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WHO: Emma Frost & Scott Summers
WHEN: April 22, a few days after returning from the Savage Land
WHERE: Scott's bedroom, Xavier Institute
WHAT: After learning the truth about their marks, Scott tells Emma what he's planning.
WARNINGS: Discussion of death.
After her classes had finished, Emma had simply gone to Scott's room to wait for whenever he decided to return. Her room is, of course, more to her tastes, but since returning from their trip to Antarctica she's been a little more accommodating and, honestly, feeling a little more like she wants to embed herself in his space. Things have felt almost normal, except for the subtle lingering dread and the fact that Scott has been quieter than usual and a little mentally closed off. In fact, things have actually been nice, since they haven't said a single word about anything that was revealed by Ambrose. That can't last forever, but she's willing to give him a day or two more to process before she pushes him to open up. The room to breathe is nice for her, too.
In her quest to be on good behavior, she makes no move to disrupt the order in his room or introduce her own chaos - instead, Emma simply lounges on the bed with a glass of wine, reading a book about dinosaurs. She maybe stole another one of his shirts from a drawer, but that's a minor offense, especially since she didn't rearrange anything in doing so.
Scott's arrival is announced by the sound of a key turning, and a furry orange form darting in ahead of him. On seeing Emma, Scott pauses for a long moment in the doorway. One part distraction from the cat, one part admiration of his girlfriend, and—which only Emma can sense—one part reinforcement of his mental walls. Just a small section of his mind, but it's been weeks since he's tried to keep anything from her. Emma, of course, hates this, but doesn't say or do anything about it besides a gentle brush of her mind against the barrier, an acknowledgement of its existence.
Despite being told multiple times that beds are a cat-free zone, Oscar Philip Flushing immediately jumps up to cuddle with Emma, who lets him settle in her lap without batting an eye. Part of Scott wishes he could do the same, but he is a creature of habit. His shoes and bag go into their designated places, then his blazer is hung up. He pushes open the door to the bathroom so the cat has access to a litter box, washes his hands (20 seconds, with soap), then does a quick scan of his rooms to ensure that nothing's changed in the eight hours since he's been here. The windows are still secured. Nothing on his shelf or desk has moved. He knows at a glance which drawer Emma took her shirt from.
His routine done, Scott finally takes a seat on the edge of bed. "You're not sick of dinosaurs yet?"
As he goes through his tasks Emma mentally follows along, sufficiently distracted by his arrival that she's barely reading anyways. It's almost like meditation to trace his regimented thoughts and actions, and, again, makes things feel much more normal than they actually are. The mundane parts of this relationship are deeply comforting to her.
Scott sits and she leans over to present her cheek for a kiss, her eyes still resting on the book page as she wrinkles her nose. "Oh, I'm so sick of them. But I had a dream about the one Kitty and Illyana brought home last night and now I feel like I should learn a bit more, just in case."
"Just in case the raptor has needs it can't communicate, or just in case it tries to eat one of us?" He obediently brushes a kiss against Emma's cheek—this too has become part of his routine. She isn't in his room every evening, but the sight of her lounging in his bed is so familiar to him now that Scott misses her when she's not here. This thought is followed by a pained yearning, which Scott ignores in favor of moving even closer. He braces one hand on the other side of Emma's hip, leaning over her (while respectfully leaving Oscar Philip Flushing plenty of space, since he was here first).
"If the first causes the second, I suppose. My dream was very convoluted." Her mind opens into his, though she's been a little more reserved these past few days herself. On the surface it's generally serene - she's where she belongs, here, with him, and she's comfortable and content even with the thread of worry that winds through her thoughts. There's some irritation there, too, but it's mostly not directed at him.
And while reading about dinosaurs had been an easy stress to soothe, she can now make an effort to soothe another. Emma sets the book, open and pages down, on top of Oscar Philip Flushing, who doesn't particularly seem to know what to do with this and simply accepts his fate without a sound. The desire to pull Scott even closer to her and once again forget about everything that's been happening is clear in her mind, but instead she takes a small sip from her glass before slightly leaning into him to set it on the bedside table.
"If I made you drink some wine do you think you would relax or just get more stressed about everything?"
"Stress is a natural biological reaction that is technically neither positive nor negative," he argues. Emma hides her slight smile at this by looking down at her book (and the cat). Scott mentally reviews his list of everything that needs to get done—which is considerable, given how long they were away—and weighs how badly any of that needs to get done today. The school isn't on fire. Everyone is home. And Emma is right here, with no one likely to interrupt them for hours.
