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A Sweet Summers Child
Scott Summers doesn’t sleep anymore; it’s a luxury he can’t afford to take.
There’s always something, he finds, that keeps him busy. Perimeters that need checking and locks that aren’t quite bolted right. Security protocols that could do with some tweaking; revisions to the weekly schedule. Little things, busy work.
He loves busy work. It’s good for him to keep focussed—keep his thoughts nice and orderly.
He can’t do that when he’s asleep. Or, rather, he can’t risk not keeping them orderly.
These days, when his thoughts drift, they drift to a place that he doesn’t want to be. When he dreams, he’s stuck there.
It’s always the same, the dream—of rocky shores and cold, grey skies.
He hears the powerful engines roaring in his ears, feels the Shi’Ar ship lurch beneath his feet. He sees the Professor standing on the bough, face hidden behind a helmet; blinded behind the large, blue, ‘X’ across his eyes.
He doesn’t react when Cyclops lifts his visor. The beam just fazes right through him, like he were a ghost.
But Scott still feels the shock of the lightning strike—the rattle in his bones as he’s shoved off the ship’s side. Then his stomach will lurch has he feels himself falling; plummeting through icy air towards raging seas…but he’s stopped before he can hit the rocks.
“I got you, Cyclops!” Rogue’s voice had called in his ear, “We got you!”
And Scott remembers how sure she and her little team had looked as they all coasted towards land. Rogue had flown, caught him mid-air, while the others floated in on what looked like black tendrils—a manifestation from one of her new students, as he understands it.
Scott remembers how sick he felt as he was placed on his feet, looking up in time to see the Shi’Ar ship disappear in a twinkle of light.
“I—I failed.” He hears himself choke.
“No, Sugah.” Rogue’s southern drawl tries to soothe. She doesn’t understand.
How can she not understand?
“Their trophy catch is gone…!” Scott hears his voice yelling—yelling over a pounding in his ears that just seems to be getting louder and louder. The beach disappears out from under him in a haze of red.
He knows what happens next, objectively speaking. Even if his mind was a rush at the time, spinning with thoughts of imagined headlines blaming them for Xavier’s escape;
‘Professor Xavier escapes Graymalkin! Mutant Menace at large!’ ‘X-Men to blame.’ ‘Mutants suspiciously complicit in Xavier’s escape!’
He remembers what happened…but when he dreams…
Maybe he just remembers too much. About that day. What what it was like to come around, after the dust had settled and he’d felt a new visor being placed on his face; when he’d opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by a small sea of pitying faces and Wolverine all but holding him up.
Tears had been streaking down Scott’s face.
He remembers what happened. He just…doesn’t dream it like that.
For one thing, Wolverine never stabs him in the dream. He never has to, Scott’s always aware, because his visor never shatters. The panic attack never comes. And yet, he still ends up looking around to see all those pitying faces—his friends and teammates gathered around him, tutting and whispering amongst themselves.
And Scott just can’t understand what they’re all looking at him like that for.
“Oh, Sugah…” Rogue will say—sigh, really. Like he thought he heard on that day.
And that’s when Scot feels it. Every time; that horrible sinking feeling in his gut, along with a sudden warmth that spreads between his legs. He always looks down…
But he never wakes up. Why, oh why, can’t he just wake up there?
Instead, this twisted version of events will start to feel all too real.
“I…I…” Scott will warble, looking again to all his friends colleagues, still tutting and clucking and shaking their heads.
“It’s ok…” Rogue will sigh again.
Then Gambit joins in, calmly says, “Logan…?”
And that’s when Scott realises that he’s still being held.
Scott will move—try to pull away…but Wolverine’s hands stay firmly in place.
“C’mon, Bub…” Logan will say, “Time for a change.”
It all happens in haunting, crystal clarity. No matter how much Scott squirms or thrashes, he just can’t seem to pull himself out of Logan’s iron grip. Sometimes he swears that he can really feel it—the resistance in the older man’s movements, countering his struggling, ferrying him into the middle of the gathered crowd.
All eyes stay on him.
“Lay him here,” Storm will say and spread her cape wide on the sand.
“Wait…!” Scott will choke, but he won’t be heard. Ororo will smooth any stray grains off of the fabric and Logan will always lay him down on his back. One hand will pin Scott’s stomach, while the other starts stripping away his sopping wet pants.
“Guys…!” Scott will plead, “Come on! Don’t do this…!”
But no one ever makes a move to stop Logan from baring his ass to the world. It always gets so cold there, like there really was a chill on his damp bottom.
His face will flush a nice, warm red to make up for it. When he looks around, he notices how everyone will suddenly be holding something in their hands.
“Got the wipes, Mon Ami.” Remy will announce and Scott will hear the rustle of plastic as they’re handed over. He knows he should kick, or try to squirm as Logan tops and tails him…but for some reason, it’s always more important to him that he try and make out what all the others are holding.
It gets more detailed every time. A bottle of milk in Ororo’s hands, a set of plastic keys in Kurt’s. Jubilee’s holding a rattle sometimes…but he never really sees how brings it out finally—that hideous…thing that Scott can hardly bear to even think of mentioning. Maybe it’s Rogue, but he can’t be sure.
All Scott knows is that, all of a sudden, Logan will be holding something in his free hand; a white, padded rectangle that always makes his stomach sink.
“No…!” Scott will plead, “No, not that…!”
But it won’t matter how much he kicks or squirms; Logan will just catch his ankles out of the air and lift them so that his bottom hovers off the ground.
The air will grow colder at that point.
“It’s ok…” Rogue will repeat, while the others chime in with equally patronising sentiments; each one clucks and coos that little bit sweeter as Logan unfolds the rectangle—the diaper…
“No…” Scott will whimper, pitiful even to his own ears, “I don’t need this…”
The others don’t respond. Logan only ever says one thing, as he lowers Scott’s bottom towards the padding.
“Time for a change.”
And every time Scott jolts awake just before he can make contact. And he’ll sit there for ages in the dark, Alaskan nights and shiver…
Not from the snow outside, or the draft from the window that he left cracked. He’ll shiver because his sheets, all tangled around his lower half, are utterly soaked.
To Be Continued...