Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nobody Else But You (Ruby Summers - I)

Nobody else but you,
It's just our luck, we're stuck together
Nobody else but you,
Is crazy enough
To believe we'll come through

Scott’s Apartment – Present Day

It started with a knock on her door, followed by an uncomfortably cheerful voice.

“Get dressed. We’re going out.”

Ruby Summers blinked. “Unless we’re storming a bastion of anti-mutant fanatics or attending a funeral, I’m not going anywhere before coffee.”

Scott Summers—Cyclops to the world, “Dad” to an increasingly confused part of her psyche—stood in the doorway with a thermos in one hand and two tickets in the other. His uniform was swapped for civilian clothes: old jeans, white t-shirt under a windbreaker, and a casual-looking visor.

Not his battle-worn visor.

She eyed the thermos.

“…is that bribe coffee?”

“No. It’s survival coffee. You get your own once we’re en route.” He held up the tickets as if she was supposed to know what they were for. “We’re going to the Steel Pier. I figured—while you’re staying with me and looking for a permanent residence, we could go have fun like you kids do.”

Ruby snorted and dropped her feet to the floor. “I’m over eighty.”

Scott hesitated. Not visibly—but she’d known him long enough to read the half-second pause. That tiny breath where sentiment threatened to push through his neatly folded words.

She stood anyway, scratching her scalp and running her hand through unruly blonde hair. “You know I locked myself in ruby form for decades, right? I didn’t age so I’m just—just this.” She gestured at her unchanged body. “So, unless your idea of fun involves napping in ruby quartz for seventy years—”

Scott chuckled, a faint smile spreading across his lips. “This must be what I sounded like to everyone growing up.”

That earned him a side glance, wry and almost amused. “Is that your way of saying, ‘you used to be a buzzkill too’?”

“I’m saying I’d like to give you something resembling a day off. From – well, everything.”

She crossed her arms, expression unreadable. “You know I’ve been to the Steel Pier before.”

“I do,” he said quietly. “But I also know it wasn’t like this.”

Wasn’t like this was putting it mildly.

In her world, the Steel Pier had been half-collapsed into the sea, its neon signage rusted and screaming in silence. Her father had taken her there anyway, every year, because it was one of the last places left where she could laugh and no one shot at them.

Still, Scott’s offer was kind and she wasn’t totally opposed to the idea of a day in the sun.

“Let me pack my gear.” Ruby finally said.

Scott smirked, then showed his duffel bag. “I’m already way ahead of you.”

Of course he was.

-0-0-0-

Steel Pier, Mid-Morning

As they arrived, Atlantic City shone beneath a clear sky, with the Pier towering above the boardwalk, far more vibrant than she had ever imagined.

High-tech kinetic sculptures lined the entrance. Drone-mounted ride arms swept guests into the air. And an entire section was marked “Mutant-Friendly Zone” with subtle X-logos built into the signage.

This was most definitely not the Steel Pier she remembered.

Ruby stared at the entrance.

“Well,” she muttered, “he must’ve hated how corporate this was.”

Scott took it in stride, knowing who she was referring to.

“He’d have made fun of the font, but still bought you cotton candy.” Scott looked over at her with a knowing half-smile.

She didn’t smile back, but the tension in her shoulders eased a little.

They stepped inside.

The first ride was a vertical-drop anti-gravity tower called Pulse Plunge, designed with repulsor-field cushions and optional “levitation boosts.” It shimmered with Stark-grade plating and flickering mutant-safe shielding, and promised “2.4 seconds of simulated freefall” in glowing letters no doubt designed to trigger primal fear.

Ruby raised an eyebrow. “Did you ride this last time?”

“I did. With Emma and Illyana.”

“And let me guess—Illyana teleported to the top and screamed ‘Cowards!’”

“Close. She shouted, ‘I can fly better than this glorified lamp post,’ then hijacked the ride controls.” Scott shrugged, adding, “She’s banned from here for the next five years. Not that it stops her from sneaking in.”

Ruby exhaled through her nose. It was not a laugh, but something close.

She stared up at the tower, eyes narrowing slightly. The ride loomed, sleek and ridiculous, wrapped in lights and theatrical sound effects—utterly out of place in the world she came from.

In her time, gravity was never this playful.

You fell, and you hoped you survived.

And yet here she was, scanning her wristband and letting the ride’s padded harness slide down over her shoulders with a soft hiss.

Scott glanced at her as he buckled in. “You okay?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just tilted her head back to look up at the apex of the tower, then at the horizon beyond it. “If this thing breaks, I’m blaming you and your taste in nostalgia.”

“That’s fair,” he said.

Then the world dropped out beneath her.

The Pulse Plunge lived up to its name.

There was a split-second where the ground vanished, and with it, everything Ruby had prepared herself for—no warning, no countdown, just a violent upward thrust into open sky, a moment of weightlessness, and then—

The fall.

Her heart launched into her throat. Her hair snapped upward. The noise of the world fell away until there was only the rush of air in her ears and the disorienting reality of not being in control.

And against every instinct in her well-trained, trauma-forged body… she laughed.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t polished or bitter or sardonic. It broke from her like a lightning crack—sharp, startled, and leaving her breathless.

She heard herself, and it startled her.

That sound hadn’t come out of her in years. Decades, even. Maybe not since her father lifted her onto his shoulders in a collapsed arcade and let her scream with joy over scavenged cotton candy.

As they slowed at the bottom and gently hissed to a stop, she realized her fingers were still white-knuckled against the restraint bar. Her heart was hammering, and her lips were set in a wide grin. Her face was flushed – and she wasn’t even in her ruby skin.

The ride clicked open.

She didn’t move – not immediately.

Scott gave her a quiet, patient look. “You okay? You sounded like –”

“I didn’t scream,” she muttered, fending off any possible teasing.

Scott nodded, once. “You laughed.”

“I… I might have.”

She stood on shaky legs, stepping off the platform like someone adjusting to Earth’s gravity for the first time. Her knees weren’t exactly jelly—but they were less stable than she liked. Scott handed her a bottle of water and didn’t further comment on the sound she made on the descent.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, weaving through boardwalk traffic, past food stalls and souvenir carts and a holographic map pulsing over a central plaza. Ruby was still processing.

“Why this place?” she asked finally.

Scott took his time answering. “Because I wanted you to see it again. And I thought maybe… if you saw it in color, not in ruins, it might not just remind you of what you lost.”

Her throat tightened, and she hated that it did.

“Was that a Summers-style emotional trap?” she said, deflecting.

He grinned. “It’s genetic.”

Just then, a familiar mental voice chimed in—warm, clipped, and eternally unimpressed.

“Tell her to hydrate. She forgets she’s not quartz anymore.”

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Hi, Mom.”

Scott blinked. “Did she just—?”

“Psychic voicemail. She’s lurking.”

Scott winced. “Of course she is.”

Ruby took a sip of her water. “You tried too hard with this.”

“I always do.”

She looked around at the rides, the people, the world she never got. The world her father tried to give her.

She flexed her fingers once. They weren’t trembling anymore.

“…Okay,” she said. “Let’s see how this place handles force beams and snark.”

Scott smiled and gestured to the next ride.

Ruby followed.

And for now, she let herself pretend it was just another summer day.

-0-0-0-

Steel Pier – Midday

Scott insisted they do the water ride next – to escape the midday heat.

“You’ll love it,” he said, entirely too smug. “It’s a classic log ride—only this one uses Stark-grade repulsors and microgravity paddling. They call it Tidal Cataclysm now.”

Ruby squinted at the towering ride structure, its fiberglass cliffs and fake tidal waves glowing with LED surf effects. “Why are mutant-friendly amusement parks always secretly weapons tests?”

“Because we’re clearly built different,” Scott said, humorously.

Their log-shaped craft groaned along a hovering magnetic track, drifting smoothly at first through faux river bends. Spray jets misted the air like morning dew. Children shrieked somewhere two crafts ahead. Tourists waved from the queue with giant lemonades and sunscreen-slick smiles.

Ruby leaned back in her seat, arms crossed. “You’re suspiciously confident this won’t go horribly wrong.”

“I am not suspiciously confident,” Scott replied. “I am entirely, irrationally confident.”

The log craft began to climb.

It wasn’t a slow incline. This wasn’t a lazy, wooden coaster. The Tidal Cataclysm fired them upward on repulsor boosters, the kind used to keep Sentinel boots from pulverizing the ground. They zipped up a chrome tunnel, blue lights streaking past them like they were entering hyperspace.

Ruby blinked, startled by the G-force.

Then came the summit. For a brief moment, the craft stopped.

They hovered – actually hovered, and Ruby thought whoever designed this ride definitely skipped several safety clauses.

The ocean glittered in the distance. The city skyline curved gently to the west. Seagulls circled like drones in idle patrol.

And then—the drop.

They plummeted, twisting into a sharp spiral as high-pressure jets flung water up on either side of them. Ruby’s stomach flipped. Her eyes went wide. Her balance disintegrated—and somewhere in that chaos, Scott’s visor snapped loose.

It clattered onto the floor of the craft.

“Wait, wait—!” Scott’s hand shot toward his face, squeezing his eyelids shut. A thin flicker of red light shimmered through the gaps in his lashes.

Ruby didn’t think.

She launched sideways, slamming her shoulder into him and throwing her arms across his eyes just as the craft hit the final slope and crashed into the splash zone.

Water exploded.

When they emerged, soaked to the bone and gasping, Ruby had Scott’s head tucked under her chin, both arms clamped around his temples. His face was half-shielded, half-submerged.

They drifted to a gentle stop, still tangled.

Ruby blinked against the cascade of hair sticking to her face that managed to get past her own obsidian goggles.

Scott coughed, eyes still shut tight. “You tackled me.”

“I saved Atlantic City. You’re welcome”

“You bent my nose.”

She pulled away, eyes darting to his visor on the floor of the water craft. She handed it back with a soggy glare. “You’re lucky I didn’t blast you.”

“Correction,” he said, sliding the visor back into place and adjusting the dial. “I’m lucky you’re me, but faster.”

There was a pause.

Then Ruby—unthinking, unguarded—laughed.

It was short and sudden and just a little wild. The kind of laugh that burst out like it had nowhere else to go. She clapped a hand over her mouth as if embarrassed, like the sound might betray her.

Scott said nothing.

He simply climbed out of the craft and held a hand out to her.

She took it.

Their shoes squelched across the soaked boardwalk as they walked toward the drying booths. Tourists gawked. A little girl pointed at Ruby and whispered something about her hair.

“I think I just coughed up a gallon of brine,” Scott muttered.

“That’s not brine,” Ruby replied, wringing out her shirt. “No one knows what’s in the waters of Atlantic City, but it’s definitely not brine.”

A voice chimed into both of their heads—precise, clipped, and dry as ever.

“She’s laughing. Alert the press.”

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Hi, Mom.”

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you monitor all psychic bandwidth or just ours?”

“You tagged your thoughts with her signature. I assumed it was an invitation.”

Ruby exhaled. “She’s going to run a SWOT analysis on this bonding activity, isn’t she?”

“She’s probably already got a spreadsheet,” Scott said, stepping into a warm air-drying booth.

“You’re both insufferable,” Emma said, and signed off with the emotional equivalent of an exasperated sigh.

They emerged mostly dry, clothes ruffled, shoes still squishy. Scott handed Ruby a funnel cake dusted in powdered sugar.

“Don’t say I never bought you anything.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I thought we weren’t bribing each other today. Apart from coffee.”

“This is a reward. For quick reflexes and public restraint.”

Ruby accepted the funnel cake with a small smirk and leaned against a shaded railing overlooking the ocean.

“You know,” she said, voice quieter, “we used to come here. The other you and me. Every year. Even when the pier was half gone.”

Scott didn’t speak.

She didn’t look at him.

“He used to carry me on his shoulders. Said I deserved the view from up high, even if the world was on fire.”

She took a bite of the funnel cake and chewed in silence for a moment.

Then, casually, Ruby added, her gaze set on her sugary prize, “You’re not too bad at this.”

Scott smiled.

-0-0-0-

Steel Pier – Late Afternoon

By the time they reached the midway, the heat was settling into a heavy haze. The scent of fryer oil, seawater, and synthetic sugar filled the air as music blared from every direction. Lights blinked, projectors danced, and holograms of cartoon mascots waved at families as they passed.

Ruby walked ahead, half-marching, half-meandering like someone scanning for something she couldn’t name. She wasn’t smiling anymore. Not frowning either—just thoughtful.

Scott kept pace, hands in his pockets, trying not to press. He had no idea what the rules were anymore—how to be present without being invasive.

Fatherhood didn’t come with a manual, and the one person he might’ve asked for advice was someone that could never be reached.

Ruby’s presence was a reminder of that fact.

They turned a corner and reached the Force Toss booth: a gleaming, state-of-the-art precision challenge where contestants used force-based powers—telekinesis, concussive blasts, kinetic punches—to hit targets across a dynamically shifting field.

It was popular, crowded, and loud – a way for children to view superpowers without all the destruction.

Ruby’s eyes lit up.

Scott’s stomach dipped.

“Standard or Advanced?” asked the booth operator, an old-looking telekinetic with silver gloves and a neck full of medals.

“Advanced,” Ruby said immediately.

“Ruby—” Scott started, but she was already stepping up to the platform.

The crowd stepped back, murmurs rising as her name pinged on the leaderboard.

The booth shimmered with a containment field.

Bullseyes appeared in the air—glowing, moving, bobbing up and down with variable trajectories.

A tone sounded.

She raised her hand.

The first blast of obsidian came clean and controlled. The blast whistled through the air like a whipcrack, striking a bullseye dead center.

An applause rang through the crowd.

Scott exhaled slowly, folding his arms.

The second blast was just as sharp, but with just a hair more force. The target exploded into digital fragments.

More applause. Ruby gave a slight nod of acknowledgment, but the smirk on her lips showed she was getting fired up by the crowd.

Next came the third wave of obsidian, a triple-tap in under two seconds. The blasts echoed off the booth walls.

A few spectators flinched at the sound.

Scott shifted his stance. “Okay, that’s enough.”

Ruby didn’t respond, instead waving once like a bull-fighter having the time of her life.

In her fourth shot, she adjusted her aim mid-fire, twisting her palm. The blast curved. It struck the edge of a moving target and ricocheted.

The safety field buzzed audibly.

Scott took a step forward. “Ruby.”

She smiled back at him.

Smugly.

Then came her fifth blast, full-force.

She drew her arm back, legs planted like a batter stepping up to a pitch. The blast cracked through the air like a gunshot, slamming into the central target and obliterating it.

But the energy didn’t stop.

The feedback loop bounced off the booth’s containment system and blew backward into the upper shielding. The support beam on the left side sparked and bent—not broken, but dented.

The crowd gasped. A child yelped. The booth's alarms chirped in warning.

Scott moved.

Before her next blast could fire—before her follow-through fully committed—Scott released a narrow, measured optic blast from his visor, angling the red beam precisely. It sliced across her blast path in the air, dispersing the obsidian energy with a harmless flash.

Ruby’s shot fizzled out mid-air in a controlled burst, neatly neutralized.

The silence that followed was deafening – before the crowd began to roar again at the unexpected display – none wise to the fact that an accident was incredibly close to happening.

Ruby turned, slowly, as if she couldn’t believe what just happened.

Her hand dropped. Her eyes narrowed. “Did you just cancel my shot?”

“I did,” Scott said evenly. “Before you injured someone.”

“No one was hurt.”

“Yet.”

She stepped down from the platform, dripping with quiet fury. Her voice was low. “I had it under control.”

Scott didn’t back down. “You were losing precision. You were escalating.”

“I was winning.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

She shoved past him, boots slamming into the pavement. “You just can’t stand it when I don’t need your help.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, really?” she snapped, whirling to face him. “Because you sure didn’t complain when I saved your ass on that log ride earlier.”

Scott blinked. “That was different. That was an accident—”

“And I handled it,” she cut in, voice rising. “You lost your visor mid-descent, and I handled it. You didn’t cancel my instincts then.”

“That was a crisis. Not a performance.”

Ruby scoffed. “So, what, you trust me to be a hero but not a person?”

Scott's jaw clenched. “I trusted you to make a good decision. Not to put people at risk because you wanted applause.”

She stared at him, stunned, like he'd slapped her.

“You think that’s what that was?” Her voice trembled, low and sharp. “You think I was showing off?”

He didn’t answer fast enough.

She took a step back.

“This whole day,” she said, voice breaking through her teeth, “has been you trying to give me a life you think I missed out on. Like it’s your duty. Like you’re patching over someone else’s mistakes.”

“I wanted you to have something good,” he said quietly. “Something you didn’t have to fight for.”

“I don’t regret the life I lived.”

“I didn’t say—”

“I chose it,” she snapped. “I chose to stay with him. I chose to lock myself in ruby form to be with him. Because I knew how much time we didn’t have.” She huffed, her eyes darkening behind her obsidian goggles. “I wasn’t a victim. I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t someone waiting to be saved.”

“I know that—”

“No, you don’t,” she cut him off, throwing an accusatory finger at him. “Because you’re not him.”

Scott froze.

And she said it again—clear, cold, and with finality.

“You’re not my real dad.”

The silence after that wasn’t peaceful.

It was sharp.

The kind of silence that sucked all the air out of your lungs and made your heartbeat feel like a betrayal.

Scott didn’t try to argue. He didn’t correct her. He didn’t offer some hollow reassurance. He just stood there, visor dim, hands trembling ever so slightly at his sides.

Around them, life went on.

Children screamed with joy on nearby rides. A mutant firebreather exhaled a controlled jet of blue flame for a round of applause. The booth operator quietly rebooted the Force Toss field. No one noticed the Summers fracture playing out like a fault line cracking open.

Ruby turned away.

She marched.

Scott didn’t follow.

He just stood there, in the shadow of a ride built to test control, wondering how he’d lost hers.

The noise of the midway grew distant and indistinct, like it had been dropped underwater. Kids laughed. Machines whirred. Lights flashed.

None of it reached him.

You’re not my real dad.

The words hit harder than any punch he'd ever taken.

Because she hadn’t said them with cruelty. She’d said them with certainty. Not to wound, but to define. To remind him—and maybe herself—that the line between love and legacy wasn’t as simple as biology.

Scott closed his eyes.

Of course he wasn’t her real dad.

He was not the one who raised her through the wasteland.

He was not the one who taught her to hunt for supplies between sniper towers.

He was not the man who built a childhood from sand and wreckage and stubborn, unconditional devotion.

But he wanted to be something.

Not a replacement.

Not a substitute.

Just—something.

Someone who could carry her pain when it was too much. Someone who didn’t flinch when she pushed back, or crumble when she told the truth.

He’d tried so hard to give her a good day. A clean memory. A stupid, sunlit, overpriced afternoon where the world didn’t need saving and no one expected her to be indestructible.

But maybe he hadn’t done it for her.

Maybe—just maybe—he’d done it for himself.

To prove he could still be a father to a daughter who already had one.

He exhaled slowly, quietly.

The funnel cake was still in his hand, cooling and forgotten. The powdered sugar had melted against his fingers. He looked down at it like it was a punchline he didn’t understand.

Behind him, the Force Toss booth fully rebooted with a cheerful chime. A new contestant stepped onto the platform. The crowd reset, unaware of the emotional fault line still trembling beneath their feet.

Scott wiped his hand on his jeans.

Then he turned away from the crowd, from the noise, from the booth still sparking with residual energy.

He didn’t know where Ruby had gone.

But he knew she wouldn’t want to be chased.

So, he walked—slowly, deliberately—toward the quieter part of the pier. Toward the older rides. The ones people didn’t flock to. The ones that stayed still, even when the world didn’t.

Because sometimes, if you really loved someone, you didn’t follow them with answers.

You waited where they might return with their grief.

And you made sure, when they did, you were still there.

-0-0-0-

He found the old penny arcade near the far end of the pier—closed, mostly. The kind of place that smelled like dust and salt even with the sea breeze cutting through it.

Rows of unplugged machines stood like relics waiting for purpose: skee-ball lanes with warped edges, a claw game filled with yellowed plush toys, a fortune-teller automaton whose eyes flickered and then dimmed.

Scott sat on the bench beside it. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

It was quiet here.

The kind of quiet that invited ghosts.

He knew better than to expect solace from silence, but it was still better than trying to talk over the roaring storm inside him.

You’re not my real dad.

He could still hear it. Not the bitterness—because there hadn’t been much. Just finality. Like a verdict delivered not in rage, but resignation.

He rested his elbows on his knees and let his head hang between them.

And then—she arrived.

Not in body, of course. Not in stilettos and diamonds and exasperated sighs. Just a voice in his mind, cool as crystal and sharp as ever.

“You're sulking, Scott. Don’t lie to yourself. It doesn’t suit you.”

He closed his eyes. “You were listening.”

“I always am. You’re the world’s loudest repressor. You practically scream in italics.”

A pause. He didn’t respond. He didn’t have it in him to spar.

“She didn’t mean it the way it sounded, you know.”

“She meant it exactly the way it sounded,” he murmured.

“Oh, please.” Emma’s tone lilted. “If she truly meant to hurt you, you’d be bleeding from the ears and wondering where your spleen went.”