It's his fault, probably, that her mind hasn't been as open lately. But Scott welcomes what he can get of it, even as he immediately worries over her worry. A top item on his list is taking care of Emma, a task that is both difficult and extremely easy. He can make it easy this time.
"Did you bring a second glass?"
"I'm eternally hopeful that I can coax you into a bit of misbehavior. Of course I have a second glass." She will take this loosening of his rules even though it feels like a bad omen. It's difficult for her to banish this thought, but she tries to do so with distraction.
Picking up her book to set it aside and free Oscar Philip Flushing, Emma gives him a little shoo to get him to slink off of her lap. Then she turns to kiss Scott, quick and a little hard, before she twists onto her stomach and shifts to reach off the opposite side of the bed. From the ground she produces a bottle and another glass, the latter of which she offers to him behind her back so she can sit up more easily again with just the wine in hand. While it's all a little ungraceful, she doesn't particularly care about that when she's alone with him.
"Worry is just as natural as stress, so don't fuss over mine. And given the situation, it's rather inevitable."
"You can't ask me not to fuss." He holds out his glass, allowing her to pour the full serving. Scott might have a lot of rules for personal behavior, but he isn't a total ascetic. If Emma doesn't care about appearing perfect around him, then he can be less rigid around her. He can be fun. He wants to have fun. (Is he trying too hard?)
Scott's fingers brush Emma's hair back into place after her maneuvers, just for an excuse to touch her. He will always be impressed by Emma at her most flawless and formidable, but it's these moments that are most precious to him. Just being with her, comfortable in each other's presence. Even though they're both avoiding talking about what's really bothering them.
"I'm relaxing," he says, eternally hopeful that saying something with enough conviction will make it true. "What was your dream?"
After pouring his glass and setting aside the wine bottle, Emma goes to retrieve her own drink, pausing as Scott fixes her hair to appreciate the moment. Her feelings are much the same as his, though she goes a bit further in her thoughts on what they're avoiding - she can maybe put up with silence on the matter for a day or two more at best, but they can't pretend like nothing earthshaking has happened forever. Even as much as she also just wants to hold onto this.
For now, though, she at least has a stupid dream to share. She gently clinks their glasses together in toast before taking a sip and reaching to take his free hand with hers - no reason to deny themselves continued physical contact. His comment on relaxing is met with a disbelieving, affectionate smile.
"You're very fun, and I believe that someday we'll get you properly relaxed. As for my dream… there was something about her needing some mineral that was only in certain prehistoric animals, though it was also in Red Vines, but only if they'd been cut into a certain length." Stupid. She releases his hand momentarily to wave it dismissively. "Anyway, because we didn't know she obviously wasn't getting it, and being deprived made her grow larger and larger. She ate some people in town, I think, and Kitty temporarily, but she just phased out of her stomach so it was all fine."
Scott first considers the possibility that the raptor will grow large enough to eat Kitty whole (highly unlikely, no need to make a backup plan) before allowing himself a little smile at Emma's recounting. "You're worried something will happen if you're not attentive enough." Very Emma, to be so concerned with the well-being of the children at this school that it even extends to a baby dinosaur.
"She's very caring," he tells Oscar Philip Flushing, who flops over in response, his pale-furred belly exposed. Scott laughs.
"He's biased," Emma quietly tells the cat, smiling.
This is what happiness feels like, Scott thinks as he tastes the wine, feeling Emma's hand in his. Even with all the problems waiting for them outside of this room, and everything that's yet to be resolved. He grew up believing that happiness was reserved for other people, and he wasn't allowed to even want it. He knows on some level that this isn't the correct way to feel, but it's hard for him to be easy with it. Hard for him not to think about how he can never hold onto it.
He should tell Emma about his own dream. He should tell her what he's really thinking. But the words get stuck, still locked behind his mental defenses.
There's an ache in Emma's chest at Scott's thoughts about his own happiness, one that isn't unfamiliar given that she'd felt it even when they were children. It's not really pity - it's something that is soft but quickly morphs into some kind of anger at his circumstances. It's deeply unfair that the world has made him feel like he is undeserving. She wants to fix this, and she's trying, but every time she gets a glimpse of those feelings she wonders if she's actually doing any good. She's certain she must be, if he's happy right now. As happy as she is.
