okay. Maybe he was falling apart. But for this moment, he wasn’t alone.

Chapter Text

The night air was cool against Scott's skin, a stark contrast to the heat that had been building in his chest. He stood on the porch, his hands gripping the railing, staring out at the dark horizon. The moon hung low in the sky, its light casting silver shadows across the grounds of the school. For a moment, everything was still. The only sound was the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind, the distant hum of life continuing on, indifferent to the turmoil inside him.

He could feel Jean's presence beside him, her hand still resting lightly on his shoulder. It was a simple gesture, but it felt like a lifeline. Her touch was warm, steadying, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to lean into it, to draw strength from her quiet assurance.

But the moment passed, and he straightened, pulling away slightly. “You say that like it’s so easy,” he muttered, his voice low and rough. “Like I can just… flip a switch and make it stop.”

Jean didn’t respond right away. She moved to stand beside him, her eyes fixed on the same horizon, her expression contemplative. “I know it’s not easy,” she finally said. “I know how hard it is to feel like you’re always carrying the weight of the world. I just want you to know that you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Scott's jaw tightened, and he looked down, his fingers digging into the wood of the railing. “It’s not about the world, Jean. It’s… it’s me. I’m the problem.”

He felt her gaze on him, sharp and searching. “You’re not a problem, Scott,” she said gently, but he could hear the firmness in her tone. “You’re struggling, but that doesn’t make you a problem. It just makes you human.”

“Human,” he echoed, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Because that’s what I am, right?”

He hadn’t meant it to sound so harsh, but the words came out like a slap. Jean flinched slightly but didn’t back down. “You’re more human than you think,” she said softly. “And that’s okay. It’s okay to hurt, to not have all the answers.”

Scott shook his head, his hands tightening on the railing. “You don’t understand,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I have to be better. I have to be in control. If I’m not… people get hurt.”

Jean took a step closer, her voice soft but insistent. “You’ve done everything you could, Scott. You’ve carried us through so much. But you can’t keep carrying everything alone. It’s breaking you.”

He wanted to argue, to push her away, to tell her she was wrong. But the words caught in his throat, tangled in the knot of emotion that had been building there for so long. He felt a burning in his chest, an ache that seemed to spread to every part of him.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “I don’t know how to… how to let go.”

Jean’s hand found his again, her fingers warm and reassuring. “You start small,” she said softly. “You let us in. You let me in.”

Scott closed his eyes, feeling the tears prickling at the corners again. He hadn’t cried in years—not like this. Not in a way that felt so raw, so vulnerable. But now, standing here, with Jean beside him, he felt like he was breaking apart at the seams. And maybe that was okay. Maybe he needed to break to begin to heal.

He nodded, just a small, almost imperceptible motion. “I’ll try,” he whispered. “I… I’ll try.”

Jean smiled, a small, sad smile that was filled with so much understanding, so much compassion. “That’s all I’m asking,” she said. “One step at a time, Scott. That’s all you need to do.”

For a moment, they stood there in silence, the night wrapping around them like a blanket. Scott felt a strange calm settle over him, a quietness that he hadn’t felt in so long. It wasn’t peace, not quite, but it was something close, something he could hold on to.

“I should go inside,” he said finally, his voice still rough, but steadier now. “I need to… I need to apologize. I haven’t been a good leader for the team - I haven’t been honest with them. They deserve that, at least.”

Jean nodded, her hand squeezing his gently. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”

Scott took a deep breath and nodded. He turned and walked back inside, his steps slow, deliberate. He could hear the murmur of voices in the living room, the low hum of conversation. As he entered, the room fell silent again, all eyes turning toward him.

He felt a moment of panic, a surge of anxiety that clawed at his chest, but he pushed it down, forcing himself to speak. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice firm, though his hands still shook slightly. “I’ve… I’ve been shutting you all out, and that’s not fair. I’m sorry.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Ororo stepped forward, her expression calm, compassionate. “Scott, we’re here for you,” she said, her voice soft but strong. “We’re family. Whatever you’re going through, you don’t have to face it alone.”