That earned him a dry, hollow laugh.

“She was angry and sad. And twenty and eighty at the same time. That makes people confusing.”

“She’s not wrong,” he said. “I’m not the one who raised her. I’m not the one who—”

“You’re not the one who died in her arms, no.”

The words cut. But they were clean, surgical.

Removing a cancerous thought in the precise way only she could.

“You’re not him, Scott. But you’re not not-him either. You are a version of the man she trusted with everything. The man she grieved for. So maybe stop measuring yourself against a ghost and start being the man who’s here.”

He didn’t answer. He just stared at the warped skee-ball ramp like it might hold wisdom.

Emma softened—barely.

“She doesn’t need a replacement. She needs someone who can look her in the eye and not flinch at the pieces she carries.”

“She’s better at being me than I am.”

“That’s because you trained her. Whether you remember it or not.”

Scott blinked at that. “She said the other me taught her to track, to plan, to shoot—”

“He taught her how to hope, darling.”

Silence stretched.

“You’re doing fine, by the way,” she added, voice silk with daggers. “Aside from the part where you let her eat funnel cake for lunch. That was unforgivable.”

“She saved my life,” he muttered.

“And then you canceled one of her power displays in front of a crowd. She’s probably sulking on a rooftop somewhere, eating guilt and hot fries.”

He sighed. “I just didn’t want her to get hurt.”

“And she just didn’t want to be treated like a child. Imagine that.”

There was no venom. Only the truth.

“You don’t have to fix it,” Emma continued. “Just… wait where she can find you. Be the one who doesn’t leave. It’s more than most versions of us have ever managed, as it seems.”

Scott’s voice was soft. “You really think she’ll come around?”

Emma’s answer came not as words, but as a memory—warm, amber-hued, and quiet.

A moment from years ago, far into another future.

Ruby, small and glitter-eyed, curled up in another Emma’s lap after a long day hiding underground, holding onto her diamond arm like it was the most solid thing left in the world. Falling asleep, fearless of the world crumbling around her.

Trusting.

The other Emma whispered softly as the memory drew closer to sleep, “You can break when you need to. Your father and I will always catch the pieces.”

Scott stilled, feeling the memory Ruby’s emotions wash over him in its closing.

It wasn’t a message he could reply to.

But it was something he could feel.

As the memory, pilfered from Ruby’s mind, faded, Emma’s voice returned.

“She always comes back, Scott. She’s yours. Our daughter. And we know Summers don’t quit.”

The link faded. Not severed—just quieted. Emma knew when to let silence speak again.

Scott looked up.

Far across the midway, the lights on the antique carousel flickered to life.

And he stood.

Because maybe she hadn’t come back yet.

But she would.

And when she did, he’d be there.

-0-0-0-

Steel Pier – Near Dusk

Ruby found the carousel by accident.

Or maybe it found her.

It was tucked at the far end of the pier—quieter and clearly older than the rest of the attractions. The crowd had thinned with the falling sun, drawn toward louder rides and neon-lit vendors. Here, there were only a few parents with tired toddlers, a bored operator leaning against the booth, and the gentle music playing a tune so old it had outlived its composer.

The carousel spun slowly, its horses etched with careful craftsmanship—brushed metal, aged wood, small painted details that no one noticed unless they were looking for them.

Some of them had battle scarring. Literal ones. Old mutant memorabilia retrofitted into a theme park ride. If she looked hard enough, maybe she could even find pieces of Scott’s visor somewhere in the alloy.

She didn’t ride.

She sat on a nearby bench, knees pulled up slightly, arms resting across them, and watching as the world went by while she remained still.

Unmoving.

It felt like breathing underwater.

She didn’t know how long she’d been there before she heard footsteps. Measured footsteps that were all-too familiar in just the right way, but clearly missing the distinct clank of metal that signified hers. His footfalls were quiet not because he was hiding—but because he wasn’t.

Scott stood a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t demand.

He just waited.

She didn’t look at him – not at first. She just continued staring at the carousel, watching a metal unicorn make its lazy revolution past them.

After a while, she took a deep breath – as if it was the first breath after drowning.

“I was ten the first time I saw one of these,” she said. “In my timeline, I mean.”

Scott said nothing, and she appreciated him immensely for that.

“It was buried under a collapsed shelter in what used to be upstate New York. Dad pried the gate open with a crowbar. Said if it still turned, it still counted.” A faint smile tugged at her lips, bitter but not cruel. “He boosted me up on one of the horses and made engine noises with his mouth. He told me to ride like I meant it… and I did.”

Scott let out a quiet breath through his nose. “Sounds like something I’d do.”

“It was.” Her voice broke a little. “He was ridiculous. And brilliant. And reckless and stubborn. And so stupid sometimes.”

She swallowed.

“And he was the best damn father I ever had.”

Scott moved slowly—sat down on the bench beside her, not too close, not too far.

“He taught me how to hold a weapon.” Ruby continued, grateful for Scott’s silence. “How to disarm a landmine. How to sneak past a Purifier patrol when your power could level a building. But he also…” Her eyes welled, but she didn’t blink. “He learned how to braid my hair. Read me bad novels under candlelight. Spent three hours making me a birthday cake out of protein bars and scavenged icing mix.”

She let out a breath that trembled at the edges. “And I never told him. Not really. Not the way I should’ve. Not before he—”

Her voice faltered. She stopped.

Scott said nothing.

He didn’t reach for her. Didn’t tell her it was okay. He just sat there, still and steady, like a harbor waiting for a ship that didn’t know how to dock.

Ruby looked down at her hands.

For a while, there was only the sound of the ride turning. Soft metal creaks and wind bustling through the spokes. The carousel music looping again.

Scott could feel Ruby was still tense – but she couldn’t trust herself to speak further. She couldn’t trust herself not to break down if she opened her mouth one more time.

And so, without warning, it came.

Not words. Not aloud.

A gentle inward pull—not invasive, not forceful, just… an offer.

And Scott accepted it.

Ruby’s thoughts slid into his like oil across glass, images folding into memory—

—Blanket forts built from ration cloth and old banners, stitched together with makeshift poles and cardboard signage that still read “MUTIE FREE ZONE” flipped upside-down in irony.

Inside, ten-year-old Ruby clutched a flashlight while the other Scott read her an old, tattered novel.

She was smiling.

He was doing voices.

—Empty parking lots, cracked with vines and rusted car skeletons, where father and daughter danced in the silence between patrols. No music.

Just rhythm in their breath, and the glint of joy like starlight on asphalt.

—Strong arms, wrapped around her like armor, one made of flesh and another of warm metal. Her head pressed to his chest, his heartbeat steady even when the night was full of gunfire.

His hand brushing through her hair, and he whispered, “You don’t have to be scared. You’re my world. And you’re going to survive it.”

He held her like the future still had something worth dreaming of.

These were the memories she cherished.

The memories that helped her fight nearly a century’s worth of bigotry and oppression to stay by her father’s side.

And now, years later, she gave that back to this Scott.

No defenses.

No performance.

Just transmission—the purest trust she knew how to offer.

Scott’s eyes stung behind his visor. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t question.

When the link faded, Ruby pulled her arms tighter around herself and stared ahead again.

“I don’t regret it,” she said softly. “The life I lived. I chose it. I knew how it would end.”

She turned to him at last, eyes shadowed by the gold light of the sinking sun.

“But I didn’t choose this.”

Scott nodded slowly, the ache blooming in his chest. “I know.”

She looked away. “It’s not your fault. I know that. I really do. But when you try so hard to replace it—to replace him—it just makes me feel like the life I lived doesn’t count. Like I made the wrong choice loving him.”

“You didn’t.”

The reply came fast—filled with a stalwart certainty.

She turned, startled by the conviction in his voice.

Scott’s expression didn’t falter.

“I wouldn’t trade what you had,” he said. “What he gave you. I don’t want to overwrite it, Ruby. I just want to be here – for you. However much of me you’ll let in.”

She studied him silently.

And then, finally, she leaned sideways—just enough for her shoulder to press against his, just enough to tuck her head under the crook of his neck – so familiar and yet so different from the one she knew for eighty years.

It was not a hug, nor was it forgiveness.

It was simply just that.

Contact.

“I asked you before – when you first let me stay at your place,” she murmured, “if you thought you ever held me like you held Cable. When I was a baby.”

Scott nodded again, softer now. “I remember.”

“I still think the answer is no.”

She paused.

“But I wouldn’t mind if you held me right now.”

The carousel creaked as it spun, the unicorn making another pass.

Scott wrapped one arm around her shoulder and drew her closer.

-0-0-0-

Steel Pier – Twilight

They didn’t speak again until the lights came on.

The sun had all but vanished beneath the ocean line, and the pier’s glow shifted from gold to neon. Rides lit up like constellations—warm, artificial stars blinking into place along the spine of the boardwalk. Music faded into softer tones. Everything felt suspended, like the last breath before the world resumed spinning.

The Skyspire, Steel Pier’s signature Ferris wheel, loomed ahead in gleaming arcs of soft blue and gold, its circular path glowing against the darkening sky. It was bigger than Ruby remembered, cleaner than anything in her timeline.

For a moment, it didn’t even look like a ride.

It looked like an invitation.

They accepted it in silence.

The carriage was roomy, fully enclosed in translucent shielding. It hummed faintly with stabilizers—smooth, quiet, weightless as it ascended.

Ruby pressed her fingers lightly to the glass.

Below them, the boardwalk shrank into soft lights and distant laughter.

She could see the ghost of the carousel’s top spinning slowly in the distance. People had returned to it. That was good.

It deserved to be lived in.

Scott sat across from her. He hadn’t looked away from her since they boarded.

Halfway to the top, she finally spoke—quietly, like it was easier to say up here, where no one could overhear.

“Would you have fought to keep me?”

Scott didn’t ask for clarification. He didn’t need it.

“If I’d been born here,” she continued, “if I’d been raised here. Would you have fought to keep me from being taken, from being weaponized? Would you have fought for me the way you fought for Emma? For Cable? For… for everything else?”

Her voice wasn’t bitter. Just unsure.

Scott leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

“I would’ve moved heaven and hell,” he said, not softly, but with certainty. “I would’ve broken the world if I had to – if it meant you wouldn’t have to sleep through gunfire and ash.”

He paused, letting the words hang between them.

“But you weren’t born here,” he added, “and I didn’t get to be your father the way he did. I wasn’t there when you needed someone to hold the door, or the line, or your hand.”

He looked up.

“But I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Ruby looked down at her lap, then out at the ocean again.

“You’re not him,” she said, not cruelly this time.

“I know.”

She leaned back, head thudding gently against the transparent wall of the gondola.

“I think I could try again. With you. If you’ll stop treating me like I’m broken.”

Scott smiled, faint and warm. “Only if you stop pretending you have to be hard all the time.”

She smirked. “So what, we’re negotiating terms now?”

“We’re Summers,” he said. “We sign peace treaties after every family gathering.”

That got a real laugh from her—soft and brief, but true.

They sat in companionable silence as the carriage reached the topmost point.

The city stretched out behind them in steel and shadow. The ocean rolled forever on the other side. The air up here was just a bit cooler, a bit thinner. More honest.

Scott looked at her.

“Ruby.”

She turned to him.

“Whatever timeline you come from. Whatever memories you carry. I want you to know—he was right.”

She blinked. “About what?”

He smiled. “You were worth it.”

Her breath caught.

For a second, she couldn’t find any words. So, she nodded. Just once.

And that was enough.

As the wheel began its slow descent, Ruby reached out her hand.

Scott took it.

They didn’t squeeze.

They didn’t let go.

Not this time.

-0-0-0-

Scott’s Apartment – A Few Days Later

The photo arrived two days after the pier.

Scott wasn’t even sure when it had been taken. Maybe during the drop. Or the splash. Or the immediate aftermath when Ruby had declared herself Atlantic City’s savior with her arms still wrapped around his face. Either way, it caught them both mid-yell, soaked through, mouths open in identical “oh shit” expressions.

They looked ridiculous.

They looked related.

The picture came printed on glossy boardwalk paper, crammed inside a paper envelope that had been aggressively folded to fit through the apartment’s mail slot.

Scott stared at it in his hand for a long moment.

Then he heard it—light footsteps, and the soft whir of the fridge door opening.

Ruby was already in the kitchen.

She didn’t say anything. Just peeled the magnet off the top corner of the fridge—a little novelty diamond he didn’t remember buying—and stuck the photo underneath it.

Her handwriting was messier than he expected.

A sticky note pressed just beneath the photo read: This day was stupid. I’m free next weekend.

Scott leaned against the doorway, arms folded.

“I thought you said you were leaving next week,” he said.

“I am,” she replied. “I’m just… not in a hurry.”

She grabbed a bottle of water, sipped, then glanced at him.

“You okay?”

He smiled. “You’re asking?”

“Just making sure you didn’t pull a muscle from all the emotional growth.”

He chuckled. “I’ll recover.”

She turned back to the fridge, squinting at the note.

Then, almost offhandedly, she added, “Oh. You left your sunglasses on the bathroom sink again.”

Scott blinked. “I have one in every room.”

Ruby groaned and walked away, muttering to herself half-heartedly, “You’re a real menace.”

He followed her into the living room, pausing just long enough to grab a pen.

Back at the fridge, he scrawled a response under her note: I’ll bring the sunscreen.

He looked up at the photo one more time.

Two Summers. Caught mid-chaos. Laughing like they weren’t carrying the weight of alternate histories and worlds undone.

Just father and daughter.

Learning.

Trying.

Still here.

And that was enough.

-0-0-0-

Upper Manhattan – Late Afternoon

Brunch was her idea.

Naturally.

Emma Frost didn’t make requests. She made reservations, psychically cleared a waiting list of people she didn’t like, and sent Ruby a one-line message through the astral plane:

“We’re rebuilding wardrobe morale. Wear something that can handle both espresso and unsolicited praise.”

Ruby had replied, “If you make me try on shoes, I’m torching the boutique.”

Now they were seated at an outdoor terrace of an obnoxiously exclusive café that was three parts glass, two parts minimalist, and somehow still managed to smell like imported lavender.

Emma, of course, was stunning in ivory silk and diamond cufflinks that hadn’t hit the market yet. Ruby wore a black t-shirt graffitied with "Daddy's Girl", weathered jeans, and boots heavy enough to kick down a barricade.

They looked like afterparty and an apocalypse.

Their server was terrified of both of them.

Emma sipped her elderflower cocktail like she hadn’t just mentally browbeaten a CEO twenty minutes ago.

“Darling,” she said, eyeing Ruby’s boots, “you know I love when you dress like a walking rebellion, but you do have funds now. Resources. Designer access." She sniffed theatrically. "Even laundry detergent.”

Ruby raised an eyebrow. “You trying to make me into your doll?”

“Mhm, you do have my build.” Emma sipped a rose-hued cocktail with mild disapproval. “Too sweet.”

Ruby stabbed her arugula with the subtle fury of someone raised in resistance cells. “Why am I here, again?”

“I told you.” Emma gave a small, impeccable shrug. “Wardrobe morale. You’ve been living with your father too long. His idea of fashion is ‘How many pockets does this thing have?’”

Ruby smirked. “You realize I spent most of my life in a black bodysuit and my ruby skin.”

“And it still had more shape than that t-shirt.” Emma arched a brow. “Honestly, darling, you’re built like a genetically perfect Valkyrie. My genes, of course. Why waste it on sarcasm and loose cotton?”

“I’m not trying to seduce a city.”

“You say that like it’s a virtue.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment—comfortable, almost amused.

Ruby twirled her fork.

“Did you ever…” she started, then stopped. “Would you have done anything differently? If we’d all had more time?”

Emma didn’t hesitate.

“I wouldn’t have let the world steal so much of you.”

That stopped Ruby cold.

Emma continued, voice calm, but not soft.

“You shouldn’t have had to learn how to field-strip a plasma rifle before you learned what mascara was for. No version of me would ever dream that for you.”

Ruby looked down.

“I chose it,” she murmured. “I don’t regret it.”

“I know you don’t. That’s what makes it worse.” Emma set down her drink, interlacing her fingers. “Everything I know about you… I’ve seen in fragments. Echoes, mirroring an unknown. Memory-threads you shared—sometimes without meaning to. I’ve watched your version of me in your head—her tone, her perfume, the way she stood behind you when you spoke too loudly at command briefings.”

“I didn’t mean to share those,” Ruby muttered.

Emma smiled, razor-thin and wistful. “You never do. But I held onto them anyway.”

Silence settled between them—not heavy, but real.

“I’ve seen enough to know you are mine.” Emma said with finality. “And if you want to do more than echo your father’s battles or chase ghosts of timelines long behind you—then you’ll need to decide what your future actually looks like.”

Ruby met her eyes. “You’re saying I need therapy.”

“I’m saying,” Emma said smoothly, “you need to build a legacy. You need to dream more than just being your parents.”

Ruby looked down at her half-empty glass. “What does that make us, then?”

Emma lifted her gaze, meeting Ruby’s without hesitation. “It makes us two women who understand each other more than the world would find reasonable.”

Then, after a beat, she added, “And, as I have said, it makes you mine. Maybe not by the conventional sense. Not by memory. But by declaration.”

Ruby narrowed her eyes, lips twitching. “That’s not how motherhood works.”

“Oh, but it is,” Emma said coolly. “You’re thinking too legally. I’m claiming you the same way diamonds are made. You'll be mine through pressure, heat, and time.”

Ruby snorted into her drink.

Emma leaned forward.

“You are Summers by name. And I won’t take that from you. But make no mistake, darling—you’re a Frost in the ways that matter. You walk like me. Speak like me. And you survived like me—too elegant for the world to fully appreciate, and far too dangerous for it to ignore.”

For once, Ruby didn’t deflect.

She just nodded. Once.

“I see her in you,” Emma added. “My other self. The one you knew. She’d be proud. I think that’s enough to claim you, don’t you?”

Ruby exhaled. “It’s weird having two parents who think adoption is just a psychic handshake.”

Emma smirked. “You’re welcome. And when the world tries to burn you, you don’t scream.”

Ruby’s jaw tightened.

“You shine.”

Silence settled. This time, neither of them tried to break it.

Finally, Ruby exhaled.

“So what now? Am I supposed to become a CEO? Open a mutant etiquette school?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Emma said, waving a hand. “You’d murder half the boardroom before the first quarter. And I’d be proud of you for it, but no.”

She smirked.

“Do whatever you want. Fight. Rest. Fall in love. Stay angry. Just don’t become a ghost of either of us. You weren’t made to haunt things.”

Ruby looked away, blinking hard. She didn’t want to cry in public.

She also didn’t want to admit how much of her own mother she saw in this version of her.

So instead, she said, softly, “You know I love you, right?”

Emma smiled like it hurt.

“Of course you do.”

They sat a while longer, just watching the city pulse and unfold around them.

Before they left, Emma slid a small black box across the table.

Ruby opened it to reveal a thin belt of diamond-threaded combat weave.

The wardrobe morale, it seemed.

“It's a new design with reinforced crystal interlace." Emma explained, "It goes with everything - including patented Summers emotional baggage.”

“You bribed me with tactical couture.”

“I reminded you that you’re loved in ways that occasionally come with high-end accessories.”

Ruby rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth lifted.

And for the first time since the pier, the weight between them felt like something they could both carry.

Ruby smirked at her. “It’s still a bribe.”

Emma turned, walking toward the elevator, heels clicking like punctuation.

“No, darling." Emma smiled.

"It’s a reminder that you’re still mine.”

Chapter Text

The Demon on My Right Shoulder (Illyana Rasputin - I)

It started with a strangely shell-shocked Scott Summers stumbling out of the kitchen.

Not the adult one—he was nigh unflappable—but the time-displaced teen Cyclops-counterpart Beast suckered in.

A concerned Laura was immediately by his side, shortly followed by a questioning teen Jean and a curious Kitty.

"It's older-me and Professor Rasputin." The young Scott absently murmured; Kitty and the young Jean stiffened in response—not that the young Scott noticed as he continued, "They're both making food and…"

"Yes?" Laura prompted after his abrupt pause.

"They're so… chummy." He finally managed to find the words to describe what it was that stupefied him. "Incredibly so. Is—is there something going on between them…?"

"Not when I'm around." Kitty seethed and angrily marched off towards the kitchen.

That jolted the young Scott out of his daze.

"Scott! Illyana! Whatever it is you two are up to, I swear that-"

"Wait, Professor K! They said-"

Kitty was suddenly engulfed in bright light before disappearing.

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…So…?" The young Jean broke the silence.

"Let's go bring her back." The young Scott recommended. "We're not allowed to enter the kitchen."

"What exactly are older-you and Professor Rasputin doing?"

Laura visibly sniffed before concluding, "Cooking."

"Yeah." The young Scott nodded resolutely. "Cooking."

-0-0-0-

Inside the kitchen, Scott glanced over his shoulder towards his unperturbed companion.

"You know…" He began, setting the pepper grinder back on the counter. "She will be furious with you when she returns."

Illyana Rasputin—seated on the chair, its back facing him, with her arms resting atop its frame—tilted her head with an air of aloofness. She had taken up that spot minutes before—when she stumbled upon the cooking leader while retrieving a glass of water. Since then, she had occupied her time with helping him cook while staring, unbeknownst to the oblivious man, at the chiseled muscles of his taut rear.