They are hiding in it, though. They're being stupid in their avoidance. While still willing to wait to talk about the past weekend, it's starting to feel like there's no point in doing that anymore.
Emma lifts Scott's hand to her lips, smile falling as she presses a light kiss to his knuckles. "Just tell me, sweetheart. Or let me in to see."
Scott sighs. "I keep having this nightmare." It isn't scary, precisely. No monsters, nothing hiding in the shadows. In it, he's looking for his son. The search led them back to his orphanage, and he's walking the halls like a ghost, unseen to the children and the workers within. Each room he passes shows him a new tableau, a fragmented memory belonging to a boy with dark red glasses. Jean is beside him, wanting to help the boy, but Scott has no time for it. He needs to find his son.
He knew the first time it happened that it wasn't his nightmare. That this was residual guilt and anxiety from his other self, who'd already rescued Nathan. But Scott's mind won't stop revisiting it at night, like there's an answer he's still seeking in those hallways. Or maybe he knows the answer already, and he just doesn't want to admit it.
"According to Ambrose," he says, not meeting Emma's gaze, "if our 'essences' are here, then our other selves are in a 'hollow' state. A coma, like Professor Xavier was in."
There's a quiet that stretches from when Scott first speaks through until at least a minute or two after his final comment. Some of this is attentiveness, of course, but that thread of worry in Emma's mind is strengthening, burrowing itself deeper into every thought and feeling. She knows they should be talking about this and on some level is glad they are, but the selfish part of her wishes they could take this back. Be happy again. It's terribly unfair that only moments before they were both so content.
Instead of getting to appreciate their time together she has to try to tamp down a growing desire to close herself off again. Shield herself. She can guess the route that Scott's mind is taking, especially with how he won't look at her, and it makes her feel a little ill. Angry, too, but in a painfully undirected way.
Without another drink Emma abandons her wine glass again, holding Scott's hand in both of hers once that's done. She's still trying not to jump to conclusions about where he's going with this, even though the evidence is relatively clear.
"Yes. But that's not our fault, and ultimately it's not even really our responsibility."
Scott presses his lips together, debating if he should say what they both know he thinks about that. Of course he feels responsible. It's practically Scott's mutant power to take on the responsibility for everything that happens. But the unfortunate truth is that the equation has already changed for him. If this is real—if Ambrose is right—then him remaining in this reality means that the Scott Summers in the other reality is effectively dead. His son will be an orphan.
Emma is right. It isn't their fault. They didn't choose this. But Scott will never be able to live with himself, knowing what joy he has in this life comes at the cost of abandoning his child in another life. He'll be haunted by it. (He already is.)
He sets his wine glass down, next to hers. "First we need to verify Ambrose's story, and learn who's behind all of this and why." Scott's voice is calm. Decisive. "I will do whatever's necessary to ensure that none of you are forced to leave here."
Once again his words are followed by silence, but this time Emma pulls back her mind. It's not sharp or sudden so clearly not done out of anger, but it's a slow retraction in defense of herself. Scott doesn't need to be privy to any of her thoughts except the ones she says out loud. They're too tumultuous, and some of them are unfair, and she already feels weak enough in this moment without exposing herself. Though Scott has said other things (they do have more work to do), it's impossible to ignore his unspoken plans.
Her hands remain gripping his, the smallest bit tighter as she gives a little shake of her head. "So you'd kill yourself for a stranger? Come now, that's just not reasonable." Her voice is equally calm and measured, and her expression has become difficult to read.
"Emma." He feels both of her hands on his, and the withdrawal of her thoughts from his mind. Both wanting to hold onto him, and needing to protect herself. Scott understands. If their positions were reversed, he'd probably do the same, because the idea of losing Emma is agonizing to him. He doesn't want to leave her. He doesn't want to leave any of them.
Scott puts his other hand over hers. "Someone else forced this on us. He's comatose through no fault of his own, and I'm here. The decision of which of us gets to exist is entirely in my hands, and I can't ignore that he doesn't deserve to die."
Because that man is not a stranger to him. His memories are in Scott's head, including one of holding Nathan's tiny body in his arms, and seeing his eyes look up at Scott with perfect trust. Blue eyes, like his brother, Alex, and like their mother, from what little he remembers of her.
"If my understanding of the situation is incorrect, then I'll reassess. But you know me. You know why I have to do this."
