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When you see her, your entire world shapes around her.
Willingly or unwillingly.
Power, fire, life. You suddenly know that she’s the one, why she’s everyone's favorite. Why no one can stop talking about Jean Grey. She fills up the room with her presence, everything soaked in pink psychic feedback that no one else can see. It’s different for telepaths. You’ve always known that, but you’ve never felt it this way before. If you’re a scalpel, she’s a sledgehammer. Perhaps it's a crude metaphor, but it’s an apt one. You’ve seen the Phoenix, watched it shred everything around you, burn holes in reality and take apart sad old men like Jason Wyngarde, but this is different. Her real power you suspect, is something the Phoenix would never be able to hold a candle too. It makes you jealous, an ugly emotion that you’d never be caught displaying openly. You feel petty when you size her up. When she looks at you, you feel like you’re burning alive.
You think that’s what Scott must have felt all of the time, every second she’s with him. Every moment alone coated in cold flame.
It’s different now. After all these years it’s different to see her filled with warmth and not cold fury. They way she looks at you makes you know that you’ve been caught out. Never stare too long at a telepath, even if you’re one too.
“You’ve gotten remarkably bad at keeping your thoughts to yourself.”
“And you’re more pretentious than ever, I see.”
It’s a defense mechanism, but you’re not wrong. You’re Emma Frost, you’re never wrong.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here. I’ve heard some things since I’ve been back. I’ll admit I didn’t want to believe it.”
Jean is looking at you pointedly, heavy green coat pulled around her, checked scarf tucked neatly inside. Her hair always looked like living fire. It’s no different now, even under the muted grey sky. It looks like it could snow any minute. It feels like it’s been snowing in your heart for days already. You highly doubt Jean being here helps.
“Is that champagne?”
“What? Do you think you’re the only one allowed to bring drinks to the party?” You came in style, black leather boots, white fur coat, red manicured nails and the finest bottle of champagne you’d pulled up from the cellar of Sebastian Shaw’s private collection. Your private collection now. He never knew what to do with things like this. Idiot. Scott wouldn’t have cared what kind of wine you’d brought. He doesn’t care now either.
“At least I didn’t bring whatever bottom of the barrel whiskey you’re hiding in that flask in your coat pocket. Honestly, darling? Isn’t it your anniversary?”
A low blow. You expect her to come right back with something just as sharp.
“Disappointed it took you this long. Not feeling like yourself, Emma?” Jean takes a few steps closer, she’s not sneering at you and as always, you wish she would. “We’re not doing this today. Not here.”
You level a stare at her and unfortunately you relent. You know Jean’s right, know this isn’t the time or place; you’re both here for a reason and the gravestone in front of you, still littered with dead flowers from months back, stares at you like it has eyes of its own. Maybe it does. Always watching. Scott always seemed to have that effect on people. Expectations to be better than the sum of your parts. You never needed anyone, but his drive pushed you forward just like it did everyone else.
“Of all the days, it had to be today with you. This thing between you and I, Emma. It’s not happening here.” She repeats herself and it gets under your skin.
“Always taking the high road. Would it kill you to take the low one every once and awhile?” You gesture at her with the hand that’s got the bottle of champagne still clutched in it. You don’t know why you brought it really. To celebrate Scott’s life? You didn’t even bring any glasses. When she doesn’t budge, you sigh. “Fine. He’s probably laughing at the both of us right now. Coming here like this, winding up stuck here alone together. Ironic. Fighting over him and now he’s not even here.”
“I never wanted to fight with you.” Jean’s voice is quiet all of a sudden, like the cold is sinking in through her jacket despite attempts to keep it out. It makes you realize something that you should have realized months ago when you felt the Phoenix make you itch, when you tasted fire on your tongue in the middle of the night. Jean Grey is not the same as when you saw her last. How could she be? She’s not soaked in grief like you. She’s swimming in it. Maybe if you’d have taken a second to look, really look. You’d have seen it.
“Sad, isn’t it?” You take a different route. “You never wanted to fight and that’s all I wanted to do.” It feels like that’s what you were born to do. Fight until you can’t fight anymore; scratch and claw and tear down anyone in your way.
“It’s all you still want to do.” Jean steps ever closer to you. “It’s okay. I get it. I lost him so long ago that sometimes it doesn’t even feel real. You had years together and I doubt that makes it any easier.” Harder, actually.
“Of course, of course, your concern is absolutely touching.” You take a deep breath and you can already feel yourself closing off, the slow creeping sensation of the absence of everything warm when you turn to diamond. It’s starting in your hand this time, but you catch it before it can spread. Everything is easier when you can’t feel a thing. Especially this.
“Emma. Let someone in or it’s going to kill you.”
Funny. She sounds just like Scott.
—
The wilds of Canada don’t suit anyone, Emma thinks.
Not her, not Scott and certainly not the children. Not even Laura despite everything. When they managed to track her down eventually, bundled up and ready to run, she’d never looked more like Logan than she did in that very moment. She’s glad they stopped her from running, she can’t exactly blame her. Emma suddenly feels like she could just throttle Scott for taking them here. For making them stay. A place where they did horrific experiments on Mutants is no place to call a home. If there already wasn’t a growing number of reasons to never forgive Scott Summers, that would be at the top of her list. The worst part about all of this, about being angry with him, she thinks. Is that she knows he’s right. It’s why she’s still here after all. Still at his side after he let the Phoenix of all things get between them.
He needs her here, so she is.
“It’s cold up here. Are you sure you don’t want to come in?” Scott’s voice cuts into her, she should have heard him coming. Would have felt his presence in her mind if her telepathy worked the way it should. That’s his fault too. Or at least that’s what she tells herself.
“It’s cold everywhere. I will be fine. I can turn into diamond at anytime, you know.”
“Here.” Emma doesn’t even get a chance to look up before he’s draping a blanket across her shoulders. “You shouldn’t stay up here too long, but if you don’t want to come in I thought you should have a blanket.”
“Always so chivalrous Scott, darling.” She pulls the blanket close even though she’s cursing him. It’s compulsory at this point.
“How long is it going to be like this, Emma? How long are you going to hate me? You don’t have to be here.”
“I don’t hate you.” She takes a beat and tries to fight back the strange type of laugh that’s trying to bubble up in her chest. “And you’re wrong. I do have to be here. I have to be here for the children and so that you don’t get so caught up in your mutant revolution that you forget to take care of yourself.”
It’s simple or at least Emma thinks it is.
“And who’s going to take care of you while you try and keep all of this together? Who is going to look out for you .” He’s inches away now and you can feel his hand right above your shoulder. He’s worried and he can’t stop the push of feelings, of thoughts, even if he’s trying to. Scott Summers was always good at burying everything, too bad he’s never been good at keeping things from you.
“Are you implying that’s what you need to do? Worry about me?”
“I want to, Emma. If you’ll let me.”
—
“How dare you.” The cold sink in your chest before has nothing on the fury you feel now. Of all the things to do, Jean should know better than to read your mind. To bring up memories like that.
“I didn’t do anything.” It’s a quiet hiss back. “You pulled me in. You’re screaming, Emma. You’re keeping it all inside that perfect, flawless mind if yours, but you can’t do it. You can’t bottle it up. It’s eating you alive. It’s okay to be upset. It’s okay to grieve .”
You’re still shaking with anger, ready to spit venom at her, but you feel something discharge when Jean touches your shoulder. Some sensation that makes you freeze. Her voice is quiet and warm in all the ways you don’t know how to be.
“I loved a man named Scott Summers once, let me help you grieve yours. He loved you. That should be something to celebrate.”