"Kitty has been furious about many things lately," Illyana remarked uncaringly, "at times for reasons incommensurate with her fury or even unwarranted."

"And tossing her to…?"

"A high mountain nearby." Illyana helpfully supplied.

"…isn't that warranted?"

"Perhaps. But she has no business barging in on my…" Illyana trailed; whether in concentration at her appointed task or to deliberate a word, Scott was uncertain. "…business."

"Illyana…"

"Don't worry so much." She chided the seasoned X-Man. "I'll retrieve her if she isn't back after we've finished. Now, where were we?"

"…Carrots."

The plate beside him lit up as numerous blue discs appeared and segmented the carrots.

-0-0-0-

"Scott is with Illyana?" Emma Frost grit out in disbelief when she heard the news from the trio. "This is bad. This is very bad."

"I agree!" Jeen raised her hand emphatically. "Professor Frost, you must do something!"

Emma fell uncharacteristically silent and stared at the earnest redhead hard.

"Professor?"

"…Ms. Grey." Emma drawled, her cultured voice sounding more snobbish, "I have stared into death's eyes until it flinched, more times than I have fingers to count with. I have watched as empires crumbled. I have buried children with my own two hands. I have threatened and dared command the Phoenix Force."

"What's this?" The Snow Princess, Bobby Drake, piped in with a mouth filled with chips. "Are you just trying to tell us you're old?"

Emma glared at the clown, and Bobby actually felt parts of him melt.

"Girls, if you would be so kind."

"Yes, mother." The Cuckoos acquiesced in-sync before resuming their discussion.

"What are—oh, suddenly, I feel like watching a show colloquially known as '2 Girls 1 Cup'." The Snow Princess blinked. "Wait, what does 'colloquial' even mean? And what's '2 Girls 1 Cup'?"

Abruptly, Bobby stood up and searched for Hank's computer.

"Thank you, girls." Emma nodded at her daughters and then returned her attention to the confused Grey. "As I have said, I have put up with a great many events and remained as I am. Diamond."

"And how does that…"

Emma clawed Jeen's face and squeezed both her cheeks with one hand.

"Illyana Rasputin frightens me." The White Queen shamelessly admitted.

"But-" Jeen attempted to protest.

"A-bu-bu-bu." Emma chided her into silence. "Illyana Rasputin frightens me and there is no way in hell I'm getting in between her and whatever she is up to."

Emma released Jeen.

"You will soon learn that there are more dreadful horrors in this world, Ms. Grey, than are dreamt up in your fears and nightmares. One example just happens to be with Scott, currently."

-0-0-0-

"I'm honestly impressed by the degree of your control." Scott praised her while pouring the finely chopped carrots into the stew.

"I'm still impressed you can cook." Illyana returned in her usual tepid tone. "I thought it would kill us; imagine my surprise when it was good."

Scott shrugged. "I'm only decent. I thought I'd kill myself too when I started, but you know what they say: what doesn't kill you-"

"Only gives you diarrhea." Illyana finished with a grin.

Once more, Scott paused and stared at the grinning mutant. "…right. That." He sighed. "Anyway, I'm almost done here. I think you should retrieve Kitty."

"Is that an order, Scott?" Illyana leered.

"It's a suggestion." Scott clarified smoothly. "Kitty really will be furious at you."

"And I should retrieve her because…?"

"Kitty's been under a lot of stress lately." Scott explained, absently stirring the stew he was cooking. "It would ease off the tension. It'd make her happier."

Illyana scoffed at the thought. Resolutely, she declared, "When the dilemma arises, I am not so benevolent as to choose another's happiness over mine."

Scott could understand those sentiments so perfectly that it was uncanny. Unsettling, even. "Friendships are to be treasured."

Illyana shook her head. "I do not want fair-weathered friends."

"You're very strong to think that way, Illyana."

It required a really noble spirit to stray away from the herd to stand by a friend.

"I grew up where I grew up in the manner I grew up in." She answered cryptically.

Scott was aware of Illyana's inner conflict.

While Illyana could dream of a life where she was never brought to Limbo, so could Illyana see that Limbo was not all bad. Amidst all the strife, Illyana had also made friends and loyal followers—demons that would quite literally die for her if she asked, and she gained abilities that had kept both herself and her friends alive on more than one occasion.

Maybe that was why she felt she was damned—because a small part of her knew and accepted that Limbo was not all bad; that there was goodness that still existed in hell, and all its evil had tempered her into unbreakable steel.

It was truly biased to judge Illyana solely against the common moral precepts.

And yet…

"You still have a long life ahead of you." Scott continued. "Your strength will isolate you if you flaunt it."

Illyana closed her eyes and tilted her head backwards, deliberating Scott's advice. She knew he was speaking from experience.

Scott, after all, was a walking pillar of regret.

But still…

Illyana appeared at his side in a flash of blue light.

"Is that such a bad thing?" Illyana asked, leaning over the countertop. "I was born with this power; there is no reason I must pull myself back simply because others will feel inferior." She told him—gazing up at him with eyes that Scott found were filled with innocent clarity. "I am only being true to myself. Though we entered this world in the same manner, none of us are, by any means, equal. We are, after all, individuals. My only responsibility is to see myself to my full potential."

"That is selfish." Scott pointed out kindly. "Potatoes."

"It is the truth." Illyana shrugged nonchalantly and proceeding cutting the potatoes with her mutant gift. "How much happiness has living for others brought you?"

Illyana smiled when Scott remained silent—reflecting on her words in quiet introspection.

"I am happy." She declared.

"So you say…" Scott began and turned to her, a feeling of fulfillment tugging the corner of his lips upward when he arrived at his answer. "But I prefer living my life like so. Doing my part so that another won't have to live the lives we did… it's enough. Just like you, I've made my choice."

"Martyr complex."

"Blame it on my upbringing."

Illyana leaned on his shoulder, her eyes drooping to stare at the pot.

"Altruism is dead."

"Death implies it was once alive." Scott pointed out. "Altruism never existed."

Illyana blinked, surprised at his response. "You sound so very jaded."

"I've come to realize that everyone's just doing what they want." Scott shrugged. "Everyone acts to gain something, whether they know it or don't."

"Except for you." Illyana pointed out. "Xavier's first puppet. Even now, you dance like a marionette swaying to his symphony — even if it leads to your destruction."

"You make it sound as if his teachings are all I know."

"Am I wrong?"

At that, Scott actually smirked. "He never taught me to cook."

Life did.

Necessity did.

"So he didn't." Illyana pushed herself off the backrest she had been leaning on before stretching—delighting in all the muscles pulled loose. "That is a relief."

A spoon appeared in Illyana's grasp and she scooped a sample of Scott's stew. Blowing on it once, she pressed the spoon against her lips and tasted it.

"You need more spice, Scott." She commented and offered the spoon up to his lips. "See?"

Scott took the offering and found that Illyana was right.

"It seems I do, Illyana." He murmured. "It seems I do."

They both waited patiently as life continued to stew.

-0-0-0-

"Don't do it, Jean!" Teen Scott yelled. "Don't do it!"

The redhead ignored the warning.

"Raaargh!"

A blue light engulfed the charging redhead and she disappeared.

"…"

"…"

"Laura?"

"Yes, Scott?"

"Do you want to help me go get Professor K and Jean?"

"…In a moment." Laura said. "The stew is almost finished."

Omake: Dimension Cutter

"You know, I think this is a bad idea." A nameless SHIELD officer told his superior, Maria Hill.

"And why is that?"

"Magik knows that we have the X-Men, and they are helping us detain Scott Summers — and still she came alone."

"Your point?"

"I… well…" The nameless SHIELD officer tried to explain before finally giving up. "It's just a gut feeling, ma'am."

"Gut feelings cannot be trusted. Facts, can. We have the entire staff of the Jean Grey School—the X-Men— the foremost experts on the capabilities of these terrorists and… and…" The SHIELD director's brows knit, "Agent, where is this opera music coming from?"

Indeed, ominous opera chanting filled the helicarrier.

"I don't know, ma'am."

Down below, the JGS staff paused their ineffective posturing at Magik and looked at each other in confusion.

"Am I the only one hearing an opera song?" Wolverine glanced at his companions.

"No, I do, too." Storm said before turning to the team's telepaths. "Rachel? Betsy?"

"It's not telepathy." Psylocke reported.

"It has a catchy melody, though." Rachel commented as a piano riff set in.

The team collectively chose to ignore it and the beat that followed.

"Illyana, step down." Storm demanded.

"I am not in the mood for niceties today." Illyana glared. "Return Scott, and none of you will die."

"Kid," Wolverine began in a patronizing tone. "You know you can't kill us if you wanted to. Let's not do this before you get hurt."

In response, numerous narrow discs of blue light erupted on the gathered mutant's bodies, segmenting their bodies and teleporting their parts to numerous locations.

"I did not ask for your guesswork."

Do the impossible, see the invisible.

Row, row, fight the power!

"You move outside these discs, you die." Illyana stated in a chilling tone. "I close these discs, you die."

Touch the untouchable, break the unbreakable.

Row, row, fight the power!

"Now, give me Scott."

Row, row, FIGHT THE POWER!

Chapter Text

Honeymoon Holocaust (Illyana Rasputin - II)

It was strange. One would think that after two past marriages and all the life-and/or-death struggles in-between, he'd learn to become graceful under all sorts of pressure.

Scott Summers knew what to do, of course. Walk down the aisle without tripping and wait for her at the end—and, of course, pray that she didn't wizen up to how bad a life with him would be. Granted, she had beaten the self-deprecating idea out of him on more than one occasion—even going so far as to prove to him on multiple levels that he was the more-likely to die between the two of them should another apocalyptic Tuesday come 'round—but still, Scott could not stop the worry.

After all, he couldn't fully adjust in his first marriage and it ended with Madelyne's madness and subsequent haunting him from beyond the grave. His second ended with Jean dying in his arms before he could make up for his weakness.

Scott liked to think of himself as a competent analyst, and what he saw was a striking trend.

She bopped him hard on the head when, in an anxious episode, he asked if she was real and not some creation by Sinister or some similar such entity. He considered himself fortunate that she was an understanding woman—past the week-long snark and biting deadpan that followed, anyhow.

Placated on the issue of her identity and the twistedly romantic promise that he would die before she did, by her own hands if needed, Scott finally dropped down on one knee and she said 'yes'.

Flash-forward to the present, Scott continued to pace about the entrance to the garden. Everything leading up to this point was an incredibly quiet affair by the X-Men's standards.

His team took the proposal well, with Illyana simply breathing a slightly annoyed "It's about time!". The rest of the costumed community were also supportive— strange as that felt. Following all of that, their wedding preparations continued with uncannily smooth precision.

The occasional mutant-in-distress did come, but nothing beyond that transpired.

There were no bigots or racists out for blood.

There were no megalomaniacs out for more power.

There were no apocalyptic threats.

Hell, there was no time-traveling offspring from the future proclaiming doom!

The utter peacefulness in the days leading up to his third marriage created a very confused and anxious Scott Summers.

Something was going to happen, he was sure. Every cell in his body knew that something was amiss.

As if those thoughts were an incantation, blue light suddenly lit up from the center of the garden.

Scott's hand immediately flew up to his shades and he braced himself for whatever came. Paradoxically, he felt relief wash over him.

"Brooding again?"

Scott blinked behind his shades before sighing tiredly. "Nervous." He explained and, after regaining his composure, approached his guest with a warm smile. "I'm glad you could make it, Illyana."

The light died down and unveiled the smirking demon queen. "Time isn't an issue, Scott." She told him. "Now, these abominable heels I was sworn to wear…"

"Couldn't be much different from walking on hooves." Scott remarked while giving her an once-over. He did catch the odd term she used, but decided that maybe Kitty had something to do with it and so he opted against pursuing.

Illyana shrugged. "Hooves bludgeon. These? They're meant for stabbing, not walking."

Scott nodded in full agreement. "Well, I'd still like to thank you, Illyana." Illyana tilted her head questioningly, to which Scott continued smugly, "You've just earned me a hundred dollars."

"Oh?"

"Your brother was convinced you would wear the suit."

Illyana scoffed. "I'm your best woman. Of course I'd wear a dress." As if to display her full ensemble, the blonde twirled on the spot once before curtsying, gracefully, if somewhat mockingly.

"That's what I told Piotr, but…" He trailed with a shrug and offered her his hand. His next wedding was unorthodox, to say the least. When he and his bride sat down to assign roles for the wedding, they could not imagine a better-suited best person than Illyana.

"I'll have words about making presumptions with brother dearest, yet." She murmured while accepting his gesture, and Scott felt apprehensive at the promise in her tone.

"After today, alright?" Scott bargained.

The slighted blonde narrowed her eyes at the thrice-now-groom-to-be before sighing. "Alright. After today."

This was meant to be a joyous occasion, after all, and the last thing Illyana wanted was for her hulking brother to bawl after she was through with him.

Scott nodded, happy that Illyana was a reasonable woman. "That dress looks good on you." He said, switching topics. "I didn't know you had such a thing."

Illyana chuckled, easily seeing through the compliment. "You mean, you didn't think I possessed such fashion." She translated, withdrawing her hand from his grasp so that she could point at him teasingly.

Scott's cheeks flushed in embarrassment at having been caught. "Guilty." He admitted, knowing better than to lie to this demoness. "But you really do look good."

The smirk on Illyana's lips flattened and the mischief in her cool blue orbs dimmed when she beheld the groom once more. "Are you alright, Scott?"

Seeing her concern, Scott scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Yes. Somewhat…" He pocketed his hands. "It's… it's been a wonderful several weeks."

Illyana nodded to that. "I know."

"If only things could continue like this." Scott murmured wistfully. "It would be… wonderful."

"Yes. Yes it would." The younger mutant agreed—in a tone that seemed, to Scott, venomous.

The groom paused in his steps and turned to his companion. "Is something wrong, Illyana?"

"Sorry." Illyana shook her head. "Just tired."

"Oh." Scott paused against, his sharp mind quickly trying to interpret that statement.

Seeing the opportunity, Illyana cleared her throat. "Scott… don't get used to it."

Scott tilted his head. "It?"

Illyana frowned and gestured to the garden around them. "This peacefulness won't last beyond your wedding."

Scott's heart nearly stopped as realization nabbed him in the gut. It sounded impossible—improbable, but with her power and skill and cunning…! "Illyana… what did you do?"

The accused raised both her hands in the air, like a criminal confronted by a cop, and flashed him an easy smile. "Have you ever seen the movie Groundhog Day?" When Scott's face turned white from her confirmation, the devilish mutant's smirk widened. "You did? Good. If it makes you feel any better, what I did, I didn't do alone."

"I… I need a second." Scott staggered, his concerned companion quickly appearing by his side to help him sit slowly down on a nearby bench.

Illyana, in a show of strength, remained standing before him when she pulled back. She truly did enjoy moments like this—when she toppled giants. She waited for her leader with a smirk plastered on her face.

"I…" Scott began after he finally regained his bearings. "I suppose I should thank you… you and your team."

Illyana nodded in acceptance of his gratitude. "It was surprisingly easy to find volunteers."

Scott swallowed in an attempt to wet his suddenly parched throat. "Was anyone killed?"

"Only those that weren't smart enough." Illyana admitted without any shame. At the sharp look he gave her, Illyana decided to add, "But not by me, no. Torture, yes, but I don't find any pleasure when the damned stop screaming."

"I should be disgusted," Scott said, "or at least afraid. But you know what? I just don't care." It was too perfect a day to think through this headache. "I'm pretty sure whatever I say won't get through you, right?"

"I'm a grown woman, Scott." Illyana mocked the former teacher. "I can make big girl decisions."

"Can I ask who else you roped into your crusade?"

Once more proving that she could do the impossible, Illyana's wide grin widened even more. "Let's just say that I've acquired an appreciation for a game of chess."

For the second time that morning, Scott's face blanched. "You what? Them?!"

"Not all of them." Illyana shook her head. "Black and Red, to name a few women."

Scott palmed his face. "Dare I ask how you convinced those two? My first wife, especially?"

"With the promise of food for Selene, and the truth for Maddie." Illyana explained. Scott couldn't help but inwardly cringe at the affectionate tone Illyana addressed them. "They're both pleasant women to speak with when you get past all the psychoses."

"I'm sure." Scott dryly remarked before narrowing in on what Illyana said about the mother of his child and clone of his second wife... 'God,' Scott thought, 'how did I live through this insanity?' "What did you mean by the truth?"

Scott had a feeling he wouldn't like the next statement to come out of his companion's mouth when Illyana gazed at him patronizingly.

"That no matter who takes your name, you will always belong to us." Illyana explained like a mother would to her brain-damaged child. "I did also promise that they can attend your wedding..."

"Oh dear god." Scott grimaced and made preparations for his grave.

"They will be pleasant." Illyana reassured him. "They're all good girls."

Scott shot her a blank look. "I can't help but notice you used the plural form. Did you form a Sisterhood?"

Illyana chuckled at his astuteness. She expected nothing less from this man. "Sisterhood? We prefer the name… X-Force."

Scott pondered the pros and cons of Illyana's decision, and whether or not he should condemn the well-meaning mutant's actions. Eventually, Scott decided to forget the whole thing. Not just because pursuing this matter further would require a year's supply of painkillers, and not just because today was, as he reminded himself, a joyous occasion, but also because, when it came down to it, he still trusted Illyana Rasputin.

The realization was cathartic to the previously panicking groom. With a warm smile on his lips, Scott shook his head and stood up. "You truly are my best woman." He commented, gazing down at the mischievous blonde with utmost admiration.

It was amazing how much she had grown since he first met her.

Illyana smirked. "You ain't never had a friend like me." She quoted and extended her arm towards him. "Now, let's get you inside and start this wedding before your bride develops the common sense to run away."

Scott gave her a manly pout.

"Now you're just being mean."

Omake 1: Out of Character!

"Would you believe me that Rachel was our telepath? Or that Hope volunteered to be on the field team? And that Emma did all the weight lifting?"

Scott shook his head in disbelief. "I'd say the world ended while I was sleeping."

"Oh it did." Illyana pointed out. "Twice."

"I—I see."

"I didn't do this for free, of course."

"…what are your demands?"

"There was one woman I couldn't convince despite my best efforts." Illyana stated. "She was to fulfill an important role in my team."

"Dare I ask who and for what?"

"You can." Illyana bluntly answered his rhetoric. "I wanted Ruby because, as you well know, every index team needs the chick or, in my case, its counterpart." She sniffed in dismay. "There's just too much estrogen where I work."

Scott turned his gaze upwards and shed a silent tear.

He was glad to be born a man.

-0-0-0-

Omake 2:

"This is about Kitty freaking out and cutting her honeymoon short because Magik sent pictures of herself and Scott in Vegas, isn't it?"

- FluffyCyclopsRLZ

Not even the vacuum of space could drown the universe-shattering cry of one slighted Katherine Pryde-Quill.

"DAMN YOU SUMMERS!"

"What is it now, dear?" The man known as Star-lord asked his new wife.

"Illyana sent me pictures of herself and Scott in Vegas!" Kitty screamed.

"Let me see." Peter said and scooted closer to the brunette and her cellphone. The first picture he saw was one of the two mutants in question posing before a movie poster showing Avengers: Age of Ultron. "I don't see the problem."

"Of course you don't." Kitty spat. "They're going to a movie house! Everybody knows what goes on in a movie house!"

"They're gonna watch a movie with a full crowd?" Peter hazarded a guess.

"No! They'll—those two are going to do—you know, naughty things." Kitty appeared to lose fire towards the end but, instead, gained a blush. "A-anyway! Look at the next one!"

Peter swiped across the screen and analyzed the next picture. In it, Scott and Illyana were dressed conservatively as a priest and a nun. Surrounding them were more people dressed up in various costumes, some of which he could identify while others he had no clue. "Oh. Is this that cosplay-thing that's all-the-rage in Earth?"

"Yes! And I can't believe those two would be so obvious!"

"…you lost me."

Kitty glared at her husband. "It's quite clear they're planning on getting married!" She exclaimed. "The only way they could be any more obvious is if Scott was wearing a Slave Leia outfit!"

Peter cringed at the image his mind conjured. "Not a good picture, Katherine, and don't you mean Illyana?"

"No." Kitty shook her head adamantly. "Submissive doesn't suit her."

He swiped the screen again and cringed when his wife screeched.

"They're sleeping in the same room?!"

Peter swiftly tried to placate his exploding wife. "There are two separate beds, dear."

"I can't believe they're sleeping in the same room!" Kitty continued her tired, ignoring her husband. "That's it! Peter, you will ready the transporter while I get changed! We are heading to Vegas before my best friend commits the greatest mistake of her life!"

"But dear-! We're in the middle of our honeymoon-"

The door slid shut.

Left alone on the bed, Peter Quill raised his head up towards…well, the heavens. "Yup. Should've realized the X-Men were crazy, but no, I just had to propose..."

Chapter Text

A Very Domestic Coup (Stepford Cuckoos - I)

-0-0-0-

It started with a stray thought from Emma.

A glimmer of domestic tranquility drifting across the psychic field like perfume in a hallway.