Emma's hands twist a little in Scott's, his read of her absolutely correct. She's torn between being as close as possible to him and pulling herself away because she hates feeling so weak and, honestly, stupid. She knew dating him would go badly for her; this just isn't the sort of pain she was expecting it to bring. Though, she supposes, no one could have really predicted this. It doesn't make it hurt any less.
"You don't deserve to die either." This comes out sharper than she intends, but she doesn't really care. He might as well know that mixed up in the ache that he can probably guess is there is a more fully blossoming anger. At Ambrose and the universe for this entire situation. At him, for being so quick to sacrifice himself. At herself, for caring so much about him.
None of this is productive, though, even though she prefers anger to everything else twisting up inside her. She pulls in a slow breath, trying to unclench her jaw that she hadn't even noticed she'd tensed until this moment. She just needs to focus. Nothing is beyond her if she just tries hard enough. She refuses to accept this outcome.
"I'll figure out a better solution. I can't…" Emma's voice drops off, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Scott takes in her words without comment, watching the anger and determination play out on her face. If there's another way through this, he has no doubt that Emma can find it. She found Xavier and Ambrose, after all. He wants to pull her into his arms and hold her tight, to convey the things he can't bring himself to say, but he doesn't know if that would be pushing his luck. If she might ever forgive him for this.
He's already said the worst. Might as well rip the rest of the band-aid off. "I understand if it's too much to be involved with me right now."
These words snap Emma out of the spiral she had felt herself creeping down, one where she would have gotten caught up in her own head, desperately trying to find a solution in the moment even though there's no way she could. One where her thoughts would have been drawn to what it would feel like for Scott to leave. She might have even felt bad for herself. Luckily, offense always has a way of pulling her back.
"I'm sorry, too much? For me? Who do you think I am?"
Her jaw is set once again as she scowls.
"You're the stupidest man I've ever met. I'm not going to throw something good away for a problem that won't come to pass. I'm going to fix this, and you're going to be eternally grateful that such a beautiful, intelligent, and frankly terrifying woman loves you this much."
She pulls away one of her hands, but only so she can lean to get her glass of wine and take a long drink. A little too long, but it doesn't matter.
Scott laughs—more of a huff of relief than a laugh—watching Emma chug the wine. He has never met anyone so sharp-edged and certain of herself, and he really shouldn't be surprised that she's certain of him too. She's probably right that he's being stupid. She's seen all of the incomplete parts of him and still calls this something good. He doesn't know why she loves him, but he is selfish enough to want it, even if it'll hurt more later.
"Emma Frost." He holds her hand in both of his, and presses a kiss to her palm. "They should be terrified of you in every reality."
Doing her best to ignore the voiceless ring of it'll hurt more later, Emma downs a little more than half of her glass before setting it aside again, watching as Scott kisses her palm. She's still so angry and frustrated, but she's a little sad, too. Despite her self-assurance, there is still, somewhere in the back of her mind, the idea that him leaving is inevitable. His softness in this moment makes it feel all the more terrible. She lets out a sharp sigh.
"They should," she agrees, her voice quieted. "And I'm very glad you can accept that you're stupid."
"I know better than to argue with you." Scott can guess the direction of her thoughts from that sigh, and would apologize if he didn't suspect it'd piss her off even more. But he is sorry. Maybe they were always doomed, but he didn't go into this believing he could break her heart. He only wanted to be good for her while this lasted. If he wasn't the way he is, maybe he could've promised more. (He is sorry, again, for having these thoughts at all.)
Having both gone into this with low expectations of it working out is as depressingly romantic as it is stupid. Emma's not interested in having either of those things in her life, and is a little frustrated with herself for ever being so pessimistic. It makes it harder to hear always doomed in Scott's mind without it feeling a little more real.
"You're smart to know not to argue, at least. And you are good for me."
Scott smiles faintly. Emma always knows what he needs to hear; a skill which he lacks in kind. He shifts on the bed so he can wrap an arm around her waist, and touches his forehead to hers. "Do you want to talk about dinosaurs instead?"
Emma doesn't move, allowing him to do all the work of situating them closer together. As their foreheads touch she closes her eyes, just for a few moments, to appreciate the contact and to try to forget the conversation they'd just had. Unless she's planning on leaving this room tonight (she is not), there's nothing she can do about fixing this problem now.
Her eyes open again as she grimaces in a bit of a show at his question. "No, Scott, I do not want to talk about dinosaurs." She doesn't smile, but there's at least the smallest flicker of not entirely ingenuine amusement in her mind as she moves to press a hard kiss to his lips.
