Character: Scott Summers (With (an adult) Angel)
Prompt: Too much
Word Count: 1454
Author's Notes: Unbeta'd. Events taking place immediately following Jean's death.
His shoulders ached, his stomach burned, and there was a throbbing pressure building behind his eyes, none of it willing to be ignored, but all of it blending into a symphony of physical white noise.
The feel of grief, Scott thought with abstracted awareness. The feeling of having half of your life ripped abruptly away. A muscle in his jaw twitched and the squeak of his teeth grinding against one another echoed in his head.
His body, as always, was a step ahead of his mind. It was certainly miles ahead of his heart. Neither his mind nor heart seemed to realize he was grieving. They felt, in stark contrast to the way his entire body *ached*, strangely fine.
It annoyed him.
I should be able to at least cry for her.
She'd been in his life for... forever, at least for all of his life that he cared to remember. As huge as she'd been to him, as all encompassing, all present, he should care more. He should feel more. He should hurt, more.
He left his office, and considered going to the medical lab for something for the relentlessly (if slowly) building headache, but decided to try tylenol and some time in the dark instead. He saw no need to disturb Hank with his petty ailments.
He slid one hand under the heavy glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as the other opened the door. Blind still, he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. He didn't need to see to know this room. The place of every object was known and familiar to him.
Jean had always been careful to make sure nothing was left out of place, at least here. No matter how well fit ruby quartz was heavy and being able to go without that weight, the chaffing at his temples and the bridge of his nose, for even a few hours a night was a relief. One he wouldn't have given himself, so she'd given him instead.
He let his hand fall and the glasses move back into place as he crossed the room toward the desk, the computer. There were things he needed to do. Make sure his e-mail was caught up on, and more importantly that the people who had corresponded with Jean knew she was gone. Her address book, the electronic and paper ones, should help with that. He should probably work on an obituary, too. Something simple and to the point.
He turned the computer on, and waited for it to start up, and went to the bathroom. He took the glasses off, and splashed cold water in his face, hoping to quell the suddenly rising nausea and the sharp pain in his chest that accompanied it. Maybe he should have seen Hank, after all, though Scott was pretty sure he was too young for a heart attack.
He slid the glasses back into place without drying his face, and pulled the medicine cabinet open. Midol and Tylenol and Advil and Aleve and how many pain killers were there? A lot. That probably said something about the nature of the people who lived here, Scott thought with a snort and wry not-quite-smirk.
He grabbed the tylenol- the only one he really understood- and shook four out and swallowed them dry before he returned the bottle to its exact place. Even Jean could get confused and grab the wrong bottle in the middle of the night, and god forbid anything keep her from her midol.
The almost-smirk turned into a grimace, and he found it progressively harder to breathe. The computer was up, it's screen bluely malevolent and waiting. Waiting for him to inform all those people whose lives she'd touched that she was gone.
She. Was. Gone.
Suddenly the nausea returned, ten fold and he was shaking. His throat felt tight, and the pressure behind his eyes was nearly blinding. He collapsed against a wall, and he was drowning. Drowning in Jean and the enormity of what she'd been, and the person he'd lost. The person that everyone lost. That she wasn't coming back.
It was like being punched in the gut so hard and fast that all the air was literally driven out of him, and he responded by curling forward with his arms wrapped around himself. Trying to hold himself together, and trying to hold something inside, keep the overwhelming pain from escaping.
The sound that pushed itself past his constricted throat and clenched teeth wasn't a sob, it wasn't a whimper, it was a full blown scream. Rough, guttural, and most of all primal. An animal that's lost it's mate, an animal in pain, and a wild thing so totally overwhelmed that there's nothing to do but lash out, because he couldn't cry.
He didn't even know how to cry without her.
There was literally nothing that could stand up to that much unleashed fury and agony and Scott, Scott was unaware of it. He couldn't feel the pain of glass cutting his hands when he broke the mirrors, didn't feel the dull ache of impact or strain of muscles. All he felt was the seething roiling power of grief.
They must have heard. They arrived too quickly for it to have been luck, and he wasn't exactly trying to be quiet about it. Or, maybe Charles alerted them. Either way it was over quickly enough. He was quite literally grabbed and held by strangely gentle hands. Warren he identified more from the sound and scent of feathers than sight, even while he *fought* with the man with the rest of his rapidly ebbing strength.
"Shhh. Scott, let us help you." That voice was quiet, low, and oh so cultured even while he grappled to hold Scott's still. He ultimately concentrated on one arm, pinning it out and flat against a wall. Scott snarled and wrenched himself, trying to get free.
He panted heavily, vision swimming, already. "I don't need your fucking help!"
He didn't realize Hank was there until he felt the sting of a needle sliding through the cotton of his shirt. He jerked and twisted, but if Warren's hands were strong, Hank's were inescapable.
It worked quickly, whatever it was they'd pumped into his body. He started to sag against Warren, and then almost gratefully collapsed into his arms. He could feel Hank's fingers, still holding his wrist, monitoring his pulse, with a surprising amount delicate in spite of claws that tipped them and sheer size.
"I've got him, Hank."
Scott curled, the motion weak and exhausted toward Warren. His fingers jerkily burrowed into one feathered wing. He clung, shameless in the exhaustion that came as much from spent emotion as the sedative Hank had injected him with.
"I'll take him to my room," Warren's voice continued, having paused for them to both process the implications of that faint, uncoordinated, but somehow desperate, motion.
"He should not see this destruction," Hank conceded.
Scott snorted from his place against Warren's shoulder. He'd done it, hadn't he? He was still here, wasn't he?
He could hear the faint smile in Hank's voice when he amended. "Privacy at the very least would, I assume, not be unwelcome."
To that Scott stayed silent. He tried to push himself up, tried to answer, and found that he could move not at all at this point. He certainly wasn't walking and his mind rapidly slid down into the well of profound darkness.
He didn't feel himself carried to Warren's room, the one on the corner so there were two walls of windows opening outside instead of one. He didn't feel himself settled in the bed made massive to accommodate the blonde's impressive wingspan.
He wasn't aware of the watch Angel kept over him. Only that when he began to drift from deep black into the lighter shades of gray and blue that he wasn't alone. There was a hand in his hair, carefully combing it away from his face; soothing and achingly gentle and not familiar enough.
Warren didn't soothe him or shush him. He made a very soft sound, somewhere at the back of his throat. The real response was in the way one wing flared over him like a protective shield of feathers, and in the hand that carefully removed Scott's glasses.
Scott's eyes closed immediately, reflexively. "It's too-"
"Cry, Scott," Warren told him, commanded him, with that imperious tone.