Their mother, Emma Frost, had been working on business Earth-side after having disappeared to only she knew where, and had just so happened to brush past them with a datapad in one hand.

She wasn’t broadcasting, necessarily, but she also wasn’t shielding.

Not completely.

And never from them when they were together.

Emma’s mind was definitely occupied—

—by a memory of her and Scott curled on his couch in the moon.

Phoebe paused mid-scroll.

Mindee looked up from her tea.

Celeste blinked.

“That was Scott’s shirt,” Mindee said aloud, knowing Emma wouldn’t be caught dead wearing an oversized and unflattering tee unless it was Scott’s.

Phoebe made a face. “And Scott’s mug. Since when does she drink from his mug?”

Celeste, always the most composed, crossed her legs and closed her book. “We need to know more.”

They went quiet.

Nodding as one, the triplets combined their powers and spied on their unsuspecting mother.

In the psychic plane, their collective focus sharpened. A blur of recent memories unspooled between them…

…Emma and Scott sharing breakfast in soft, murmured conversation…

…The suspicious presence of matching slippers…

…The distinct, alarming normalcy of Scott Summers smiling like a man who knew where all his towels were.

Phoebe leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “Mother’s began nesting.”

Mindee clutched her cup with both hands. “It’s disgusting how much I love this for her.”

Celeste, ever the opportunist, summoned a mental map of the moonbase. Her eyes flicked to the guest suite. “I believe it’s time we consolidate territory.”

A silent pulse passed between them before they nodded in unanimous agreement.

Phase 1: Secure a bribe for Illyana

Phase 2: Update the PowerPoint File

Phase 3: Establish dominion

“You know, if she gets a room, it’s only just that we get a wing.” Mindee said, already plotting all the designs she wanted in an ideal home.

Phoebe agreed, adding, “With soundproofing and hardwood floors. I’m not sharing air from the meditation alcove.”

“Then it’s settled.” Celeste, satisfied with her sisters’ cooperation, declared, “We strike at dawn.” Then, she thought about it and remembered one of Emma’s memories, “Or whenever breakfast is served. I think I saw Scott make pancakes.”

And just like that, the takeover operation was underway.

The Summers House was about to become a five-body puzzle.

-0-0-0-

Emma had only just settled into her morning routine—robe, datapad, espresso, and tranquility —when she heard it.

A knock. Then another. Then three more in perfect rhythm.

Knock-knock.

Knock-knock-knock.

She didn’t even bother sighing. That particular rhythm was less of a greeting and more of a herald.

The door slid open even without her input.

Three young women stood there like a prophecy fulfilled—each in matching white winter coats, dragging identical luggage, and wearing the expressions of girls who had already won.

“Greetings, mother.” The Three-in-One said in unison.

Emma stared at them for three long, silent seconds. “No.”

Celeste tilted her head, faux innocence on her pouting lips. “We haven’t said anything yet.”

“You’re not moving in.” Emma insisted.

Phoebe offered a small, conspiratorial shrug. “Not with that attitude, we aren’t.”

Emma’s eyes flicked to the suitcases. “The coordinated luggage was a tactical error. You gave yourselves away.”

Mindee smiled sweetly. “We’re not here to harass you, Mother. We’re just here to take up space.”

Emma narrowed her eyes. “That’s not even remotely better.”

Celeste stepped forward and held out a datapad. “We considered trying to convince you. But you’re—well. You.”

“So instead,” Phoebe said, “we will make a direct appeal to the actual seat of power and land owner in this household.”

Emma’s brow lifted, actually impressed by their boldness, “You’re going around me?”

Mindee beamed. “To Scott, of course.”

Scott chose that exact moment to walk into the room, toweling his hair and looking far too comfortable.

He paused mid-step, gaze bouncing from the unexpected arrival of a well-coordinated assault squad to Emma’s disapproval.

“…Should I leave and come back later?”

Scott’s decision-making was, as always, impeccable.

“Yes,” Emma said flatly.

“No,” Celeste said at the same time, already reaching out to his arm before he evaded them. “Scott, please – have a seat and be at ease.”

Mindee tapped her tablet. “We’ve prepared a brief presentation to convince you to let us stay. We entitled it Why Three Abandoned Cuckoos Deserve a Wing.”

Scott blinked.

Emma's eye twitched.

Phoebe added, “We have also compiled the data into a pie chart on how proximity to us has a measurable calming effect on your psychic field.”

“Would you want some coffee while we give our pitch?” Mindee offered, while Celeste already handed him a mug.

Such was the speed of their coordinated assault that Scott could only find himself swept by their hurricane without a word in.

Mindee swiped her datapad and projected a 3D layout onto the kitchen island. “Here is the proposed west corridor expansion. We recommend one shared suite, three private reading alcoves, and an emergency chocolate reserve.”

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose. “I should have known keeping the guest room vacant would come back to haunt me.”

Mindee frowned at her mother. “We don’t want the guest room.”

Phoebe agreed. “We want our own space, and ‘guest’ implies temporary.”

“And we are not temporary.” Celeste concluded with finality.

Emma looked shaken at the uncanniness of their response.

Meanwhile, Scott just blinked at the projection, studying it. “Is that a meditation garden?”

“We designed it for mother,” Mindee said brightly. “We believe it will help with her moods.”

Emma crossed her arms. “You haven’t shared space peacefully since the Whedon era.”

Phoebe shrugged. “We’re highly adaptable.”

Celeste looked at Scott, this time grabbing his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. She gazed up into his shades, making herself appear small and in-need of protection.

“So. May we?”

Scott looked at the diagram, then at the three hopeful faces staring back at him. He opened his mouth, paused, and looked helplessly at Emma.

“They’ve already moved in, haven’t they?” he asked.

“They rewired the door locks,” Emma muttered.

It was how they entered in the first place.

Scott sighed and reached for the coffee pot. “I suppose we do have vacant space.”

Emma downed her espresso. She didn’t say yes.

But she also didn’t tell them to leave.

Which, for the Cuckoos, was as good as victory.

-0-0-0-

Emma Frost was no stranger to chaos.

But this?

This was a premeditated, precision-engineered, psionically-augmented domestic revolution. And, frustratingly, it had excellent taste in throw pillows.

Within a short span of time, the Cuckoos had:

Claimed the west corridor.

Repainted the walls in a minimalist palette approved by Celeste.

Installed soundproof panels “for Mother’s privacy.”

Assigned themselves titles: Mindee as Head of Hearth, Celeste as Strategic Planner, Phoebe as Director of Vibe.

Emma walked past the newly christened Cuckoo Wing and stopped short at a mounted plaque that read: Summers-Frost-Cuckoo Domestic Accord, Ratified Today.

She blinked. “You engraved a treaty?”

Phoebe sauntered out of the hallway, clipboard in hand. “Recognition of sovereignty is important in multilateral living arrangements.”

Celeste followed, wearing a beautiful, monogrammed robe.

Emma narrowed her eyes. “That’s mine.”

“We know you stopped wearing it last month,” Celeste replied. “It’s been reallocated.”

Mindee emerged from the kitchen with a tray of lemon bars and a small notebook.

“I’m testing a dessert schedule,” she said. “We’ll adjust it based on feedback.”

Emma’s lips flatlined.

Then turned and stormed into her dressing room—only to stop short again.

Her vintage Dior collection had been reorganized by color, season, and mood rating. A small sign above the hangers read, “Optimized Emotional Armor for Mother”, and an actual rotation schedule was posted beside it.

Today’s judge was Celeste.

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is psychological warfare.”

Celeste’s eyes shimmered proudly. “We learned from the best.”

Phoebe smiled at her mother softly, “You should be flattered.”

“We haven’t even touched your shoe closet.” Mindee said, looking excited.

Emma exhaled through her nose. “Yet.”

Moments later, she passed Scott in the hallway, who was holding a bundle of freshly folded towels and looking mildly shell-shocked.

“They’ve reorganized the linen storage,” he said, impressed.

Emma didn’t break stride. “Why are you surprised? You let them in.”

Scott looked at her sheepishly. “They made a PowerPoint.”

She gave him a withering look.

He followed her anyway. “They even brought matching mugs that fit your aesthetic.”

Emma paused, lips twitching. “Of course they did.”

Later that night, the new wing lights dimmed in perfect sync with the rest of the moonbase, and somewhere down the hall, a soft chime announced the beginning of “Evening Quiet Hours: Family Recharge Cycle.”

Emma stared at the ceiling of their shared bedroom.

Scott lay beside her, reading.

She muttered, “I don’t know whether I’m raising daughters, or cloning a cult.”

Scott turned a page. “Why not both?”

-0-0-0-

One morning, Emma woke to silence.

Which was, frankly, more concerning than noise.

She padded into the main living space, coffee already in hand, only to find Mindee curled up under a blanket on the couch, sipping from a mug labeled “Nurture Me, Coward.” Her hair was perfectly brushed – her expression was serene.

Suspiciously so.

“Good morning, Mother,” she said, like she wasn’t complicit in an unannounced occupation.

Emma narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Practicing mindfulness.” Mindee airily said, before handing her a mug. “Espresso?”

It was labeled, “Of Course, Darling” in script that looked suspiciously like her own.

Before Emma could reply, Phoebe swung over the backrest of the couch and landed beside Mindee like a cat claiming a throne. She was already wearing one of Scott’s cardigans.

Emma’s eye twitched.

Phoebe grinned. “Scott’s clothes are really comfortable!”

Celeste wandered in last, datapad in hand. She didn’t say anything. Instead, she just set it gently on the coffee table, then eased herself down beside Emma on the armrest and – to Emma’s surprise – wordlessly leaned her head against her shoulder.

Emma blinked.

“You’ve all staged this,” she said.

Impressive.

Mindee nodded. “Of course. But we do genuinely like being here.”

Phoebe kicked her feet up. “And Scott finds you cuter when you’re suspicious.”

Celeste simply said, “We’re simply rejuvenating.”

That was when Scott entered from the other room, holding his own mug—labeled “Property of the Summers-Frost-Cuckoo Domestic Accord”.

He took in the scene. Emma was frozen in place on the couch, her daughters draped around her like a cape, with Celeste nuzzling her shoulder like a cat who decided she might be pettable.

He blinked once. “Is this… a cuddle ambush?”

“It always is,” Phoebe admitted serenely.

Mindee immediately said, “Join us, Scott.”

“Mother is warm,” Celeste chimed in.

Scott sat on the far armrest. Within seconds, Phoebe had slouched over to rest her head on his leg.

Emma gave him a look.

“I didn’t plan this,” he quickly defended.

“You enabled it,” Emma replied, her voice flat.

Mindee reached into the blanket and produced a deck of cards. “Shall we play a punishment game?” she asked, almost innocently. “Loser has to follow the winner’s whims.”

Celeste and Phoebe immediately agreed to the game, and Emma made a strangled sound in the back of her throat.

“She’s choking on her emotions,” Phoebe stage-whispered.

Celeste, eyes already closed and head resting against Emma’s shoulder, murmured, “Isn’t mother adorable, Scott?”

Emma didn’t move. She simply sipped her coffee and said flatly, “This is why I said they can’t move in.”

Scott took another sip. “Because they can unionize?”

“There’s two of us.” Emma sighed, long and low. “So, they automatically get the majority rule.”

-0-0-0-

The problem with living with three young telepaths wasn’t the clutter. It wasn’t the matching loungewear, the high-efficiency meal prep, or even the unsettling way the thermostat always adjusted itself five seconds before Emma reached for it.

It was the noise.

Not spoken or even projected.

Just there – white noise ever-present in the ether.

Emma tried shielding. She did. But tuning out her daughters meant tuning out everything—their quiet affection, their background hum of belonging, the way Mindee always sent a little emotional pulse when the tea was ready, or how Phoebe’s sarcasm softened when Scott complimented her hair, or the flicker of Celeste allowing herself to feel safe.

But three was too much.

She snapped, not in fury, but in exhaustion. A deep psychic exhale that fluttered outward like a sigh made of static. It didn’t hurt. But it cleared the room.

And then she was on the balcony.

Wine in hand. Slippers on.

Alone.

For approximately seven minutes.

Celeste arrived first, quiet as moonlight. She didn’t speak. The affectionate Cuckoo just stood beside her.

Mindee followed, holding a second glass of wine and a plate of something warm she didn’t announce. She handed it over and didn’t wait for thanks.

Phoebe came last, hands in her cardigan pockets but eyes soft. She leaned against the railing like she owned it.

“I didn’t mean to overload the field,” Emma said quietly.

“We were loud,” Celeste admitted.

“We were affectionate,” Phoebe corrected.

Mindee nudged Emma gently with her shoulder. “We came because you don’t have to be alone anymore.”

There was a silence.

Then Emma laughed. It was small, tired, a little helpless. “You three are gremlins with manicure. But you’re my gremlins, I suppose.”

“We know,” they said, in eerie unison.

Emma leaned against the railing with them. She didn’t ask them to go inside.

And when Scott appeared in the doorway, looked at the four of them in the dark, and silently turned around and returned with more glasses—Emma didn’t stop him either.

The stars were bright.

The house was full.

And for the first time in longer than she could remember, Emma Frost wasn’t bracing for someone to leave.

-0-0-0-

Breakfast in the Summers-Frost-Cuckoo household had become a diplomatic operation.

Scott was at the toaster, fighting with it like it had personally wronged him. Emma was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with the kind of fond exasperation that only came with long-term entanglement and shared trauma.

Mindee had replaced the fruit bowl with a “telepath approved” pastry display arranged by emotional support category—scones for grief, croissants for negotiation days, one cherry Danish with a sticky note that read “Emergency Only. You Know Why.”

Phoebe was elbow-deep in the kitchen drawer, rearranging the knives.

“For aesthetic defense,” she said when Scott raised an eyebrow.

Celeste was speaking directly to the moonbase AI, fielding queries about new security protocols. The system now recognized the household as having four equal heads-of-house.

Emma did not count.

Not because she wasn’t the most terrifying entity in the room—she was—but because the Cuckoos didn’t trust her not to use the system against them in a moment of pettiness.

Emma glared over her coffee.

“This is how it starts,” she muttered. “You get shared decision-making rights, and next thing I know I’m exiled from my own quarters.”

Phoebe didn’t look up. “To be fair, that’s what real cuckoos do. They kick the host mother out.”

Celeste added, “Technically, you’re the genetic source. You were never the host.”

Mindee said, “Don’t worry, you’re still emotionally relevant.”

Emma’s eye twitched. “I’m going to teleport to Maui.”

Scott didn’t look up from buttering toast. “You say that every morning.”

“One day it won’t be a bluff.”

Mindee refilled her mug without asking. “Not if we hide your heels first.”

Emma sipped. She stared at her chaotic, absurd, and infuriating loveable household.

“I don’t know whether to hug you or initiate psychic warfare.”

Scott leaned in, and murmured, “Why not both?”

Emma glanced at him, before sighing.

Their mugs clinked.

His read, Didn’t Sign Up for Fatherhood, Staying Anyway.

Hers, Cloned My Worst Traits. Love Them Deeply.

Mindee, Phoebe, and Celeste glanced at each other and smiled.

The Cuckoos had finally found their home.

Chapter Text

Eye to Eye (Ruby Summers - II)

Got myself a notion
And one I know that you'll understand
To set the world in motion
By reaching out for each other's hand

Ruby’s mistake was thinking aloud in the same room as a Frost and a Summers.

It started on another lazy afternoon their apartment. Scott was cross-referencing battle reports on his tablet; Emma was lounging across the couch in a cashmere robe that probably cost more than the apartment they were currently in. Ruby, arms folded, legs propped on the edge of the coffee table, was watching a DIY series on the television when she had inadvertently muttered,

“All the treasures I’d trade to have my own stealth camper. A mobile home to call my own...”

She hadn’t meant it as a request. More survivor’s wish reshaped into a modern fantasy.

Emma looked up immediately, hand already reaching for her phone. “How large?”

Ruby blinked. “What?”

“The van. Do you want a standard wheelbase? Extended? Were you considering something boring or should we add an extraterrestrial twist?”

Scott didn’t look up. “I have a contact who could get her a high-roof Ford or a Kree Humvee. Brand owes me a favor, so I can get a deal on off-world black market tech as well. I’ve got some ideas you might like.”

“I don’t—” Ruby sat up straighter. “Guys. I didn’t mean build me a stealth house on wheels. I was just saying.”

Emma tapped twice on her phone. “Too late. You verbalized longing in front of a woman with enough disposable income to fund a small nation and a hyper-prepared control freak with no apocalypse to vent his anxiety on. You’ve basically a signed contract.”

Scott finally looked at her, earnest in a way that immediately made her regret everything. “You meant it. You wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”

“I was daydreaming.”

“That’s still wishing,” he said, and she could feel his slide into “Dad Mode” like a switch.

“You’ve both already given me an apartment.” Ruby tried to deny them again. “That I still fully intend to pay back, by the way.”

“You say that, but I have no intentions of collecting.” Emma replied, dryly. “Not when we have money, off-world contacts, and an emotional backlog to project into carpentry. Now, would you say all-terrain means water and spaceflight?”

Ruby knew when the battle was lost.

A few hours later, she found herself staring at a freshly parked, matte-gray van in a secure underground bay.

It was perfect.

It was boring and stealthy in all the right ways but, more importantly – and as Emma gave her the keys – it sank in that this project was hers.

Scott stood beside it with a faint smile, arms crossed like he’d just handed over a graduation diploma instead of a tricked-out vehicle. “We’ll gut the interior and build it out with a modular system. We’ll definitely have to reinforce the frame, add some camera mounts, stealth mesh, and maybe a solar battery.”

“Darling, see to a shower first. Any and all interior designs must meet my approval.” Emma handed Ruby a coffee. “And I’m vetoing concrete gray as a color palette. Muted doesn’t mean lifeless.”

Ruby just stared at them both.

“I haven’t even picked a name for it yet,” she said.

Emma raised a brow. “Oh, dear. That’s the first thing we’ll fix.”

Scott circled to the passenger side, already outlining where they’d install the backup battery array, floor insulation and, at Emma’s insistence, the plumbing.

Emma summoned a digital mockup with a flick of her wrist and began measuring for a skylight.

Ruby still hadn’t touched the van, but somehow… it had begun.

She stood there in the quiet, the kind of quiet where only memory dared to follow her.

Back in her time, survival meant constant motion. There were no “home bases,” only places where you weren’t being hunted yet. Comfort was always makeshift, temporary, and dangerous – lulling you into a false sense of security.

But this…

This was hers.

Being made hers—

By them.

And maybe she didn’t know what to do with that yet.

But she’d figure it out – with no alarms or backup plans.

Just space—and the terrifying kindness of people who wanted her to stay. She didn’t know what to do with that. Not yet. But maybe she didn’t have to—not all at once.

-0-0-0-

They went shopping first.

Technically, it was a "supply run," according to Scott—who had printed out a checklist so extensive Ruby was sure a forest would have disappeared had it not been written in digital. Emma simply called it “selective curation,” but she also arrived with a tablet displaying a website dedicated to luxury tiny homes.

Ruby, to her credit, tried to pretend she wasn’t excited.

They pulled into what looked like a standard RV parts warehouse—wide lot, sun-bleached signage, the kind of place that smelled like plastic, grease, and desperation. The front façade was boring.

The inside was not.

Rows upon rows of modular cabinetry, water tanks, integrated cooktops, insulation foam, fold-down sinks, solar panels, magnetic racks, synthetic fabrics, and combination appliances that claimed to cook, steam, and dehydrate.

So many things she had dreamed and wished for growing up – and many more she’d never even so much as thought of – suddenly here for her to browse.

Ruby stood in the middle of it all, completely still, as if moving too quickly might make it disappear.

She blinked.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Either I’m dreaming or society has really gotten its act together.”

Scott nodded sagely. “It’s amazing what people build when they’re not dodging killer drones every other day.”

Emma picked up a faucet made from sleek, matte black polymer. “Darling, I assure you—society has not gotten its act together. This is just capitalism with better design.”

Ruby wandered to the kitchen appliance section and stopped in front of a chrome-cased object with more buttons than she was entirely comfortable with.

She leaned in.

“What is... this?”

Scott followed her gaze. “That’s a 12-in-1 multicooker.”

“Explain.” Ruby insisted.

“It’s a rice cooker, slow cooker, steamer, pressure cooker, yogurt maker, air fryer—”

“—Air what?”

“Air fryer,” he repeated. “It uses rapid hot air circulation to simulate deep frying without oil.”

Ruby stared at him like he had just described sorcery. “So. It fries things. In air.”

Emma appeared behind her, plucking a box off the shelf. “This model also has sous vide capacity and a delay timer. I insist you buy this instead.”

“I haven’t even—”

Emma handed it to her. “You’ll need it. It’s idiot-proof.” She paused, looking thoughtful for a brief moment, before amending, “Well, mostly.”

Ruby held the box like it might explode. “We didn’t have any of this growing up.”

“You didn’t have plumbing,” Scott said gently.

Ruby stared at the box in awe. “All the things I missed...”

“Well,” Emma said, smiling with sharp grace, “now you have a Kree-powered van and a pressure cooker with seventeen safety features. Welcome to a new age.”