WHEN: April 22, a few days after returning from the Savage Land
WHERE: Scott's bedroom, Xavier Institute
WHAT: After learning the truth about their marks, Scott tells Emma what he's planning.
WARNINGS: Discussion of death.
After her classes had finished, Emma had simply gone to Scott's room to wait for whenever he decided to return. Her room is, of course, more to her tastes, but since returning from their trip to Antarctica she's been a little more accommodating and, honestly, feeling a little more like she wants to embed herself in his space. Things have felt almost normal, except for the subtle lingering dread and the fact that Scott has been quieter than usual and a little mentally closed off. In fact, things have actually been nice, since they haven't said a single word about anything that was revealed by Ambrose. That can't last forever, but she's willing to give him a day or two more to process before she pushes him to open up. The room to breathe is nice for her, too.
In her quest to be on good behavior, she makes no move to disrupt the order in his room or introduce her own chaos - instead, Emma simply lounges on the bed with a glass of wine, reading a book about dinosaurs. She maybe stole another one of his shirts from a drawer, but that's a minor offense, especially since she didn't rearrange anything in doing so.
Scott's arrival is announced by the sound of a key turning, and a furry orange form darting in ahead of him. On seeing Emma, Scott pauses for a long moment in the doorway. One part distraction from the cat, one part admiration of his girlfriend, and—which only Emma can sense—one part reinforcement of his mental walls. Just a small section of his mind, but it's been weeks since he's tried to keep anything from her. Emma, of course, hates this, but doesn't say or do anything about it besides a gentle brush of her mind against the barrier, an acknowledgement of its existence.
Despite being told multiple times that beds are a cat-free zone, Oscar Philip Flushing immediately jumps up to cuddle with Emma, who lets him settle in her lap without batting an eye. Part of Scott wishes he could do the same, but he is a creature of habit. His shoes and bag go into their designated places, then his blazer is hung up. He pushes open the door to the bathroom so the cat has access to a litter box, washes his hands (20 seconds, with soap), then does a quick scan of his rooms to ensure that nothing's changed in the eight hours since he's been here. The windows are still secured. Nothing on his shelf or desk has moved. He knows at a glance which drawer Emma took her shirt from.
His routine done, Scott finally takes a seat on the edge of bed. "You're not sick of dinosaurs yet?"
As he goes through his tasks Emma mentally follows along, sufficiently distracted by his arrival that she's barely reading anyways. It's almost like meditation to trace his regimented thoughts and actions, and, again, makes things feel much more normal than they actually are. The mundane parts of this relationship are deeply comforting to her.
Scott sits and she leans over to present her cheek for a kiss, her eyes still resting on the book page as she wrinkles her nose. "Oh, I'm so sick of them. But I had a dream about the one Kitty and Illyana brought home last night and now I feel like I should learn a bit more, just in case."
"Just in case the raptor has needs it can't communicate, or just in case it tries to eat one of us?" He obediently brushes a kiss against Emma's cheek—this too has become part of his routine. She isn't in his room every evening, but the sight of her lounging in his bed is so familiar to him now that Scott misses her when she's not here. This thought is followed by a pained yearning, which Scott ignores in favor of moving even closer. He braces one hand on the other side of Emma's hip, leaning over her (while respectfully leaving Oscar Philip Flushing plenty of space, since he was here first).
"If the first causes the second, I suppose. My dream was very convoluted." Her mind opens into his, though she's been a little more reserved these past few days herself. On the surface it's generally serene - she's where she belongs, here, with him, and she's comfortable and content even with the thread of worry that winds through her thoughts. There's some irritation there, too, but it's mostly not directed at him.
And while reading about dinosaurs had been an easy stress to soothe, she can now make an effort to soothe another. Emma sets the book, open and pages down, on top of Oscar Philip Flushing, who doesn't particularly seem to know what to do with this and simply accepts his fate without a sound. The desire to pull Scott even closer to her and once again forget about everything that's been happening is clear in her mind, but instead she takes a small sip from her glass before slightly leaning into him to set it on the bedside table.
"If I made you drink some wine do you think you would relax or just get more stressed about everything?"
"Stress is a natural biological reaction that is technically neither positive nor negative," he argues. Emma hides her slight smile at this by looking down at her book (and the cat). Scott mentally reviews his list of everything that needs to get done—which is considerable, given how long they were away—and weighs how badly any of that needs to get done today. The school isn't on fire. Everyone is home. And Emma is right here, with no one likely to interrupt them for hours.
