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There was something between them.
Kwannon could feel it. A bubble that grew and molded between them. Neither wanted nor unwanted. Just simply there. It stopped them from being too close. From acknowledging their similar histories of grief and loss and personhood. From exploring the quiet connection that lurked silently between them.
She and Scott weren’t the type to need words.
Kwannon wanted to find them anyway. Wanted to pop that bubble and see what might be left in its wake. If it would gently dissipate and float away, or explode.
But sometimes, sometimes. She just wanted to say it. Wanted to grab Scott Summers by the shoulders and lift up gently on her toes and whisper it into his ear.
I love you.
The feeling had grown and mutated inside of her chest without her consent. Rooting in her lungs when she had first laid eyes on him in her own stolen body. She had been unbelievably grateful for Betsy’s flirtation skills. For just that one moment.
It had faded somewhat, as time passed, but never disappeared. New flowers appeared at random when she would see him smile at a student, or shake a politician’s hand after a rare successful meeting.
When they had joined the war captains together, it had only gotten worse. She knew him now. His thoughts and personal philosophies and shitty taste in alcohol. Had watched him care for Illyana like a sister. Dote on his children from afar. Love his wife like she was the only person in the world.
She was never going to make a move. Especially now, when everything in their lives was so complicated by loss and hatred. She had settled to care about him from afar. To pick up the little pieces he left scattered about.
It never felt like enough. But she could make do with less-than-ideal circumstances. It was better than the alternative.
Scott’s low, monotone voice shook her out of her thoughts.
“I’m going to grab a drink on the roof,” he said, holding up the bottles, “would you like to join me?”
Kwannon pretended to give it a thought. It was a measly forty-five degrees, and the setting sun and violent wind only promised a colder temperature. She didn’t even really like beer. And she needed a good night's sleep.
“Yes,” she said, moving towards the door before Scott could register her words, “I would love that.”
One beer became two. Became six. Became helping each other climb down the ladder and search for blankets and more booze while stumbling on uncoordinated legs. Voices and movements giddy with alcohol and cold and companionship.
Back on the roof, they had lapsed into a loud silence, gazing into the Alaskan wilderness when Scott spoke.
“I do love her,” Scott says, his voice barely audible beneath the whipping wind.
“I know,” Kwannon whispered, flexing her fingers out towards him. Stops. Pulls back. Isn’t that the fucking tragedy of this whole thing? She thinks.
She watches as Scott’s elegant hands fiddle with the empty beer bottle. The alcohol has made them both uncharacteristically loose-lipped. And yet, Kwannon feels herself completely at home here: atop this unfamiliar rooftop in an unfamiliar tundra. Relishing in the self-pity she’s allowed herself to wallow in for the first time in God knows how long. Finds herself at ease with the painfully familiar and unfamiliar man next to her: this friend, not friend, leader, stranger.
Scott opens his mouth and then closes it, eyes tracking an arctic butterfly in the distance, the sun setting over them.
“I’m sure you know that old saying, ‘If you love something, let it go?’” He asks with a bitter chuckle.
Kwannon did. She wished she didn’t. It was the kind of broken platitude she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemies.
She watches Scott’s shoulders curve in towards his chest, turn his hands up, and drag his nails down his palms. She didn’t need to be a mutant to know that he was thinking about his son. This was more than the solidarity of two friends. It was the combined grief of two found-then-lost parents. The disgusting, swirling emotion of watching the only thing you’ve ever wanted-- ever loved unconditionally-- be violently ripped from you.
Scott’s fingers are digging into his palm, and Kwannon finally closes the chasm between them, and grasps his cold hand in hers. Scott’s arm tenses, but he doesn’t move. Just allows her to hold on to him. To ground both of them in this time and place. The sky is darkening, and Scott’s visor seems to glow brighter in response.
For one moment, the whole world is bathed in a promising, tender red light.
Kwannon remembers her beautiful baby’s gummy smile. The bright, inquisitive brown eyes. Her tiny hands and toes. All twenty were perfectly accounted for. Her rosy cheeks and round tummy after a good feed.