Ruby turned the box over in her hands, reading the specs as if the words might vanish. “Does this mean I have to relearn how to cook?”

Scott shrugged, then said. “It’s not as hard as it seems, and you’re plenty good at picking up skills.”

“I’m good at not dying,” she muttered. “I’m not sure if this counts.”

Emma placed a hand on her shoulder. “That’s exactly what cooking is, darling. But made better with spices.”

The rest of the trip passed in a blur. Ruby tested retractable sinks. Scott discussed thermal insulation. Emma negotiated for a rooftop UV shield module that technically wasn’t on sale. They picked out flooring, cutlery, adhesives, sealants, light panels, a voice-activated security node shaped like a thermos – “For stealth,” Scott insisted – and the world’s most beautiful, ivory white garbage bin.

By the end of the day, Ruby was slumped in the passenger seat of the van, clutching the box that contained her new culinary marvel.

She looked down at it. Then at her hands.

“I’m really building a home,” she whispered, still in disbelief at what was about to happen.

Scott looked over from the driver’s seat. “Yeah.”

Emma, seated in the back with her sunglasses on, smirked. “And it will have very well-seasoned potatoes.”

Ruby didn’t reply right away.

But she held the box a little closer.

-0-0-0-

The first lesson was simple: just because you’ve driven a getaway vehicle at high speed through flaming debris and collapsed buildings while being chased by sentinels does not mean you know how to parallel park or understand how to use a turn signal.

Ruby learned this the hard way.

“Signal before you turn,” Scott said patiently, again, as she gripped the steering wheel like it had personally wronged her.

“I’m trying, okay?” she snapped. “The stick thing is in the wrong place.”

“It’s in the normal place.”

“Normal for this timeline, maybe,” she grumbled. “Back home, it was more intuitive.”

Emma raised a sculpted brow from the back seat. She had also suspiciously transformed into her diamond form within minutes of Scott teaching Ruby how to drive a van. “You mean, it was hotwired with a knife and steered using desperation.”

Ruby ignored her. Mostly because it was true.

The van cruised down an empty suburban street, newly reinforced suspension gliding over potholes like a dream. Ruby had insisted on practicing “real world” conditions. Scott had picked a weekday morning route through neighborhoods with wide roads and few cars.

It was perfect.

Or it would have been, if Ruby hadn’t tried to parallel park with the confidence of a woman who once stole a tank.

The results were not elegant.

Scott let out a soft, pained sound as the curb took a firm love bite from the van’s front tire. Ruby winced and leaned her head against the steering wheel, groaning.

“I can’t believe this is how people drive through roads.” Ruby nearly sobbed. “I’m a disgrace to all drivers.”

“Don’t say that,” Scott replied, rubbing his temple. “You’re doing great. You haven’t hit anything that can’t be buffed out.”

“Aren’t you reassuring, Scott?” Emma said dryly. “I, however, have grown fond of my spinal alignment and would like it preserved for future generations.”

“You’re not helping, Emma” Scott muttered.

“I’m haven’t even started,” she said sweetly, then reached forward to tousle Ruby’s hair with perfectly manicured fingers. “Darling, your mistake is thinking of this as combat. Slow down – nobody is trying to kill you. Pedal to the metal with less adrenaline, and more thoughts of insurance premiums.”

Ruby sat back up and scowled at her side mirror. “How do people do this every day?”

Scott smiled faintly. “Some of us like the rules.”

“That explains so much,” Ruby muttered, but she adjusted the van and tried again. Slower this time, and fighting her natural instinct to speed on wide, open and clear roads. Less bravado, and more calculation – driving defensively, as Scott kept saying.

She turned the wheel. Watched the mirrors. Checked the distance. And—

—parked.

Perfectly.

Scott immediately tapped her on the shoulder. “You nailed it.”

Ruby’s jaw dropped. “I did? I did!”

Emma gave a slow, ironic clap. “Bravo. You’ve ascended to the lofty rank of basic commuter.”

Ruby palmed her face with both hands, shifting into ruby form to hide her embarrassment. “I can’t believe I’m proud of this.”

“You should be,” Scott said, sincerely. “Like I’ve been saying, you pick up skills quickly. Great job.”

Ruby looked at him, a strange tightness blooming in her chest. He wasn’t saying it like an instructor or the hardass on the passenger seat at the start of their ride.

He said it like it mattered.

Like she mattered.

She cleared her throat.

“Okay,” she said, reaching for the gear shift. “Again. This time with... with less murder in my heart.”

The day stretched on with drills, practice turns, merging exercises, and one harrowing moment involving a roundabout. Emma offered critiques like a reality show judge. Scott offered encouragement like a sports dad. Ruby alternated between smug competence and total meltdown, but—by the end—she was driving.

Really driving.

Not escaping, nor fleeing, nor surviving.

She was now, simply, going forward.

-0-0-0-

By the time they reached the building stage, Ruby had developed a love-hate relationship with bungee cords, magnetic strips, space-savers and other collapsible everything.

“Why is everything a cube?” she muttered, holding up a foldable dish rack that looked more like an alien puzzle box. “And why does it turn into twelve different things?”

“Because van space is a premium,” Scott replied, methodically bolting down a modular shelf. “You want functionality, not clutter.”

Ruby pouted. “I want a spice rack.”

Emma, lounging on a camping chair in full couture, beach umbrella up and shades on, held up a floating 3D mock-up with a perfectly integrated vertical pull-out spice drawer. “I have the perfect design for you, darling. I will even have to trademark this build, but you may use it. You’re welcome.”

Ruby studied the design briefly before saying, “I’ve already picked one out. I want a spice rack that doesn’t explode the first time I hit a pothole.”

“That’s what anti-vibration dampeners are for,” Scott added helpfully, holding one up.

Ruby stared at them both, the absurdity of this life once again hitting her all at once.

Not even that long ago, she was huddled in the ruins of a wasteland, siphoning generator power from gutted drones and rationing out canned beans. Now she was arguing about where to put her soy sauce.

Progress.

Over the weeks, the van’s build had become a daily ritual.

Their mornings were spent wiring the solar array and calibrating the stealth mesh. Afternoons were spent optimizing the plumbing and insulation, interrupted by heated debates over cabinet hinges and textile swatches.

Scott argued there needed to be more function, while Emma declared homes needed to be aesthetic – especially for a telepath.

Ruby had never known luxury could be so exhausting.

And how carving out something for herself could be so exhilarating.

This was just as much hers, as theirs, now.

And that meant something.

Then, there were the moments.

Like when she unpacked a survival bag from her old duffel and automatically slid it into a hidden compartment she’d built beneath the bed. Water purifiers, energy bars, trauma kits, mini EMP bursts—standard gear. Scott saw her do it and didn’t say anything at first.

But later, when she was testing the slide-out table mechanism, he leaned against the wall beside her.

“You know you don’t have to keep those,” he said gently.

She didn’t look up. “I know.”

“You’re not in that world anymore.”

She closed the drawer with a sharp click. “It’s not about where I am. It’s about where I came from.”

He nodded slowly. “Still... maybe there’s room for other things now.”

Ruby exhaled through her nose, arms crossed.

“Like what? Board games? Picture books?”

Scott tilted his head. “Memory boxes. Journals. Maybe a bottle of something good for bad days. A throw blanket that doesn’t scratch.”

She snorted. “That last one sounds like Emma.”

Scott smiled at her wryly. “I was quoting her, actually.”

They fell into silence.

Outside, the sun cast pale beams through the skylight. The walls gleamed with fresh matte paneling.

It was starting to look like a home, now.

Not just a hideout or a short getaway, but something she could feel herself living in.

Ruby looked at the floor hatch beneath her feet—the one she had designed for “emergency exits,” just in case—and slowly sat down beside it.

“Sometimes, I don’t know what to do with this,” she said.

“With what?”

“All this not running.”

Scott knelt beside her. “Then take it slow. It’s okay if you still pack like you’re bracing for the end of the world. But maybe... let’s also pack for something else. Just in case it’s not the end.”

Ruby blinked hard. “That sounds... weirdly optimistic, coming from you.”

“I’ve had practice,” he said with a small smile. “Turns out you can teach old soldiers new tricks.”

She looked at him, really looked, and for the first time that day, the weight in her chest shifted. Not gone. Just... moved somewhere less sharp.

“You think a spice rack counts as hope?” she asked softly.

He nudged her shoulder. “Only if it has paprika.”

She laughed. Really laughed.

For a second, it didn’t feel like she was in a never-ending survival mindset anymore.

It felt like living.

-0-0-0-

The curtains gave her the most trouble.

Not the wiring, not the stealth mesh, not even the rooftop panel that nearly took her eyebrow off three weeks ago. No. It was the stupid, soft, floral-patterned blackout curtains that she could not for the life of her figure out how to hang straight.

“Why did I even buy you,” she muttered under her breath, gripping the fabric like it had personally betrayed her. “You don’t match anything. You’re not tactical. You’re pink.”

She had picked them because they made her laugh. They reminded her of a bakery she once broke into as a kid—not to steal food, but to sleep in the warmth of its broken oven. The curtains there had been cheerful. These looked almost the same.

And now, they were crumpled in her hands, refusing to be useful.

She threw them onto the bed and sat next to them, jaw clenched.

It had been a long day—she’d cleaned, organized, even added a tiny bookshelf. A real bookshelf. Not a tactical rack. Not a hidden cache. Just something that held paperbacks.

She had picked out four books from the local store. One was a romance with a sword on the cover. The second was a used sci-fi novel. The third was blank—a journal.

The fourth… the fourth had a dog on it. She had no idea why. It just felt right.

But none of it felt like her. Not yet.

It all felt like trying on someone else’s life.

She laid back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

The van no longer smelled like fresh sealant and solder but, instead, it smelled faintly of cumin, warm wood, and fabric softener. The soft hum of the security node filled the silence with white noise.

She should feel accomplished at how far she’d come.

Instead, she felt itchy beneath her ribs. Like she was faking something. Like any moment now, the whole thing would vanish and she’d be back in a trench with a tattered coat used as a blanket, and a memory of Scott and Emma’s graves being the only thing that spurred her to survive.

That she wouldn’t let their legacy end with her.

Lost as Ruby was in her thoughts that she almost didn’t hear the knock, and she looked up in alarm when the door slide open.

Scott didn’t wait for an answer. He just stepped in, ducked low, and held up a small, battered cardboard box.

“You weren’t answering your messages,” he said simply.

“I was thinking,” she mumbled, sitting up. “And fighting curtains.”

Scott looked at the fabric balled up on the mattress and gave a noncommittal grunt. “Toughest battle yet?”

“Emotionally? Yes.”

He handed her the box and sat down on the bench across from her. “Emma said to give you this.”

Ruby opened it.

Inside were little things. Ridiculous things.

A miniature potted cactus wearing a plastic googly eye. A half-empty bottle of lavender spray. A folded scrap of paper with a recipe written in elegant cursive: for lemon meltaways – not the emotional kind. A fridge magnet that read: “Some of us survived on purpose.”

And a photo.

It was from the day they finished installing the ceiling panels—Scott was dusty, Emma looked like she’d won a beauty pageant and a war at the same time, and Ruby was caught mid-laugh with a power drill in one hand and a sandwich in the other.

Ruby stared at it.

Her throat tightened.

“Emma called it a ‘starter pack,’” Scott said quietly. “Said you didn’t have to put it all up if you didn’t want to.”

Ruby ran her finger over the image, tracing the outline of her own smile.

“I want to,” she said. “I just don’t know where.”

“Wherever it feels real,” Scott replied.

She hesitated. “What if I do it wrong?”

Scott exhaled slowly. “Ruby, there’s no right way to live. We’re all just guessing.”

Ruby looked down at the box, then up at the ugly pink curtains, then back at Scott.

“You ever feel like – like you don’t deserve nice things?” she asked.

“All the time,” he answered.

“What do you do about it?”

He tilted his head, thinking. “I remember who fought to give them to me. And then I hang the damn curtains anyway.”

Ruby snorted, but her eyes stung.

She stood up, picked up the crumpled pink menace, and looked around.

The curtain rod wobbled as she pulled it into place. Looking at it again, it really did look stupid.

She hung them anyway.

Then she stuck the googly-eyed cactus on the shelf beside the fridge magnet, sprayed the lavender into the air like she was performing an exorcism, and taped the recipe card to her cabinet.

She then turned to Scott, who had been wordlessly watching her.

“What do you think?”

Scott smiled at her faintly. “Looks like a home.”

It was her home now.

Soft edges and all.

-0-0-0-

When the van was finally in its finishing stages—panels sealed, circuits tested, storage optimized—Ruby issued one firm decree: they were banned from helping.

Emma had rolled her eyes, Scott had sighed like a grounded hawk, and both had grumbled, but ultimately obeyed. Emma had even flung a credit card at Ruby’s head before dragging the reluctant Scott out by the collar, muttering something about “helicopter parenting” and “emotional constipation.”

Two weeks later, it was done.

The floors gleamed. The shelves didn’t rattle. The stealth mesh shimmered under light like brushed obsidian. The mattress fluffed. The toilet flushed. The security node blinked once in quiet readiness.

Her mobile home was real.

And tonight, she was going to feed her family to celebrate.

Ruby stood at her fold-out countertop with sleeves rolled up, multicooker prepped, spice rack dramatically swung open. She’d rehearsed the whole process at least five times in her head, and Emma wasn’t even supposed to arrive for another hour.

She had this.

Or so she thought.

Until she stared blankly at the twenty-six labeled jars of herbs and powders and things that looked suspiciously like ground-up tree bark, and realized she didn’t know what half of them did. Emma had purchased each one for her, assured her that she needed every single one of them, and Ruby hadn’t even heard of most of the spices.

“What the hell is even garam masala?” she muttered, brow furrowed. “Why are there three kinds of paprika? How many spices can one potato take?”

The multicooker beeped in sympathy.

She took a breath, cracked her knuckles, and began.

An hour later, the camper van smelled like – well, back home.

Not bad, not good. Just... distinct.

Ruby leaned against the mini sink, arms dusted in turmeric, face flushed from the cooker’s steam. The dish was something she remembered from the leaner days of her world—root vegetables boiled down into a sort of thick stew with seared meat bits and whatever seasonings hadn’t been irradiated.

It was a hearty slop that had filled her on the nights she could celebrate.

Still, it didn’t look pretty. But she had tried to dress it up with fresh garnish and the good olive oil Emma bought her, because tonight—this mattered.

Scott arrived first, knocking politely even though she’d told him ten times the van had a doorbell.

“Hey,” he said, stepping up and ducking through the side door. “Wow.”

The interior lighting caught the curve of the new table. The mood panels Emma had insisted on glowed in soft amber. The air inside was warm and… cozy.

“You finally finished it,” he said.

“I did.” Ruby gestured toward the table where the bowls were already set. “And I made dinner.”

Scott blinked, then looked at the food, then at her. “You cooked?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’m not—just impressed.” He leaned down and inhaled. “It smells delicious.”

Emma arrived next, in civilian glam—heels and all—carrying a bottle of white wine with a smirk that said of course I knew you were cooking so I brought the wine. She stepped into the van, surveyed the interior, and offered a soft nod of approval.

“Well done,” she said, removing her sunglasses. “You made it a home.”

Ruby gestured again, a bit self-conscious now that Scott and Emma were here.

“I made stew,” Ruby said, trying not to fidget. “It’s something from… back home. Just… better ingredients. And fewer powdered eggs and ground rations.”

They sat down and began eating.

And Ruby watched them as they tasted it.

Scott’s brow rose first, chewing thoughtfully, before reaching for the salt.

Emma’s eyes narrowed like she was solving a culinary riddle.

Finally, Emma set down her fork with exaggerated care.

“It is… definitely unique, but you need to temper the spice with fat,” she said. “Add more butter, or perhaps finish with a cream swirl next time. And darling—never go light on the salt. Wars were fought over salt.”

Ruby stared. Salt was sacred and scarce.

“You’re saying it’s bad.”

Emma smiled faintly, shaking her head. “I’m saying it’s yours, and it’s tasty. But you can always make it better. We can make it better – with all the spices you have now.”

Ruby kept on living past an apocalypse – she was never meant to be a ghost in the past.

Scott reached for the spice rack, unscrewed a jar, and sprinkled a touch more over his bowl. “The meat is just right, but the sauce needs more paprika.”

Ruby let out a laugh she hadn’t expected—sharp, loud, and surprised even herself. It was half mortified, half delirious. But she wasn’t angry.

They weren’t sugarcoating anything. They weren’t giving her pity.

They were showing her how to make it better.

Not because it was broken, but because it was real.

The food wasn’t perfect. The recipe was still one foot in the apocalypse.

But here she was, in her own van, feeding the two people who had somehow made space in their lives to make this real for her.

This was what she wanted.

Not pity.

Participation.

She watched them eat in her van, in the space she finished, with a meal she made. Her heart felt too big for her ribs, like it might punch through and thump right onto the table.

She lifted her bowl and took another bite.

“Next time,” she said, “I want to try my hand with dumplings. It didn’t look too difficult, and I want to try the other spices.”

Scott raised a brow. “Like paprika?”

Emma deadpanned, “Only if you want your ancestors to cry.”

They all laughed.

And outside, the city buzzed—oblivious to the stealth camper van parked at its edge. Inside, a former child soldier, a telepathic queen, and a time-lost survivor clinked their glasses of sparkling water and cheap white wine, and celebrated something that might’ve looked like dinner.

The stew wasn’t perfect.

But the moment?

It tasted like family.

If we listen to each other's heart
We'll find we're never too far apart
And maybe love is the reason why
For the first time ever, we're seeing it eye to eye

Epilogue:

The hum of the engine was soft beneath her feet.

Outside, the world blurred into the dusky horizon—rolling hills, highway signs half-swallowed by vines, and golden streaks of sun caught between clouds.

It was the kind of quiet that used to set Ruby’s teeth on edge. The kind that came before a drone strike, or an ambush, or a death too loud to mourn properly.

But now?

Now the quiet held no threat.

She had the windows cracked open just enough for the wind to carry in the scent of trees. Her playlist—curated carefully by Scott and reluctantly approved by Emma—shuffled between old rock ballads and orchestral scores. The steering wheel vibrated gently in her hands, and the van moved with the kind of smooth assurance that came from a well-built life.

Her life.

Ruby glanced at the side mirror and caught sight of the faint shimmer along the van’s edge—the optic camouflage system still running in low-power mode. The security node near the dashboard blinked green, monitoring everything within fifty meters.

Her coffee mug sat in its magnetized holder. Her spice rack—blessedly bolted with Emma-approved dampeners—stayed in place even on rough patches of road.

She smiled.

The van didn’t just feel like hers.

It felt like home.

And right now, it was perfectly parked just off a cliffside overlook.

The view stretched wide across a lake bathed in copper twilight, and she’d made herself a modest dinner of reheated stew, toast, and a soft-boiled egg that Emma would probably scold her for under-seasoning.

Ruby slid into the bed nook, curled up in a blanket Scott had quietly left folded near the footlocker before she left. One of Emma’s spare silk throw blankets was half-draped on top of it—“For class,” she had said, “not comfort.”

Her fingers hovered over the satellite phone.

Then she sighed and tapped the screen.

It rang twice.

“Darling,” Emma’s voice came through immediately, cool and clipped. “You’re one hour and six minutes late. Were you kidnapped? Turned into mulch? Or worse—did you forget to moisturize?”

“I’m on a mountaintop!” Ruby laughed. “Time got away from me.”

“Unacceptable,” Emma replied flatly. “You made a promise. I have Illyana and her strike team on speed dial.”

“You would.”

“I do.”

There was a pause. Ruby could hear the clink of a wineglass in the background, and Scott’s voice murmuring something she couldn’t catch.

Then Emma softened, just slightly.

“Where are you, really?”

Ruby turned her phone so the video feed picked up the view. “Somewhere near the Nevada border. I didn’t check the town name, but the gas station had great donuts and a very confused cashier who asked if my van was 'military issue.'”

Emma’s brows lifted. “Did you say yes?”

“I said my parents built it. He looked terrified.”

“Good girl.”

They shared a quiet moment. The wind whistled gently through the trees behind her. In the video feed, Emma looked at Ruby with a face that had trouble admitting warmth—except in the way her gaze lingered.

“You doing alright out there?” Emma asked.

Ruby hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. I am. It’s weird. I keep expecting something to go wrong. But then nothing does. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You live,” Emma said simply. “You wake up and you live. That’s the whole trick.”

Ruby swallowed. “I didn’t think I’d get this far.”

“You mean, you didn’t think you deserved to.” Emma’s voice held no judgment, only her usual certainty. “But now you do. You’ve earned all of it. The unique stew. The ugly view. The dumb road signs. Even the hideous spice rack you chose.”

“It’s a great spice rack.”

“It’s an affront to interior design.”

“You can still trademark yours.”

“I just might.” Emma said, before sighing. “Call again next week. Or sooner.”

“Under threat of a telepathic shakedown?”

“Under threat of me showing up. And it won’t just be for tea.”

They both grinned.

“Give Scott my regards.”

Ruby ended the call, and the silence that followed felt different now.

Not empty – not like before.

She pulled the blanket tighter around her, lay back on her bed, and stared through the skylight above—the stars beginning to twinkle into being.