It's his fault, probably, that her mind hasn't been as open lately. But Scott welcomes what he can get of it, even as he immediately worries over her worry. A top item on his list is taking care of Emma, a task that is both difficult and extremely easy. He can make it easy this time.
"Did you bring a second glass?"
"I'm eternally hopeful that I can coax you into a bit of misbehavior. Of course I have a second glass." She will take this loosening of his rules even though it feels like a bad omen. It's difficult for her to banish this thought, but she tries to do so with distraction.
Picking up her book to set it aside and free Oscar Philip Flushing, Emma gives him a little shoo to get him to slink off of her lap. Then she turns to kiss Scott, quick and a little hard, before she twists onto her stomach and shifts to reach off the opposite side of the bed. From the ground she produces a bottle and another glass, the latter of which she offers to him behind her back so she can sit up more easily again with just the wine in hand. While it's all a little ungraceful, she doesn't particularly care about that when she's alone with him.
"Worry is just as natural as stress, so don't fuss over mine. And given the situation, it's rather inevitable."
"You can't ask me not to fuss." He holds out his glass, allowing her to pour the full serving. Scott might have a lot of rules for personal behavior, but he isn't a total ascetic. If Emma doesn't care about appearing perfect around him, then he can be less rigid around her. He can be fun. He wants to have fun. (Is he trying too hard?)
Scott's fingers brush Emma's hair back into place after her maneuvers, just for an excuse to touch her. He will always be impressed by Emma at her most flawless and formidable, but it's these moments that are most precious to him. Just being with her, comfortable in each other's presence. Even though they're both avoiding talking about what's really bothering them.
"I'm relaxing," he says, eternally hopeful that saying something with enough conviction will make it true. "What was your dream?"
After pouring his glass and setting aside the wine bottle, Emma goes to retrieve her own drink, pausing as Scott fixes her hair to appreciate the moment. Her feelings are much the same as his, though she goes a bit further in her thoughts on what they're avoiding - she can maybe put up with silence on the matter for a day or two more at best, but they can't pretend like nothing earthshaking has happened forever. Even as much as she also just wants to hold onto this.
For now, though, she at least has a stupid dream to share. She gently clinks their glasses together in toast before taking a sip and reaching to take his free hand with hers - no reason to deny themselves continued physical contact. His comment on relaxing is met with a disbelieving, affectionate smile.
"You're very fun, and I believe that someday we'll get you properly relaxed. As for my dream… there was something about her needing some mineral that was only in certain prehistoric animals, though it was also in Red Vines, but only if they'd been cut into a certain length." Stupid. She releases his hand momentarily to wave it dismissively. "Anyway, because we didn't know she obviously wasn't getting it, and being deprived made her grow larger and larger. She ate some people in town, I think, and Kitty temporarily, but she just phased out of her stomach so it was all fine."
Scott first considers the possibility that the raptor will grow large enough to eat Kitty whole (highly unlikely, no need to make a backup plan) before allowing himself a little smile at Emma's recounting. "You're worried something will happen if you're not attentive enough." Very Emma, to be so concerned with the well-being of the children at this school that it even extends to a baby dinosaur.
"She's very caring," he tells Oscar Philip Flushing, who flops over in response, his pale-furred belly exposed. Scott laughs.
"He's biased," Emma quietly tells the cat, smiling.
This is what happiness feels like, Scott thinks as he tastes the wine, feeling Emma's hand in his. Even with all the problems waiting for them outside of this room, and everything that's yet to be resolved. He grew up believing that happiness was reserved for other people, and he wasn't allowed to even want it. He knows on some level that this isn't the correct way to feel, but it's hard for him to be easy with it. Hard for him not to think about how he can never hold onto it.
He should tell Emma about his own dream. He should tell her what he's really thinking. But the words get stuck, still locked behind his mental defenses.
There's an ache in Emma's chest at Scott's thoughts about his own happiness, one that isn't unfamiliar given that she'd felt it even when they were children. It's not really pity - it's something that is soft but quickly morphs into some kind of anger at his circumstances. It's deeply unfair that the world has made him feel like he is undeserving. She wants to fix this, and she's trying, but every time she gets a glimpse of those feelings she wonders if she's actually doing any good. She's certain she must be, if he's happy right now. As happy as she is.