Scott squeezed her hand. And she knew they were thinking about the same things, regretting the same outcomes. She turns towards him, but doesn’t speak. Ducking her face out of the oppressive wind.
“It’s the wind,” she told Scott, using one hand to wipe at the tears that had slowly been sliding down her cheeks. Scott set his bottle down, ran one bent finger gently against her cheek, and said nothing.
There was nothing they could say.
I love you. She thinks, with a surprising clarity. The honesty in the statement surprised her, and she couldn't help but look away from Scott’s face, so open and warm, lest she say something too stupid to come back from.
Scott drops her hand and retreats from his spot against her when she looks away. The quiet magic broken. The bubble molding in the four-inch space between them. Kwannon opens another shitty beer. Hands one to Scott without asking. Takes a long swig out of her own.
It tastes disgusting. Like regret and grief and unrequited love.
“I’m sorry about Jean,” she says. Even as she says it, it doesn’t sound like the right thing to say. She isn’t dead. Just off gallivanting in the stars. Despite the distance, they’re still very much so married. Kwannon doesn’t know what to say about the feelings that must be choking him. How do you mourn a woman who’s still alive? Grieve for a marriage you're still honoring?
I wish you wanted more for yourself. Kwannon thinks. Ignores the possibilities that bubble up in the back of her mind, pushes them away, and clears her thoughts of futures not meant to be. I wish I could see you be loved the way you deserve.
“Thank you,” Scott finally responded after a long moment, like he didn’t quite understand how to respond. One tiny tear slipped out from underneath the visor. Scott moved to wipe it away, but Kwannon’s hand moved without thinking, absorbing his salty tear into her skin.
“This wind is vicious,” he says, a flimsy excuse.
“It is,” she agreed, knowing what they were both not saying, “It’s a good thing we can handle worse.”
Scott gave her a small smile, his pink lips curving up so gently. Kwannon returned a smile of her own, the silence taking over once again.
“It’s just,” Scott said, “I mean. It’s her job, ya’ know? I’m proud of her.” He shrugs. It’s likely meant to look casual. It looks defeated. His shoulders stay slumped. Kwannon resists the urge to wrap her arms around him.
“Of course,” She responds, cringing at her own empty response.
“I’m just. It’s--,” Scott pauses, shakes his head, “I wish--” he trails off.
But she can’t help but hear it loud and clear: I wish I was enough to stay.
Kwannon understands choosing duty over love. Has done it time and time again herself. And yet, that understanding doesn’t make her suddenly, violently, despise Jean Grey any less.
“I know,” She whispers again, feeling too choked up to say much more. Thinks about the irony of two people trapped in the same sort of half-love.
She can’t make this better for either of them.
But she can stop it from getting worse.
She sets her beer bottle down and takes Scott’s mostly full one from his hand. She stands, bundles her blankets in her arms, and holds a hand out towards Scott.
“Come on, fearless leader,” she semi-teases, “we should both try and get some sleep. Training stops for no hangover. Or so I’ve been told.”
That gets a chuckle out of Scott, and he grasps her hand for balance as he rises on his own unsteady feet, a blanket wrapped around his arms.
The sun is nearly set. Scott’s visor provides all the illumination they need as they crawl back down into their new base, and deposit their trash quietly. Return the throw blankets to the living room. Dutifully refill water bottles with liquid IV.
Scott walks Kwannon to her room. Gives her a smile before he departs. Says, “Thank you,” and “I had fun” and “we should do this again.” And Kwannon wished she didn’t have to hear the insecurity in his voice. Tries to focus on the things he says and not the things he doesn’t.
“Of course,” she says, “I’d love to. Sleep well, Scott.”
She heard his quiet response from behind his closed door.
“You too, Kwannon.”
Despite her early claims, she couldn’t sleep. Too focused on her cold, empty bed and the silence of her bedroom.
She cursed herself. It was so like her to want the little things she couldn’t have.