Somewhere out there was a world that didn’t want her dead. A future that wasn’t a punishment.

And a road that was hers to choose.

For the first time in her life, Ruby Summers felt like she wasn’t running from something.

She was heading toward it.

And that made all the difference.

Eventually, Ruby looked up again.

She traced constellations between her fingers. Not the ones she’d memorized, but the ones she was naming for herself now.

Places I’ll go.

Things I’ll build.

People who waited for me to choose.

Her van—her home—rested silently.

She had no destination in mind, no endgame to reach.

Just the open sky, the steady hum of the van, and the quiet certainty that—wherever she went—she would be enough.

And maybe, really, that was the point.

-0-0-0-

Omake:

“Scott, darling, consider me impressed.”

“How come?”

“When Ruby mentioned wanting a campervan, I thought you’d be against it.”

“I’d like to think I’m a supportive figure.”

“Yes, but there’s buying your little girl a car, and there’s building her a mobile home to cross-country with.”

“You’re saying I was being excessive?”

“No. I’m saying, don’t be surprised when an emotionally-vulnerable, soul-searching and very attractive Frost-Summers comes home with a baby bump.”

“…”

“…”

“…Emma, I need to borrow your phone. X-Force is on speed-dial, right?”

Emma smiled.

Scott was so easy to manipulate.

Chapter Text

The Zashiki Warashi of Mutantkind (Illyana Rasputin - III)

Scott Summers was tired and his body was incredibly sore.

It had been a grueling battle but, somehow, the X-Men had survived yet another apocalypse.

Some giant trans-dimensional travelling gorilla looking for its soul, leaving only desolation in its wake. That would have been easy, sure, but the beast was being chased by a powerful cyborg and his army, causing a three-way clash that had ripped open the fabric of reality, causing more of the gorilla's kin to spill into their universe.

And the giant apes were both hungry and angry.

Eventually, Kitty managed to befriend the original gorilla who, in turn, herded its kin back to where they came from after displacing the alpha through bloody revolution, while Scott and his team managed to takedown the insane cyborg.

But not before the cyborg revealed his body was in a temporal flux, and that upon his death, the capacitor in him would overload, causing a singularity large enough to wipe out half the world…

Scott paused as he remembered the absurdity. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, banishing the incoming migraine.

Honestly. Scott was almost glad when, after the whole ordeal, various newsgroups arrived at the scene, all but interrogating him for answers and accusing the mutants for the near-catastrophe.

That actually was familiar.

Scott sighed.

He hadn't even crossed into his thirties, and he already felt incredibly old.

Well, at least no one died.

Half the team was recovering and it physically hurt to breathe through is cracked ribs, but nobody died—and that was always a win in his book.

"You still alive, Scott?" A voice chimed in beside him.

Scott turned and found Illyana staring at him.

"Illyana." Scott acknowledged with a nod. "Yes. I'm standing, aren't I?"

Illyana crossed her arms. "You haven't moved for a good minute. I was worried you were having a stroke."

"If I had a stroke, you'd be the first to know."

"Oh, you're only saying that because I'm free transport." Illyana pouted.

"Indeed." Scott smirked. "I have the best odds of survival in your hands."

"And now the flattery." Despite her words, Illyana's smile broadened.

"How are you feeling?" Scott asked, "You were out for a while after taking that hit for me."

"Oh, you know." Illyana shrugged, almost making a show of the act as if to emphasize, "I heal quickly."

"Must be nice to have all that magic." Scott mused.

"Must be nice to have all of your soul." Illyana pointed out.

It was Scott's turn to pout. "I really can't say anything to that, can I?"

Illyana shook her head and grinned, "No, but you're more tolerable when your lips are sealed."

Scott's brow arched, amused. It wasn't lost on him that she was the one to approach him. "Not worried I'll have a stroke?"

"Not anymore." Illyana shook her head, pleased.

Scott smiled at that. Illyana's piercing blue eyes seemed to dance; it was clear she was having fun.

"Thank you, by the way."

Illyana tilted her head, silently asking him to elaborate.

Scott smiled, and obliged, "For coming through again. We've been relying on you a lot, lately, and you've always delivered."

Illyana shrugged. "I'm strong." She stated the fact.

Scott nodded. Indeed, strong was a severe understatement.

"All the same, we wouldn't have survived without you."

Hearing the sentiment his words didn't convey, Illyana ducked her eyes from his gaze. "I'm not a lucky charm."

"No," Scott placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, "but your presence is a reassurance."

Illyana understood what he meant.

And she sighed.

"Why didn't you ask?" Illyana gazed up at him. "You never once asked me how this would end. Not once."

Scott shrugged. "I figured, if you're still here and if you didn't say anything, then we're doing something right. Whatever we were doing was simply meant to happen."

Illyana stared at him.

Honestly, this man either had too much faith in her or too much steel in his balls to hedge on such a gamble. Her gaze dipped downwards just to be sure, and she started to chuckle at the insanity of Scott's mind.

Scott joined in her mirth with a smirk.

Oh, how he didn't understand the knife's edge he teetered on…

"You're right." Illyana finally said, "I did go back. Several times, in fact."

"But…?"

"But you died." Illyana stated simply. "Each time I went back and told you what to do or how this would end, you died. We'd eventually win, but you always died." Illyana laughed, but it was such a hollow, chilling tone. "I once locked you up in a box. A stray attack destroyed you."

Her powers allowed her to stack the deck but she never could roll the die.

Scott's brows knitted in confusion. "So what changed?"

Illyana straightened. "I believed in you."

"Ah…" Scott actually blushed in embarrassment. There was no flattery in Illyana's azure orbs; just a sincere declaration.

And he also caught the implication in her words. She entered the cycle hoping to land in the outcome where they won and he continued to live. The realization also made his earlier declaration sound that much more oblivious. It was no wonder Illyana found it so funny.

"Thanks." Scott awkwardly said as he scratched the back of his neck. Finding the need to change the topic before he imploded under her gaze, he began, "So. I guess I owe you something…?"

Illyana's eyes lit up. Whatever dark thoughts festered in the mind of Limbo's Queen were banished by the exciting offer.

"Finally!" She nodded happily and with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. "I don't keep you alive for free, you know." She teased, but even Scott could tell she didn't believe her words.

"Of course." Scott nodded with a waiting smile.

It honestly wasn't a stretch to believe this was Illyana's world, and he was just fortunate enough to live in it. Might as well keep the demon lord happy.

"Come along, then." She grabbed his arm and dragged him. "I have a list. It might take us a while, but we have time. Much time."

As Scott was dragged into yet another adventure, one thing was definitely clear.

He'd never find another friend quite like Illyana Rasputin.

Chapter Text

March of the Cuckoos (Stepford Cuckoos - II)

When the three sisters first arrived, Emma had handed Scott his coffee with a solemnity like she was passing him a sealed court summons.

"They can have the guest room," she said.

Scott blinked at her over the rim of his mug. "You know that's not going to contain them, right?"

"I'm making a gesture of goodwill, not a strategic concession." Emma leaned against the tabletop, expression pure deadpan. "Let the record show I offered an olive branch first."

The guest room lasted four days, having been quickly renovated thanks to mutant technology and three very determined Cuckoos building their ideal nest.

On the fifth morning, Scott walked into what used to be the gym annex and found blueprints—glowing and well-annotated—floating in the air like a hologram. The words "Cuckoo-Summers Domain Expansion Project" hovered in the corner like a government seal.

“What’s all this?” Scott asked, marveling at how the three were actually turning one room into an entire wing.

He was a bit worried about what his house would look like from the outside, but he also trusted that the girls had inherited Emma's flair for aesthetics.

Phoebe looked up from her datapad. "You have great natural light in this section."

Mindee added, "And enough space for insulation to muffle at least 65% of Emma’s disapproving sighs."

Celeste didn’t look up. "We’ve factored in emergency exits, psychic shielding, and even space for an espresso station."

At Scott's questioning brow, she huffed, offended. "We’re not animals."

Scott stood there, coffee in hand, already resigned. "You're not even pretending this is temporary, anymore."

"Temporary is a state of mind," Phoebe said cheerfully.

"Like a guest room," added Mindee.

"Or personal boundaries," Celeste offered, finally glancing up. "We can return the yoga mat, if you miss it."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I just finished reorganizing those weights, too."

Mindee blinked at him, innocent as sin. "If it helps, we alphabetized your training manuals."

"And we removed the ones where you might die or break a bone. That seemed unnecessary." Phoebe added.

Celeste supplied, "Might we suggest a few that mother would enjoy doing with you?"

Scott gave them an amused look. "If I do, will you three start calling me dad?"

"No," they said in perfect, unnerving unison.

Then Phoebe added, "But we did list you as our emergency contact."

"And synced our calendars to yours." Mindee continued.

"Also, the wing’s lighting system responds to your biometric patterns." Celeste explained, then paused. "For... convenience."

Scott stared. "So, the lights work better for me than they do for Emma?"

They didn’t answer, but Phoebe smirked. Celeste arched a brow as if he asked something obvious. Mindee stirred her tea like she’d just won a debate.

He took a long sip of his coffee and then nodded to himself, "You know, I've won many wars that gave me far less satisfaction than this."

Celeste walked over, handed him a revised set of specs—neatly labeled and impeccably bound—and placed a hand briefly on his wrist. "You don’t have to help, Scott... but we’d like it more if you did."

Scott stared down at the three of them. Clones of Emma Frost, genetically engineered to be telepathic marvels and to drive her insane.

His kitchen had never been messier.

And yet, his house had never been more alive.

He sighed. "Fine. But I get veto power over the color scheme."

"Done," said Phoebe.

"We predicted that," said Mindee.

"Blue and yellow neutrals," said Celeste. "And yes, we excluded any magenta accents. You're welcome."

He blinked. "You read my—"

"Preferences," she said smoothly. "We read your preferences."

Scott stared at them a moment longer. Then turned toward their budding nest.

"Alright," he said. "Let’s get back to building you three a wing."

Behind him, the girls exchanged a victorious look.

"He’s already ours." Mindee cheered in their telepathic hivemind.

"Do we tell Emma now, or wait until the AI starts calling him 'Dad'?" Phoebe wondered.

"Oh, wait. It already does." Celeste realized.

They followed him in step, like a triplicate parade of soft rebellion.

The house just got louder.

And warmer.

-0-0-0-

Scott Summers had rebuilt the Xavier Institute more times than he could count. He’d patched up the moonbase after meteor strikes, once held a collapsing support beam in place with bungee cords and a single cable tie, and even survived a Danger Room meltdown using nothing but a spork and sheer spite.

None of it prepared him for the logistical and emotional chaos of building a new wing for three teenage Emma Frost clones.

“Celeste,” Phoebe said, her voice sharp as she stood near what used to be the meditation room, now rapidly transforming into her bedroom. “I said soft-diffused daylight, not ‘villain monologue spotlight.’”

Celeste didn’t look up from the floating schematic she was adjusting with precise, telekinetic gestures. “And I said intimidating ambiance. You can’t have proper dramatic tension without shadow interplay.”

“You’re not auditioning for a spy film.”

“Not with that attitude.”

Mindee, meanwhile, entered carrying a box labeled EMOTIONAL SUPPORT CANDLES and muttering under her breath something about unreasonable siblings.

Scott stood in what used to be a clean hallway and which now looked like a cross between a construction site and a day spa. He’d just mounted what he’d been told was a “debriefing alcove,” which suspiciously resembled a floating bookshelf with mood lighting.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said, wiping dust off his hands, “we are keeping one room functional, right?”

“This one is functional,” Phoebe replied brightly. “This alcove is where Emma can talk about her feelings.”

Scott opened his mouth, thought better of it, then closed it. “Okay. Just… don’t touch the fuse box again.”

“That fire was minor,” Celeste offered without remorse.

“It was blue. In space.”

“The best fire is.”

He stared at her. She stared back, unblinking.

Scott rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “What’s next?”

“Chromatherapy lighting,” Mindee said, setting the box down and pulling out what looked like a pastel swatch book and a small, unholy fusion of a mood ring and a remote control.

“The lights will adjust based on emotional frequency,” Phoebe added. “So, when Emma walks in, the room dims like a soap opera.”

Scott paused. He gave them a long, unreadable look while his survival instincts screamed. “I’m not wiring that.”

“You don’t have to,” Celeste said, already knee-deep in thermal coils and solder. “I’ve got it.”

He knelt beside her to hold a stabilizer panel. “You know, for someone who spent this morning rearranging the spice rack, you’re surprisingly good at fine circuit work.”

“We’re very adaptable women. Skill acquisition is a core Frost trait,” she replied, without looking up.

Scott arched a brow. “Capable as well, then.”

She glanced up briefly, a crooked smile touching her lips. Not smug—just... satisfied.

“Thanks, Dad,” she said, soft and automatic.

Silence fell like a dropped anvil.

Phoebe froze mid-hover with a curtain rod.

Mindee audibly inhaled, glitter from a half-open craft kit catching the light.

Celeste blinked once. Her expression didn’t change, but something in her shoulders locked tight.

“I— that was a slip,” she said quickly, eyes now a little too wide.

“Obviously,” Mindee said, voice pitched too casual. “She meant… Dude All-Father.”

“Or D-Architect,” Phoebe supplied. “Designated Authority Figure?”

“Or... Designated Driver?” Mindee offered weakly.

Celeste pressed a hand to her forehead. “I’m going to throw myself into the sun.”

Scott, calm as ever, nudged a wire into place and murmured, “Hey. Could’ve been worse. You could’ve called me Mom.”

Mindee let out a snort.

Phoebe laughed, then collapsed onto a pile of scatter cushions like a soap opera starlet.

Celeste peeked at him through her fingers. “You’re really not going to make it weird?”

“Celeste,” Scott said, finally turning toward her with a half-smile, “you called me ‘Dad’ while building a room with emotion-sensitive LED lights. On the moon. I think this counts as peak weird, but I’m touched all the same.”

Celeste laughed, soft and slightly embarrassed, and dropped her hand from her face.

Scott tightened the last screw into the panel and said, “Still, if this keeps happening—I’m picking the paint.”

Mindee was the first to answer. “Deal.”

The next few moments were filled with bickering, laughter, floating furniture, and general low-level mischief.

It was still chaos. But it was the kind that didn’t drain him—only warmed something quiet and long-abandoned in his chest.

Celeste bumped shoulders with him as they worked side by side in the dim glow of the lights.

“Thanks, Scott,” she said, softly.

He didn’t say anything back.

Just bumped her shoulder in return and kept screwing in the panel.

The wing wasn’t finished yet.

But somehow, it already felt like a home.

-0-0-0-

The smell of coffee drifted through the unfinished wing like a peace offering.

Scott had commandeered the tiny kitchenette alcove between what would become the girls' rooms. He’d barely finished setting the brewer up that morning, but he figured caffeine might buy him a brief truce.

It was a naïve hope.

"Scott," Phoebe said, walking in without looking up from her datapad, "you do know this machine is still suboptimal, right?"

"It makes coffee," he replied, pouring himself a cup. "That’s optimal enough."

"The bean-to-water ratio would not even pass a Starbucks entrance exam! " Celeste exclaimed like the world was about to end, drifting in behind her sister and immediately inspecting the grinder settings like a forensic psychic.

Mindee appeared next, already holding a mug. She took one whiff of the brew and sighed. "I mean... it’s not bad bad."

"Which, coming from you three, is basically an endorsement," Scott said, sipping calmly.

They settled in like cats—graceful, slightly aloof, and definitely judgmental.

Mindee perched on the counter, Phoebe spun one of the stools around backwards to sit like a rebellious teen in a sitcom, and Celeste leaned against the cabinet like she was planning a coup.

"Alright," Scott said, looking at them. "Why do I feel like this is a trap?"

"Because you’re observant," Celeste said.

"And not entirely wrong," Phoebe added.

Mindee sipped her coffee, then gestured her mug at him.

It read, in soft script: Nurture Me, Coward.

Scott stared. Then sighed. "How long have you had that?"

"Oh, this one? A week. There’s a backup mug that says World's Okayest Telepath."

"Will I be getting my own mug, too?"

“We have something in the works.” Celeste airily said.

They sat in companionable silence for a moment.

The sisters then glanced at each other, and began.

"So. Do you think you’d be a good dad?" Phoebe asked abruptly.

Scott blinked. "That’s a hell of a question for a Tuesday."

"Hypothetically," Mindee clarified. "You know, if someone were... living in your house. Sharing your bandwidth. Eating your protein bars. And just maybe calling you Dad."

Celeste narrowed her eyes. "Real subtle."

“I didn’t slip up and call him ‘dad’.” Mindee hissed back. Celeste stuck her tongue out in return.

Scott leaned against the counter, coffee in hand. He didn’t smile, but there was warmth in his shoulders. "I think I’d try to be a good one," he finally said. "I think it’d matter to me."

The Cuckoos exchanged a look—one of those dense, silent conversations that happened in a fraction of a second, without a word.

“That settles it.” The three said in unison.

"We should discuss inheritance procedures," Phoebe announced. "In case Emma relocates to that spa planet she’s been bookmarking."

"That’s not a real place," Scott muttered.

"Yet," Mindee said, grinning.

Celeste raised her mug in a toast. "To the future, then."

Scott clinked his mug against hers, then declaring in faux drama. "What has Emma unleashed?"

From across the moonbase, Emma’s voice rang out faintly, "I heard that!"

Phoebe grinned. "We told you she has the place wired."

Scott took another sip and sighed.

Looks like exciting times were up ahead.

-0-0-0-

Emma Frost didn’t ask permission.

She just opened the door to what had once been her guest closet—a small, humble space with a mirrored wall, a shoe rack, and shelves designed specifically to fit multiple six-inch heels in a climate-controlled carousel.

It was empty now. Or at least, it should have been.

Instead, a makeshift curtain had been drawn across one end, hiding some kind of glowing console. A cushion had been mounted to the wall like someone was planning to perch.

Emma crossed her arms and called out, sharp and clear:

"Mindee, darling. Why is there a meditation shrine in my closet?"

Mindee poked her head in from the hallway, toast in one hand. "Because you said no candles in the ventilation shafts."

Emma blinked. "That is not an explanation."

"Hey, you asked me."

Scott arrived next, clutching a tablet with building schematics. "Everything alright?"

"No," Emma said crisply. "My closet has been annexed by a blonde insurgency."

Mindee nodded thoughtfully. "It's just a little repurposing."

Emma gestured an arm to the rest of their wing incredulously.

Celeste and Phoebe appeared a moment later, wearing matching robes.

They also had tea.

A very familiar scent of tea.

"You're drinking my white tea," Emma accused.

"It was abandoned." Celeste pointed out.

"And available," Phoebe countered, entirely unfazed.

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. "Girls. We talked about sharing, right?"

"Yes," Celeste said. "This one was formerly shared between Emma and her designer stiletto collection."

Emma was about to retort when the wall AI chimed softly: "Update. Room registry complete. Initiating: Mindee's Mindful Microclimate."

"What."

Celeste smiled. "We taught the AI to recognize us as co-admins."

Scott blinked. "You rewired the base? Again?"

Phoebe sipped her tea. "We told you this before."

Celeste reasured, "Don't worry. we gave you override permissions. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

Mindee tilted her head innocently. "You’re the stable parent, Scott. You’re not going to abuse the power."

Emma narrowed her eyes. "Which makes me what? The unstable one?"

All three of them nodded solemnly.

"That’s profiling," Emma muttered.

"It’s genetic," Celeste corrected.

“We just thought of what we would do if given power.” Phoebe added.

“Since, you know, we’re you.” Mindee explained.

Scott sighed and leaned against the wall. "You know, when I imagined having kids, I thought maybe just the one. Not three telepaths who unionized against their mother."

"If mother would nurture us, then we’d have no cause to unionize for." Phoebe said.

"I allowed you a wing, and you three still want more." Emma let out an exhale that was half-growl, half-laugh. "And if you put one more beanbag in this house, I’m installing psychic dampeners."

Mindee patted her on the arm. "We love you too, Mother."

Scott glanced at the tea, the robes, the AI update blinking on his tablet.

He shot Emma a supportive smile. "They’ve taken over, haven’t they?"

Emma, resigned, rubbed at her temple. "The revolution has already been scheduled. Even with my olive branch."

Celeste raised her mug in salute. "Viva la Frost."

Scott, looking at all of them, shrugged. "...Is it weird that I’m kind of proud?"

"Yes.” Emma immediately said, then smiled, “But also, I'm proud of my girls, too."

-0-0-0-

It was past midnight, and the moonbase had gone still in that strange way only deep space allowed. No background traffic, no ambient hum of city life.

Just the quiet, persistent hush of recycled air and the occasional blink of a status light across the hall.

Scott wandered out of his room barefoot, wearing soft flannel pants and a gray shirt that had seen better decades. He rubbed a hand through his hair and checked the corridor lighting—dimmed to night mode. Good. Maybe they'd all finally gone to sleep.

He passed the newly completed Cuckoo Wing.

The door to Phoebe's room was cracked open, glowing faintly pink from within. Mood lighting, again, because “they were Frosts” and “sometimes, we let the environment talk about our feelings”.

Scott quietly peeked inside.