They are hiding in it, though. They're being stupid in their avoidance. While still willing to wait to talk about the past weekend, it's starting to feel like there's no point in doing that anymore.
Emma lifts Scott's hand to her lips, smile falling as she presses a light kiss to his knuckles. "Just tell me, sweetheart. Or let me in to see."
Scott sighs. "I keep having this nightmare." It isn't scary, precisely. No monsters, nothing hiding in the shadows. In it, he's looking for his son. The search led them back to his orphanage, and he's walking the halls like a ghost, unseen to the children and the workers within. Each room he passes shows him a new tableau, a fragmented memory belonging to a boy with dark red glasses. Jean is beside him, wanting to help the boy, but Scott has no time for it. He needs to find his son.
He knew the first time it happened that it wasn't his nightmare. That this was residual guilt and anxiety from his other self, who'd already rescued Nathan. But Scott's mind won't stop revisiting it at night, like there's an answer he's still seeking in those hallways. Or maybe he knows the answer already, and he just doesn't want to admit it.
"According to Ambrose," he says, not meeting Emma's gaze, "if our 'essences' are here, then our other selves are in a 'hollow' state. A coma, like Professor Xavier was in."
There's a quiet that stretches from when Scott first speaks through until at least a minute or two after his final comment. Some of this is attentiveness, of course, but that thread of worry in Emma's mind is strengthening, burrowing itself deeper into every thought and feeling. She knows they should be talking about this and on some level is glad they are, but the selfish part of her wishes they could take this back. Be happy again. It's terribly unfair that only moments before they were both so content.
Instead of getting to appreciate their time together she has to try to tamp down a growing desire to close herself off again. Shield herself. She can guess the route that Scott's mind is taking, especially with how he won't look at her, and it makes her feel a little ill. Angry, too, but in a painfully undirected way.
Without another drink Emma abandons her wine glass again, holding Scott's hand in both of hers once that's done. She's still trying not to jump to conclusions about where he's going with this, even though the evidence is relatively clear.
"Yes. But that's not our fault, and ultimately it's not even really our responsibility."
Scott presses his lips together, debating if he should say what they both know he thinks about that. Of course he feels responsible. It's practically Scott's mutant power to take on the responsibility for everything that happens. But the unfortunate truth is that the equation has already changed for him. If this is real—if Ambrose is right—then him remaining in this reality means that the Scott Summers in the other reality is effectively dead. His son will be an orphan.
Emma is right. It isn't their fault. They didn't choose this. But Scott will never be able to live with himself, knowing what joy he has in this life comes at the cost of abandoning his child in another life. He'll be haunted by it. (He already is.)
He sets his wine glass down, next to hers. "First we need to verify Ambrose's story, and learn who's behind all of this and why." Scott's voice is calm. Decisive. "I will do whatever's necessary to ensure that none of you are forced to leave here."
Once again his words are followed by silence, but this time Emma pulls back her mind. It's not sharp or sudden so clearly not done out of anger, but it's a slow retraction in defense of herself. Scott doesn't need to be privy to any of her thoughts except the ones she says out loud. They're too tumultuous, and some of them are unfair, and she already feels weak enough in this moment without exposing herself. Though Scott has said other things (they do have more work to do), it's impossible to ignore his unspoken plans.
Her hands remain gripping his, the smallest bit tighter as she gives a little shake of her head. "So you'd kill yourself for a stranger? Come now, that's just not reasonable." Her voice is equally calm and measured, and her expression has become difficult to read.
"Emma." He feels both of her hands on his, and the withdrawal of her thoughts from his mind. Both wanting to hold onto him, and needing to protect herself. Scott understands. If their positions were reversed, he'd probably do the same, because the idea of losing Emma is agonizing to him. He doesn't want to leave her. He doesn't want to leave any of them.
Scott puts his other hand over hers. "Someone else forced this on us. He's comatose through no fault of his own, and I'm here. The decision of which of us gets to exist is entirely in my hands, and I can't ignore that he doesn't deserve to die."
Because that man is not a stranger to him. His memories are in Scott's head, including one of holding Nathan's tiny body in his arms, and seeing his eyes look up at Scott with perfect trust. Blue eyes, like his brother, Alex, and like their mother, from what little he remembers of her.
"If my understanding of the situation is incorrect, then I'll reassess. But you know me. You know why I have to do this."