Scott felt a rush of gratitude, mixed with guilt. He had been so caught up in his own head, in his own pain, that he had forgotten what he had—people who cared, people who would stand by him, no matter what.

“I know,” he said quietly. “And I appreciate that. I just… I’ve been struggling. More than I realized.”

Bobby stepped up, his usual lighthearted demeanor subdued, concern etched across his features. “Hey, man, it’s okay. We all go through stuff. You don’t have to explain yourself to us. We just want to help.”

Scott felt his throat tighten again, and he nodded, unable to find the right words. Instead, he just stood there, letting their presence wash over him, feeling something inside him begin to loosen, just a little.

“We’ve all been there, Scott,” Hank added, his voice kind, understanding. “You’ve carried so much for so long. Let us help you carry it, even if just a little.”

Scott took a deep breath. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I… I don’t know what I’d do without all of you.”

Jean moved to his side, her hand finding his again, warm and comforting. “And you don’t have to find out,” she murmured, her voice soft, but strong. “We’re with you, Scott. Every step of the way.”

He nodded, feeling a tear slip down his cheek, but he didn’t wipe it away. He let it fall, let it be seen. Because maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop hiding. 

The night wore on, and they stayed together, the tension easing, the room filling with a quiet, steady warmth. Scott felt the exhaustion deep in his bones, but it was different now. It wasn’t the sharp, gnawing fatigue that had plagued him for weeks, but something softer, something that spoke of rest.

He knew he wasn’t healed, knew the road ahead was still long and uncertain. But for the first time in a long time, he felt like he could see the path, even if just a little. And he knew he wouldn’t be walking it alone.

As the others began to drift off to their rooms, Scott lingered in the doorway, watching them, feeling a strange mix of emotions—gratitude, fear, hope. Jean turned back, catching his eye, a small, encouraging smile on her lips.

“Get some sleep,” she said gently. “We’ll figure this out tomorrow.”

Scott nodded, a small smile tugging at his own lips. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Tomorrow.”

He turned and headed to his room, the weight on his shoulders feeling just a little lighter. He knew there would be hard days ahead, days when the voices would be louder, when the urge to fall back into old habits would be almost unbearable. But tonight, he had taken a step—a small, tentative step—but a step nonetheless.

And maybe that was enough. For now.

———————————

Two Weeks Later

Scott sat in his room, his back against the wall, a notebook open on his lap. He had started writing again, a habit he had long abandoned but found himself drawn back to in recent days. The words didn’t come easily, but they came, slowly, haltingly, like drops of water breaking through a dam.

Hank had suggested it—a way to get his thoughts out, to give them form, to make them less terrifying. At first, he had resisted. The idea of putting his innermost thoughts on paper felt too raw, too exposed. But one night, unable to sleep, he had found himself reaching for a pen, his hand moving almost of its own accord.

Now, he writes nearly every day. It wasn’t much—sometimes just a few lines, sometimes a page or two—but it helped. It gave him something to hold on to when everything else felt like it was slipping through his fingers.

Today, his mind was quieter, the storm a little less intense. He wrote about the past few days, about the small victories—a meal finished without guilt, a day without the constant urge to harm himself. They were small, almost insignificant to anyone else, but to him, they felt monumental.

He paused, the pen hovering over the page, his brow furrowing in concentration. He wasn’t sure what to write next, wasn’t sure how to put into words the mix of emotions swirling inside him. But then he thought of Jean, of the way she had stood beside him on that porch, her hand on his shoulder, steady and unwavering.

He began to write again, the words coming more easily now, flowing from his pen like water. He wrote about hope, about fear, about the strange, fragile thing that had begun to grow inside him—a seed of something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Something like peace.

When he finished, he set the notebook aside, his hand falling to his side, a sigh escaping his lips. He felt lighter somehow, the weight on his chest just a little less suffocating. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall, and for the first time in weeks, he felt the edges of sleep tugging at him, pulling him gently into the dark.