Phoebe was sprawled on her bed in a starfish position, one hand trailing off the mattress, a Danger Room hologram frozen mid-simulation on her wall. The projection of a younger Scott somersaulted over a simulated Sentinel, frozen mid-air.

She was smiling in her sleep.

Scott shut the door carefully and moved on.

The lounge had been rearranged since he last saw it. Mindee's doing, probably. She'd added a corner baking nook, complete with a wall-mounted spice rack and a self-cleaning oven. The place smelled faintly of cinnamon and burnt marshmallow.

In the dim blue light, he spotted Celeste on a beanbag. Her legs were curled beneath her, a datapad slipping from her fingers as her head rested against a plush pillow. Her breathing was soft and steady.

He retrieved the datapad and placed it on the side table without waking her.

Then he found Mindee.

She was in the kitchen, hunched over a tray of something gooey and unidentifiable. The oven timer beeped. She turned it off with a wave of her hand and sniffed the pan thoughtfully.

“What time is it?” Scott asked quietly.

Mindee didn’t flinch. "Past midnight. It’s still not late enough, though."

He leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed. "Can’t sleep?"

"Just needed a little baking therapy after all the construction," she said, sliding a spatula under the half-solid mass. "You want some?"

He looked at it. "Will it bite me?"

Mindee shrugged. "I’d say it’s a fifty-fifty. I didn’t check the expiration on the marshmallows."

Scott walked in, picked up a fork, and sat at the island counter.

He took a bite, then blinked. "This is weirdly good."

She grinned. "Weirdly is a spice I have plenty of."

A few quiet moments passed. Mindee leaned against the counter, watching him.

"You didn’t think we’d stay, did you?"

Scott glanced at her. "Honestly? I wasn’t sure."

"Phoebe has an exit plan. Celeste has contingencies. I'm bribing you with dessert."

He smiled at that. "Sounds about right."

Mindee took a breath. "You could be our dad, you know. If you want to be..."

Scott blinked. The words hung in the air like steam off the cooling marshmallow tray.

"Is that… something all three of you want?"

Mindee looked down at her hands. Then, without meeting his gaze, nodded.

"You don’t have to raise us or anything. Just… be this. The one who builds the wing. Who eats the marshmallow weirdness. Who… shows up."

Scott put down the fork.

He crossed the kitchen and pulled her into a hug.

"Then you’re mine too," he said, voice low but certain.

Mindee hugged back tightly. Then mumbled into his shirt, "Even if it means you’re gonna have to deal with synchronized PMS and three telepaths wanting father-daughter dances?"

Scott exhaled a laugh. "I fought Magneto in a lava field once. I think I can handle teenage clones with Emma."

From the hallway, Celeste murmured in her sleep. Phoebe rolled over and muttered something about how "laser dad rocks."

Scott looked toward the darkened hallway, then back down at Mindee.

"I think we’re going to be okay."

Mindee grinned, pulling away just enough to grab another fork. "You're going to need this. The middle is where the good stuff lives."

He took it.

Dug in.

And thought,

Yeah. This is finally a home.

Chapter Text

Morning Dew (Ruby Summers & Rachel Grey – I)

Don't let utopia haunt you, there's more to save.
Don't stop the search for the perfect, you're smart and brave.
Don't let them sail off in anger, just smile and wave.

The Summers backyard was, for the once, peaceful – as if the universe itself had called a temporary truce to not ruin Scott Summers’ day.

The summer sun cast a warm light over the neatly trimmed garden lawn. On the patio was a lavish couch and dining setup, complete with luxurious blankets and a retractable umbrella. While on the lawn, just beneath the shade, was a picnic table setup. Lastly, the jewel of the afternoon, a black grill, stood ready at the heart of it all.

Scott was at the helm of the cooking station, happily clicking his tongs as he waited for the meat to be just right while the scent of roasting meat filled the air.

Beside him stood Ruby Summers, sleeves rolled up. She wasn’t used to the grill, but she found herself mirroring Scott’s posture without thinking: squared shoulders, steady grip on the tongs, deadpan commentary delivered with a Frost’s cadence.

“Turn too early and you lose the sear,” Scott said, flipping a burger with an ease that showed he was in his element. “Let the heat do the work.”

Ruby nodded. “You say that like the meat isn’t about to self-immolate.”

Scott smiled. “That’d give us a great crust.”

She smiled at him faintly, nudging the skewer.

Ruby would never admit it, but this—being here, grilling with her dad on a warm summer day, without the threat of a Sentinel crackdown—was rare and fragile, and she didn’t want to puncture it by being too obvious about how much this mattered to her.

Which, of course, the universe decided was just the right time for someone to burst her bubble.

The sliding door creaked open behind them.

“Smells like something’s burning out here,” Rachel Grey announced, stepping onto the patio in jeans and a tank top, one hand shading her eyes. Her red hair was tied up in a messy braid and she wore tinted red sunglasses eerily similar to Scott’s.

Ruby frowned. “You showed up. That’s new.”

“I live ten minutes away.”

“And you were still late.”

Rachel inwardly bristled, but chose to ignore Ruby's abrasiveness. Instead, she strode up to the grill, peering at the contents with a forced casualness. “Need a hand?”

Scott brightened. “Sure! Grab those skewers. We’re doing a lamb batch next.”

Ruby reached for them first, “I’ve got it.”

Rachel’s hand hovered over the tray. “He said I could help.”

“You could help by mixing drinks.” Ruby fired back. "Inside."

Scott, blissfully unaware of the sharpness in their voices, turned a sizzling sausage with fatherly pride. “Hey, the more people at the grill, the better, right?”

Ruby and Rachel both muttered a vague, “Sure.”

-0-0-0-

Inside the house, Jean Grey floated cherry tomatoes into a bowl while Emma Frost leaned against the counter, sipping chilled rosé in a sunhat far too glamorous for a suburban backyard.

“They’ve started,” Emma Frost said, eyes on the patio doors.

Jean didn’t look up. “I give it ten minutes before someone flips more than a burger.”

“Rachel is the telekinetic…” Emma trailed off, smiling at the impending disaster.

“But we’ve all seen Ruby lift a truck.” Jean played along.

Both of Scott’s women laughed at the silliness.

Somehow, Ruby and Rachel – both technically their daughters, but not at the same time – had inherited their initial animosity towards each other, somehow continuing the Frost and Grey feud even when Jean and Emma had already moved on.

And Scott, the oblivious Summers that he was, was still at the heart of it all.

Bless him.

-0-0-0-

Back outside, the temperature had somehow risen—not from the grill, but from the tension in the air.

Scott was explaining flame zones and gas vents while Ruby and Rachel exchanged hard stares, as if telepathic warfare was happening.

Considering the two women in question, it likely was.

“You’re flipping them too soon,” Rachel said, nodding toward the chicken thighs.

Ruby lifted an eyebrow. “And you know this because… you psychically scanned their internal temp?”

“Because I read.” Rachel pointed at a grilling cheat sheet. “There are charts for this and a thermometer.”

“Oh no,” Ruby deadpanned. “The grilled meat has disappointed a Phoenix host and now she's hungry. You going to eat the sun, next?”

Rachel’s jaw tightened. “Not everything’s about cosmic fire, Ruby.”

“You sure? You’ve just walked in and somehow the heat isn’t cooperating anymore.”

Scott turned around with a plate in hand. “You two good over here?”

“Great,” they said in sync, their tones too sweet to be sincere.

He gave a nod, entirely satisfied. “I’ll grab the next batch of skewers.”

He turned toward the table, leaving his two alternate-reality daughters alone in the glow of burning coals and unresolved tension.

Rachel crossed her arms. “You always have to make it a contest?”

Ruby didn’t look at her. “You make it one by showing up late and wanting a medal.”

“I just wanted to help.”

“And I was already helping.” Ruby pointed out. “Go inside and do whatever you do best.”

“And what is that?”

“Not being here with Scott.”

Despite herself, Rachel winced.

There was a beat of silence, broken only by simmering meat on the grill.

Then Rachel said, voice softer, “He’s our dad. You know that, right?”

Ruby’s lips twitched. “Yeah. I know. I also know I’m not trying to win him back. Unlike you, I’m actually here.”

Rachel’s jaw clenched. “Well. Congratulations.”

Scott returned with more vegetables and a bright smile. “Okay! Time to do some bell peppers. Ruby, want to slice? Rachel, you up for oiling the tray?”

Both nodded, too synchronized to be believable.

As they moved back into motion, Rachel’s elbow bumped Ruby’s slightly. Not too hard to causes disruption, but definitely not by accident.

Ruby frowned, then bumped her back slightly harder.

Scott was too busy coating the corn with a brush of garlic butter to notice.

Inside the house, Emma and Jean exchanged a glance.

“Two daughters. One grill,” Emma muttered. “He really doesn’t see it, does he?”

Jean laughed. “He’ll notice when the propane tank starts to levitate.”

Emma raised her glass. “I’ll toast to restraint.”

Back outside, Ruby slid a kebab onto the tray, then brandished another skewer while locking eyes with Rachel.

Rachel grabbed the tongs, holding them like a dueling saber. “Ready for round two?”

Ruby smiled, slow and dangerous. “Born ready.”

And Scott—ever the optimist—sighed with satisfaction, as if the day were unfolding perfectly.

-0-0-0-

The burgers were safely resting under foil. The lamb skewers had been consumed with almost suspicious speed. Emma and Jean were bonding over a stack of corn cobs.

And still, Scott Summers stood at the grill with the relentless focus of a general defending his last outpost.

“Alright,” he said, gesturing to the fresh batch of sliced bell peppers and mushrooms. “Now we’re doing another veggie run.”

Rachel, tongs in hand, was already reaching for the tray.

“Careful,” Ruby said, loading her own skewer. “These aren’t as forgiving as your bratwurst incident.”

Rachel scoffed. “It must’ve been the wind.”

“There was no wind,” Ruby replied, deadpan. “Only hubris.”

Scott glanced between them, lips parted like he wanted to interject, but thought better of it. He took a swig from his lemonade instead, then gently repositioned a skewer on the grill. “You two could give a boxer a run for their money with the jabs.”

Rachel smirked. “The way Ruby’s grilling, they’d tap out before the second course.”

Ruby didn’t answer, but her eyes gleamed behind her dark shades.

-0-0-0-

From the patio, Jean had taken up residence under the umbrella with Emma, quietly enjoying the show far too much to interrupt it.

Emma took another slow sip of her wine. “Is it weird how much fun this is to watch from the other side?”

Jean smiled over the rim of her glass. “At least they’re not using cutlery as weapons.”

Emma hummed. “What do you call the skewers and tongs?”

-0-0-0-

Back at the grill, Ruby sprinkled seasoning on a fresh skewer, flicking her fingers with practiced ease. Rachel leaned over to adjust the heat dial—Scott had momentarily stepped away to check on the cooler—and brushed past Ruby’s shoulder.

Ruby stepped to the side, just slightly.

“Something wrong?” Rachel asked, too lightly.

“You’re crowding,” Ruby said, not looking up.

“It’s a grill, not a stage.”

Ruby turned to face her then. “Funny. You’re acting like it is.”

The tongs in Rachel’s hand clacked a little too sharply as she flipped a skewer.

“I came here to spend time with my dad. Not to fight,” Rachel said, then glanced at her sort-of sister. “Especially not one I always win.”

“You sure?” Ruby’s tone didn’t rise, but it sharpened. “Because it feels like you came to make sure no one else gets too close.”

Rachel looked at her. “You think I’m threatened by you?”

Ruby stared back. “I think you didn’t care to return to my dad until I showed up.”

The silence between them was crackling. The grill hissed and popped. A sausage rolled too close to the edge.

Scott reappeared in time to save it.

“Whoa—almost lost a good one.” He flipped it back into place, pleased. “You girls doing okay?”

“Just perfect,” they said, again in eerie unison, again too sweet.

Scott paused, tongs halfway to the grate. “Great,” he said, smiling like he’d just defused a bomb. “I’m going to go grab the coleslaw.”

As he walked off, Rachel exhaled slowly, eyes still on the grill. She hesitated briefly, and her fingers flexed on the tongs.

“Look, I don’t hate you.” Rachel began, trying to make peace. “I just—he’s ours. Both of us. And it’s hard enough navigating that without someone acting like they’re the only one who gets him.”

“I never said I was the only one,” Ruby said. “But I am the one who’s here. Not halfway out the door each time drama picks up. Newsflash, Rachel – life always has drama.”

That one hit too close. Rachel’s posture stiffened.

The screen door slid open again, mercifully.

Scott returned with a large glass bowl and a blissful smile. “Coleslaw secured. Anything burnt?”

“Almost.” Rachel, jaw tight, threw a glance at Ruby. “Some things are just difficult to control. Like fire.”

 Scott placed a reassuring hand on Rachel’s shoulder – unaware of the way Ruby’s eyes narrowed at the contact.

"It’s not about control.” Scott nodded. “It’s about timing, trust, and instinct. Some things in life just don’t come in a manual.”

“Like family?” Ruby rolled her eyes.

“Especially family.” He grinned at Ruby, completely unaware of the emotional landmines littering the space between his time-displaced daughters. “Still, you’re both doing great. Honestly, this is the best barbecue we’ve had in ages. Couldn’t have done it without you two.”

He said it with equal warmth to both of them.

Ruby didn’t respond. Rachel smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Scott continued cheerfully, “You two teaming up—just makes me happy, you know? Like maybe all the complicated, world-ending, alternate-future stuff can take a backseat for once.”

Behind him, one of the lamb skewers fell between the grates with a quiet hiss.

Ruby and Rachel both stared at it.

Then, almost in sync.

“I’ll get it.”

They reached for the same pair of tongs.

Their fingers bumped.

The tension returned as the two glared at each other.

Scott blinked. “Okay—maybe I’ll just, uh, grab some more napkins.”

He walked off again.

Rachel looked at Ruby. “This is stupid.”

“Agreed.”

They let go of the tongs at the same time.

The lamb skewer remained trapped between the grates, sizzling helplessly like a sacrifice.

-0-0-0-

The grill was finally quiet now that the cooking was done. There were a few more pieces of meat left, waiting on the grill to keep warm before someone decides to eat it.

This, in Scott’s mind, made it the perfect time for family bonding. Emma and Jean were in their own little world, sipping on wine and snacking on charcuterie, laughing at something only they seemed to know about while pointing at him.

Ruby and Rachel, however…

He set down a tray of fresh fruit skewers—pineapple, strawberries, even a few slices of grilled peach—on the outdoor coffee table.

“Hey,” he called, “you two want to come sit for a bit?”

Rachel, lounging at the edge of the deck with a cup of iced tea, glanced over warily. Ruby, still standing near the grill with her arms folded, said nothing.

“C’mon,” Scott coaxed. “It’s too nice a day to brood at a ninety-degree angle from each other. Sit.”

Rachel relented first, settling onto the couch beside him. Ruby followed a few moments later, choosing the adjacent armchair but keeping her sunglasses on.

Scott grabbed a skewer and offered the plate around. “You two did great today. Seriously. The food was fantastic. The teamwork—” he smiled, a little too earnestly, “—was even better.”

Rachel and Ruby both made noncommittal sounds and took a fruit skewer. Ruby bit into a pineapple slice like it had wronged her.

Scott forged ahead. “You know, like I said before, there’s no manual for this. Any of this. But I keep thinking—maybe we don’t have to get it perfect. Maybe it’s enough just to be here. With both of you.”

That got a reaction, though neither of them looked at him.

“I mean,” Scott continued, picking at a peach slice, “you’re both strong – in your own ways – having gone through what each of you did. And it’s also kind of amazing that you’re both lowering your guards to figure each other out.”

Ruby crossed one leg over the other. “Is that what we’re doing?”

Scott chuckled. “Well, I don’t hear shouting, so I’m taking that as a win.”

Rachel smiled faintly, then glanced toward him. “Hey… do you remember when I first showed up?”

Scott blinked, surprised. “You were in a hound uniform – and wouldn’t tell me who you really were.”

She nodded. “You looked at me like I’d cracked open the sky.”

“I didn’t know what to think.” Scott said quietly, reminiscing their meeting. Maddie and Nathan had been there. “Jean was… gone. And you looked just like her.”

Rachel laughed, but it caught at the end. “I was half out of my mind. I was adjusting... and still, you reached out to me. Before even Jean did…”

“You looked like you needed someone,” Scott said, as if it were simple.

Rachel nodded, her heart twisting in her chest. “So… just so you know… when I changed my last name, I didn’t mean to hurt—"

Ruby set her skewer down.

“Must be nice,” she said flatly, cutting Rachel off, “to have memories like that.”

Scott turned to her, brow creased. “Hey. You’re making new ones now.”

“Sure,” Ruby murmured. “But I’m always the epilogue to Rachel, huh?”

Rachel frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ruby stood. “It means I get the aftertaste. The hand-me-downs. All the sweet stories, you've already claimed.” Ruby huffed, then leveled a glare at Rachel. “You act like you didn’t get to be the first Summers daughter in this timeline.”

“At least I didn’t have to time-travel into a perfect daughter fantasy.” Rachel fired back, her eyes narrowing angrily. “I didn’t ask to be first.”

“And I didn’t ask to come second,” Ruby shot back.

“Girls,” Scott interjected, alarm rising.

Rachel rose to her feet too. “You think this is easy for me? Walking into my family after you had taken over?”

“Oh, come off it,” Ruby said. “He was the first person to love you here. And you still pushed him away. You don’t get to act wounded now that you want Scott back. Again.”

Rachel’s voice dropped. “You weren’t even here for any of that.”

“And you weren’t here now until I showed up.”

Scott stood, hands raised. “Hey—this isn’t the time. Can’t we just—?”

But the air had shifted again.

The fragile peace had broken.

“I’m not trying to take anything from you,” Rachel said, her green eyes brimming in hurt and frustration. “But don’t act like all this is only yours.”

“I never did,” Ruby snapped. “But I’m the one showing up. Every time. You flinch the second things get real.”

Rachel winced like she’d been slapped.

Scott looked between them, “Ruby, that’s too far.”

“It’s true!” Ruby fumed, “And if you just stopped trying to reconnect with your favorite daughter, you’d see it too!”

Scott opened his mouth to rebuke the claim, but realized Ruby was too heated to listen. Instead, he held out the fruit tray like a peace offering.

“Here,” he said weakly. “Peach or strawberry?”

Ruby sat back down without a word.

Scott looked at Rachel. “You’re important to me.” He looked at Ruby. “And so are you. I don’t know how to make this easier, but… I’m trying.”

Rachel gave him a pained smile. “It’s not about trying.”

Ruby’s gaze didn’t soften. “It’s about showing up. And not just when it’s convenient.”

Behind him, another skewer slid from the edge of the grill, fell through the grates, and hit the dying coals with a soft, defeated hiss.

They all watched it burn.

Ruby glared at Rachel, as if daring her to make the first move.

Rachel, instead, stood up and walked away.

Ran away, as things got too real.

The skewer continued to sizzle, unattended, a casualty of sibling warfare.

-0-0-0-

At the patio, Jean and Emma were watching, having heard the escalating exchange, and watched as Rachel walked off with her shoulders slumped.

Jean sighed. “Scott’s really trying.”

Emma swirled her wine. “As hurtful as this is, this needs to happen. Neither of them will get better, otherwise.”

“Scott really thought a barbecue would fix this,” Jean said.

Emma clinked her glass against hers. “It's a classic mistake.”

Jean smiled. “He’s so earnest.”

Emma shrugged. “Sometimes, you just have to let things resolve itself.”

Jean arched a brow. “Like us?”

“We’re unique, I agree.” Emma nodded. “But those two share our blood and the Summers flair for melodrama.”

“Should we… help Scott?”

Emma glanced at Jean, then at Scott and Ruby. “Maybe. But they need this.”

“I just hope you’re right.”

“Darling, you know I might be cruel, but I am always right.”

-0-0-0-

The sun had begun to dip low.

Long shadows stretched over the grass, while a cool breeze had gently swept through the garden. The grill was finally cold and ready to be packed inside for another day.

Scott stood in the quiet aftermath, methodically wrapping up foil trays and rinsing the now-empty lemonade pitcher. He moved like someone who didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

Jean and Emma lingered nearby, watching him.

They’d packed away the last of the snacks and opened a new bottle of wine, but both of them had one eye trained on Scott, as if waiting to see whether he'd finally notice the metaphor slowly unfolding across their lawn.

“She’s sitting alone,” Jean told him telepathically, not needing to specify which one. Her voice was like a warm hug draping around his shoulders comfortingly.

“While the other is pacing,” Emma corrected, her own telepathic voice feeling like a head on his shoulder. “Or stalking in that insufferable broody Summers way.”

Scott exhaled, glancing toward the edge of the fence where Rachel sat alone, arms wrapped loosely around her knees. She stared out across the lawn, eyes unfocused.

Ruby hadn’t moved far. She was still by the grill, arms folded, gaze fixed somewhere in the distance, as if trying to will the coals to reignite with her glare.

“I should say something,” Scott muttered.

“No,” Jean’s firm voice echoed in his head.

“Let them circle each other.” Emma advised. “If you try to fix it, one of them might set you on fire.”

Jean nodded. “That’s not a joke.”