Emma's hands twist a little in Scott's, his read of her absolutely correct. She's torn between being as close as possible to him and pulling herself away because she hates feeling so weak and, honestly, stupid. She knew dating him would go badly for her; this just isn't the sort of pain she was expecting it to bring. Though, she supposes, no one could have really predicted this. It doesn't make it hurt any less.
"You don't deserve to die either." This comes out sharper than she intends, but she doesn't really care. He might as well know that mixed up in the ache that he can probably guess is there is a more fully blossoming anger. At Ambrose and the universe for this entire situation. At him, for being so quick to sacrifice himself. At herself, for caring so much about him.
None of this is productive, though, even though she prefers anger to everything else twisting up inside her. She pulls in a slow breath, trying to unclench her jaw that she hadn't even noticed she'd tensed until this moment. She just needs to focus. Nothing is beyond her if she just tries hard enough. She refuses to accept this outcome.
"I'll figure out a better solution. I can't…" Emma's voice drops off, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Scott takes in her words without comment, watching the anger and determination play out on her face. If there's another way through this, he has no doubt that Emma can find it. She found Xavier and Ambrose, after all. He wants to pull her into his arms and hold her tight, to convey the things he can't bring himself to say, but he doesn't know if that would be pushing his luck. If she might ever forgive him for this.
He's already said the worst. Might as well rip the rest of the band-aid off. "I understand if it's too much to be involved with me right now."
These words snap Emma out of the spiral she had felt herself creeping down, one where she would have gotten caught up in her own head, desperately trying to find a solution in the moment even though there's no way she could. One where her thoughts would have been drawn to what it would feel like for Scott to leave. She might have even felt bad for herself. Luckily, offense always has a way of pulling her back.
"I'm sorry, too much? For me? Who do you think I am?"
Her jaw is set once again as she scowls.
"You're the stupidest man I've ever met. I'm not going to throw something good away for a problem that won't come to pass. I'm going to fix this, and you're going to be eternally grateful that such a beautiful, intelligent, and frankly terrifying woman loves you this much."
She pulls away one of her hands, but only so she can lean to get her glass of wine and take a long drink. A little too long, but it doesn't matter.
Scott laughs—more of a huff of relief than a laugh—watching Emma chug the wine. He has never met anyone so sharp-edged and certain of herself, and he really shouldn't be surprised that she's certain of him too. She's probably right that he's being stupid. She's seen all of the incomplete parts of him and still calls this something good. He doesn't know why she loves him, but he is selfish enough to want it, even if it'll hurt more later.
"Emma Frost." He holds her hand in both of his, and presses a kiss to her palm. "They should be terrified of you in every reality."
Doing her best to ignore the voiceless ring of it'll hurt more later, Emma downs a little more than half of her glass before setting it aside again, watching as Scott kisses her palm. She's still so angry and frustrated, but she's a little sad, too. Despite her self-assurance, there is still, somewhere in the back of her mind, the idea that him leaving is inevitable. His softness in this moment makes it feel all the more terrible. She lets out a sharp sigh.
"They should," she agrees, her voice quieted. "And I'm very glad you can accept that you're stupid."
"I know better than to argue with you." Scott can guess the direction of her thoughts from that sigh, and would apologize if he didn't suspect it'd piss her off even more. But he is sorry. Maybe they were always doomed, but he didn't go into this believing he could break her heart. He only wanted to be good for her while this lasted. If he wasn't the way he is, maybe he could've promised more. (He is sorry, again, for having these thoughts at all.)
Having both gone into this with low expectations of it working out is as depressingly romantic as it is stupid. Emma's not interested in having either of those things in her life, and is a little frustrated with herself for ever being so pessimistic. It makes it harder to hear always doomed in Scott's mind without it feeling a little more real.
"You're smart to know not to argue, at least. And you are good for me."
Scott smiles faintly. Emma always knows what he needs to hear; a skill which he lacks in kind. He shifts on the bed so he can wrap an arm around her waist, and touches his forehead to hers. "Do you want to talk about dinosaurs instead?"
Emma doesn't move, allowing him to do all the work of situating them closer together. As their foreheads touch she closes her eyes, just for a few moments, to appreciate the contact and to try to forget the conversation they'd just had. Unless she's planning on leaving this room tonight (she is not), there's nothing she can do about fixing this problem now.
Her eyes open again as she grimaces in a bit of a show at his question. "No, Scott, I do not want to talk about dinosaurs." She doesn't smile, but there's at least the smallest flicker of not entirely ingenuine amusement in her mind as she moves to press a hard kiss to his lips.