Scott winced. “Point taken.”

He disappeared into the house, ostensibly to fetch drinks. In truth, he needed the break.

Out on the lawn, Ruby shifted.

She picked up a can of soda from the cooler and, after a long moment of staring at the cold drink, crossed the grass and tossed it—gently—toward Rachel, who caught it without looking.

“Thanks,” Rachel said, after a pause.

“Figured you needed the sugar,” Ruby muttered.

Rachel cracked the can open. “If you’re trying to poison me, you should know I’ve survived much worse.”

Ruby shrugged. “I didn’t say I wasn’t testing the theory.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at Rachel’s lips. “Are you always this charming?”

“Only when I’ve nearly lost a lamb skewer.” Ruby pouted. “Those things are a luxury where I’m from.”

Rachel chuckled quietly. “Lamb was hard to come by in my time, too.”

They sat in silence for a while, neither one knowing what to say after they had said what they said.

Rachel tapped her fingers against the can. “I… saw that he still keeps that old photo. The one of me in front of the mansion. Right after I joined.”

Ruby nodded. “He showed it to me last week. Said you looked like you belonged.”

Rachel scoffed softly. “I felt like a ghost, now.”

“You look like someone trying not to vanish.”

Rachel turned her head, surprised.

Ruby didn’t meet her gaze. “I know what that looks like.”

Another silence passed, gentler this time.

“I didn’t come here to start a fight,” Rachel said, voice low. “But you make it hard not to.”

“You throw the first punch with your mouth. It’s a family trait.” Ruby shrugged. “Not my problem if I know how to fight back.”

Rachel smirked. “You get that from Emma.”

“Good. That means I’m actually right.”

Rachel took a sip of soda, then tilted her head back to look at the sky.

“I’ve spent most of my time chasing the idea of family.” Rachel began, “And yet, whenever I find it… I somehow make the one decision that loses it.”

“You do have a weird way of showing up when people stop waiting on you.” Ruby said.

Rachel exhaled. “Yeah. I know.”

A beat.

“You burned the sausages on purpose, didn’t you?”

Ruby’s expression didn’t change. “Mostly.”

“They were good,” Rachel admitted. “Charred. But good.”

That earned a small but honest smile from Ruby.

She finally sat down next to Rachel, the space between them closing by inches.

From the patio, Scott returned, holding three bottles of beer and the same uncertain hope he always carried when things didn’t end in flames.

He paused when he saw them—sitting side by side, not glaring, not yelling, not fighting.

They were just talking.

Just breathing.

Ruby glanced over her shoulder. “You got three for yourself or just hoping we’d share?”

Scott blinked, then smiled like he’d found sunlight in a bunker.

He stepped forward and held out the drinks. “Didn’t want to push my luck again.”

Rachel took hers. “You’re lucky we didn’t burn the house down.”

Scott sat between them on the grass. “This… this is good.”

Ruby and Rachel shared a look—equal parts exasperated and begrudgingly fond.

“Good is a strong word,” Ruby said.

Rachel nodded. “Let’s go with... not bad.”

Scott raised his bottle. “I’ll take it.”

-0-0-0-

From the patio, Jean and Emma watched them in silence.

Jean sighed, a smile tugging at her lips. “He did it. Kind of.”

“I told you. Let it resolve itself.” Emma tilted her head. “He did nothing, which turned out to be the right choice for once.”

Jean nudged her with the toe of her sandal. “And here you said Rachel would torch something.”

“I wasn’t wrong. Those cretins had already wasted more than one lamb skewer.” Emma shrugged. “And besides, Rachel just didn’t get the chance.”

Jean raised her glass. “To cautious optimism.”

Emma clinked hers against it. “To the Summers women. All four of us.”

Jean paused. “Even Madelyne?”

Emma sighed. “Well… maybe not this week. Cable isn’t even back yet.”

They both laughed.

-0-0-0-

As the fire pit flickered back to life, casting warm light across the yard, the tension that had filled the space slowly burned off—like the last of the smoke curling from the extinguished grill.

They hadn’t solved anything, really, at least nothing long-lasting.

But for now, they were sitting side by side.

And that was enough.

There really were no manuals to family.

Letting me go isn't the only answer.
Letting me go makes the world spin faster.
"No one like me" doesn't mean you won't like me.
I'll let you go,
it's a pattern on repeat.

Epilogue:

The morning after the barbecue had a different kind of quiet.

Not the strained kind from the afternoon before, thick with unsaid things and tiptoed silences.

This one was softer and definitely much warmer.

Scott stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, washing the last of the trays that were left soaking in soapy water overnight.

Jean sat at the breakfast nook, hair up in a loose knot, reading through a digital newsfeed while sipping her coffee. Emma, in a long silk robe that should’ve been too expensive to wear for a simple breakfast, stood by the counter nibbling toast and reviewing financial reports for her next major acquisition.

In the living room, Rachel and Ruby were arguing over the remote.

“No,” Rachel said, gripping the remote firmly, “we are not watching another episode of that cooking competition where people deep-fry things that should never be deep-fried.”

“Why not?” Ruby drawled from her sprawl on the couch. “It’s educational. You could learn something about flavor.”

Rachel gave her a look. “I have telepathy. I can taste any flavor I want without adding calories.”

“Then you should’ve used it last night before burning the zucchini.”

“You were the one who insisted we add paprika.”

“You can’t blame paprika for your emotional damage.”

Scott dried his hands with a dish towel. “Girls—”

“We’re fine.” Ruby and Rachel called back, in-sync.

Jean hid a smile behind her coffee mug.

Emma arched a brow. “You know, if I’d known sarcasm was the glue for their sisterhood, I’d have let them fight years ago.”

“Technically, they did fight,” Jean replied. “They even fought with spatulas.”

Ruby, without turning, called back, “Still the best conversation Rachel’s ever had.”

Rachel didn’t hesitate. “At least when I flip something, it lands on the tray.”

Emma clinked her coffee spoon against the counter like a judge. “Point to Rachel.”

Ruby tossed a pillow in Emma’s direction. “You’re supposed to be my mom.”

Emma caught it without looking. “A Frost is always fair, my dear.”

Scott set down the last pan with exaggerated care. “Okay, that’s enough domestic warfare for this morning. Anyone want eggs?”

Ruby perked up. “I’ll take a three-egg omelet with sautéed greens, goat cheese, and a light sear—”

“You’re getting scrambled in butter,” Scott said.

“You’re a tyrant, Scott!” she muttered.

Rachel lifted her hand. “Can mine not be ruined this time?”

Scott gave her a long-suffering look. “If I give you a perfect egg, will you actually allow your sister to watch what she wants?”

Rachel considered it. “No promises.”

“Good enough.”

Jean looked up. “Emma and I have brunch plans in fifteen, so we’ll let the three of you play nice until at least noon.”

Emma stepped into her heels with slow grace. “Try not to destroy each other—or the house—while we’re gone.”

Ruby raised a hand. “Define ‘destroy.’”

Rachel added, “Define ‘each other.’”

Emma didn’t dignify that with a response. She and Jean kissed Scott in quick succession—Jean with affection, Emma with faint theatrical disdain—and made for the door.

“Call us if the fire pit reignites,” Jean said.

Emma smirked. “Or if Ruby learns what seasoning is.”

“Or if Rachel learns how to stop throwing skewers at people,” Ruby shot back.

“Collateral damage,” Rachel replied coolly. “You stood in front of the meat tray.”

The door closed behind them with a final click.

The house fell into a looser, less supervised silence.

Scott cracked eggs into a pan, shoulders finally starting to loosen.

Behind him, Ruby and Rachel had resumed bickering—now about whether the toaster was haunted – Rachel’s theory – or just defective – Ruby’s.

But the edges of their bickering had changed.

Their voices were lighter, their posture looser. There was something rhythmic about it now. Not the jagged, defensive clatter of strangers jabbing at old wounds—but the offbeat percussion of sisters trying out what it meant to be sisters.

Scott smiled quietly to himself, listening to the nonsense from the living room.

He slid a plate onto the counter just as Ruby came over to inspect the omelet.

“Not bad,” she said.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Rachel muttered, already sitting with her own plate.

Scott poured coffee. “This is… nice.”

“It’s just breakfast,” Rachel replied.

“It’s better than fighting,” he said.

Ruby smirked. “Barely.”

But Rachel didn’t argue.

She just took a bite.

-0-0-0-

Later that morning, the sun filtered gently through the curtains as the three of them sat at the table—Scott reading the paper, Rachel quietly texting with someone she’d probably deny ever knowing, and Ruby picking at toast while pretending not to smile when Rachel snuck her the last of the bacon.

No one said it out loud.

But they were figuring it out.

In their own way.

At their own pace.

One heartfelt insult at a time.

Chapter Text

The Girl Who Stole the Stars

The young Jean Grey wiped the sleep from her green eyes and stifled a yawn.

"I'm sorry for waking you so early." Charles Xavier apologized.

Red embers of embarrassment flared on Jean's cheeks and she quickly, albeit belatedly, straightened. "No, I'm sorry, Professor. I'm the one what wasn't paying attention. It's just—I haven't been sleeping well, lately."

Charles nodded his head in sympathy. "Is this about those dreams you've been having?"

"Yes. He's been distraught, lately. Distressed—I don't know. But, somehow, happier than he was before." Jean tried to explain, before sighing in exasperation. "I don't even know who he is or if he exists."

"He does exist." Charles reassured her. "What you're feeling is your telepathy reaching out while you sleep. With time and training, your control over your powers will be subconscious, you'll see."

"You're right, Professor." Jean said, and then yawned tiredly, "I just wish we had a more-immediate solution while waiting."

Charles laughed, and Jean soon joined in with a giggle of her own.

"So, can you tell me again why we're up so early?" Jean inquired, feeling more awake now than the few minutes prior.

"Right. I'll need your help. I think we've finally located the runaway I've been tracking."

"The one that blew up a hole in the orphanage?" Jean recalled, and then frowned. "The same one involved in those robberies and widespread destruction of property?"

"Yes, but I'd prefer a bit more leniency at this time. There is no proof that he directly caused those damages. Facts over speculations, Ms. Grey. Innocent until proven guilty."

Jean inwardly winced, knowing she struck a nerve. "I'm sorry, Professor."

"Don't worry about it." He smiled at her reassuringly, "But back to the point: I've found him, and I will need your help convincing him."

Jean grinned. Finally, some action. She was beginning to get bored at being cooped up in the school with no one else to talk to but her mentor. "Say no more, Professor. I'll be ready in five."

"Thank you, Jean." Charles told his first student. "I'll ready our ride."

-0-0-0-

If there was one thing Scott learned from Jack Winters, it was how to be swift.

"Watch it, kid!" A grumpy man in a business suit shouted.

"Sorry, mister!" Scott quickly apologized as he picked himself off the ground. "I'm still adjusting to my glasses!"

"Yeah? Well, adjust soon." The man cautioned before glancing at his watch. "Oh, I'm going to be late!"

Scott watched as the man hurried away out of sight before sighing. He felt bad, really, but times were desperate.

He continued on his way, rounding the corner into the next street before arriving at his destination. He entered the nearby convenience store.

"You again?" The kindly clerk asked.

"Yeah."

"Still running errands for your parents?"

"Yup."

"Bless you." The clerk said. "Not every day kids your age help out at the house."

"Mhm." Scott quickly gathered all he needed—a large bottle of clean water, a can of soup, and a carton of milk.

"Oh, new wallet?" The clerk asked.

"Yeah."

"You must really have a collection." The clerk whistled appreciatively. Scott's gut twisted but he fought the bile down his throat.

"Something like that."

"Well, here you go. Take care, alright?"

Scott nodded. "Will do."

As Scott exited and hurriedly made his way back, he was unaware of the car following him.

-0-0-0-

"I told you he was a criminal." Jean seethed as she saw the crime unfold in front of her.

She started getting bad vibes as soon as she saw the disheveled teen. His brown hair was a mess, his shirt was a size too large and clearly wasn't properly washed, and he was hunched over suspiciously. And then, she saw him steal a man's wallet—and he even had the gall to quickly use his victim's funds immediately!

His parents should be ashamed!

"He might simply be misguided, Jean." Charles pointed out, ever the optimist. "But the only way to really know why is to follow him and find out the truth."

"I'm just having a bad feeling about this, Professor. It's just a hunch."

And there was something scratching at the back of her mind that bothered her when she saw the street urchin.

-0-0-0-

A tent in a forest grove.

Of all the places to find him, this was the most unlikely.

"So this is where you've been hiding, Scott."

Scott leaped to his feet, his hand immediately flying up to the edge of his shades.

"Who are you?" Scott pressed as he took in the two people—a bald man in a wheelchair and a girl his age beside him—and wracked his brain for any memory of them.

"You've never met us before, Scott." The man held up his hands in a placating gesture. "But I assure you we mean you no harm. I'm Charles Xavier and beside me is Jean Grey."

"Charmed." Jean added, somewhat coldly. Her gaze remained intent, and Scott had the sudden feeling that she would pounce at any sudden movement from him.

Taking steadying breaths, Scott willed his nerves to still. The last thing he needed was to blast the disabled man and the young girl unintentionally.

"How do you know my name?" Scott, instead, asked. "Are you from the orphanage?"

He hoped not, because he'd probably have to blast them. No way was he going back there, now. He wasn't sure why, but he never felt safe there.

"No, we're not." Charles said. "But we have been searching for you for a while now, Scott."

"Stop calling me by name." Scott said. "I don't know you."

"There's no reason to be wary. We mean you no harm." Charles told the agitated boy in a deliberate and patient tone. "I know you're stressed. It can't have been easy living in these woods for how long you've had to. It can't have been easy being on the run at such a young age, with your body going through changes you can't explain."

"We just want to talk." Jean added.

"Yeah?" Scott cautiously glanced around, searching for hidden enemies. Were the cops here, too? Were they cops?

"We're not with the police, either, Scott." Charles supplied.

His heart stilled. "How—are you… reading my mind?"

Charles smiled. "It's just a small demonstration to get your attention."

"What do you mean…?"

Charles slowly approached, pushed forward by Jean.

Scott, instinctively, took a step back—covering the entrance of his tent.

"I'm sure you've been noticing changes, lately." Charles started. "Changes in your body. Rapid, unexplained changes."

Scott glared behind his shades. "I already know about puberty."

Jean snorted involuntarily at the casual remark. "Sorry, Professor." She told her mentor with an apologetic smile. "But you do realize how you must have sounded."

"Indeed." Charles slowly shook his head. "I wasn't talking about puberty, Scott. Tell me, what happened to your orphanage?"

Scott's lips flattened. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Are you still having those headaches, Scott?" Charles pressed. "Or have they finally calmed down with your recent change?"

"Stop reading my mind!" Scott's shades flashed dangerously.

"Professor, let me." Jean cut in, standing in front of her mentor. "Scott, listen. There's no easy way to tell you this, but you're a mutant."

"What?"

"All those buildings you destroyed? That was you." Jean continued. "Clearly, you have issues with control. And if you don't learn to control it soon, you're going to hurt somebody."

Scott glanced between the two of them, trying to search for any semblance of a lie. Of any manipulation.

He couldn't find any.

"…It wasn't me." Scott sighed, his hand finally lowering from his frames as it settled to his side. His shoulders, however, remained stiff, and ready in case anything happened. "I can't control these—these lasers coming out of my eyes," He gestured to his shades, "but it wasn't me."

"It's alright, Scott." Charles said, "Nobody is blaming you for losing control."

"No, you don't understand." Scott shook his head adamantly. "I've- I've got someone with me. A—I've got a- well, she's a-"

She?

Jean caught a stray thought. "You have a baby?" She gave a surprised shriek.

"Wh-what?" Charles stammered.

"You can read minds, too? Stop reading my mind!" Scott fired.

"I wasn't!" Jean quickly defended. "But you were projecting!"

"Scott, is this true?" Charles pressed. This was unexpected. "Is—is she from the orphanage?"

The orphan shook his head. "I—I found her. Near here."

"Who just finds a baby in the forest?" Jean scowled.

"I didn't kidnap her, if that's what you're insinuating." Scott frowned at the girl.

"I wasn't insinuating anything." Jean folded her arms. "And I'm surprised you suddenly went to that angle. I mean, for all I know, she's yours."

Scott's face turned as red as his shades. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

Charles, as the only adult present, inwardly sighed. He could already sense a lot of arguments in the future if he managed to wrangle Scott—and his baby?—back with him to the mansion.

"Scott," Charles called, drawing his attention. "May I see the girl?"

Scott, at once, deflated. His demeanor was suddenly hesitant. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"And why is that?" Jean frowned.

"I—I just put her to sleep. I don't want her waking up and crying again."

"She's just a baby, Scott." Jean insisted. "Babies cry all the time. But we need to see her—to make sure she's alright, at least."

"Trust us, Scott." Charles pleaded. "We promise not to harm her."

Scott wasn't sure why, but there was something in the other man's eyes that made him want to believe. After a moment's thought, Scott slowly nodded his head.

Charles and Jean watched as the disheveled brunet bent over to reach into his tent. Moments later, he reappeared, this time with a bundle wrapped in a red cloth in his arms.

"Um," Scott swallowed nervously, "Charles and… Jean. This is—this is Kara." He quickly bit his tongue to stop himself from accidentally blurting out her last name. Even having found her the way he did, he still couldn't wrap his head around that very notion.

Kara?

Jean slowly approached to get a clearer view of the girl, wary not to startle the nervous teen.

Just as Scott said, the infant was sleeping soundly. Her round, healthy cheeks was, surprisingly, not marred by any insect bites, and Jean could imagine blue eyes that sparkled with her good head of fine, blonde hair.

Absently, she reached out to brush the cloth away from the infant's head.

"Don't-!" Scott whispered, too late.

Kara's cherubic face contorted at the contact.

And then let out a deathly wail the rumbled the forest, causing leaves to fall around them like heavy snow.

-0-0-0-

"Incredible." Charles gazed at the baby in clear awe. It took several minutes—and much bickering between Scott and Jean—before Scott was able to quiet Kara with a bottle of milk. Jean was disgusted at first, thinking about how Scott even cleaned the bottle, but decided to remain silent at the threat of risking another of Kara's loud cry. "This must be the youngest case of mutant power manifestation!"

"Mutant? Power?"

"Yes. You know—like your optic blasts."

"I—I don't think this is the case."

"Her wailing rattles the forest, Scott. You must realize that is not normal?"

"Oh, she isn't normal. That much, I can reassure you."

There was something in his tone that told Charles that he knew more than he was saying, but he quickly dismissed the point.

"Be that as it may," Charles began anew, "I think it would be safest for the two of you to join us in our school."

"A school?"

"Yes. The Professor is just like you and I, Scott." Jean decided to join in. "You, me, the Professor, and even Kara. We're all mutants, and the Professor started a school to teach us how to control our powers."

"And to provide a home for those of us without." Charles added with a warm smile.

"Just to be clear," Scott looked skeptic, before sneaking a quick glance to check-up on the infant Kara, and continued, "You want Kara and I to live with you?"

"Yes." Charles nodded his head.

"It'll also be safer for a growing girl." Jean quickly added. "Think of it. I'm sure you know of the basic necessities of life. Food, shelter, clothing." Jean listed.

'Much better than this trash heap you're forcing the poor girl to live in.'

'Kind thoughts, Jean.'

'…Sorry, Professor.'

Scott remained silent as he thought about the offer.

"This school… does it have a lawn I can set-up camp in?"

"A… camp?" Jean repeated, uncomprehendingly. It boggled her mind as she imagined Scott and the baby sleeping in a tent while a torrential storm surrounded them. "We have rooms indoors, you idiot!"

"I know that!" Scott frowned. He wasn't stupid; he knew what a school was. "But you've seen what Kara can do when she's upset."

"Well, just make she doesn't get upset."

"Have you seen her? She's a baby!"

"Yes! Which is why your idea to camp out in the cold when there is a very safe and, above all else, warm room available is absurd!" Jean stretched out her arms. "Give her to me."

"What?"

"It's clear you don't care about her safety, so one of us has to. Give her to me."

Scott's eyes flashed, clearly upset at the implication that he didn't care about Kara—and Charles decided he needed to intervene again before the situation escalated.

"We can reinforce the walls, Scott." Charles placated him. "We can put in padding to dampen her cries."

"And cameras to make sure you're not neglecting her." Jean muttered under her breath.

Scott willfully ignored her. "You can do that?"

"Yes. It's much safer than spending the night outdoors. Thermoregulation isn't as developed in babies as in us, I'm afraid. It's only by some miracle she hasn't gotten sick these past days you've been here in the wilderness."

"Sheer, dumb, miraculous luck." Jean clicked her teeth.

"I don't think luck has anything to do with it." Scott sighed. Once more, there was that tone that he knew more than he was letting on, but neither of the two telepaths felt like intruding in his privacy. "Alright. I'll—just for a week." Scott quickly amended. "If I find your… school is unsafe for Kara, then we're gone."

"A month, Scott." Charles pleaded. "Don't take this the wrong way, but what can you accomplish in a week?"

Scott's heart thundered anxiously. Could he really trust these strangers? Their deal seemed too good to be true.

"Yeah." Jean chimed in. "I get you're being cautious, but you're also being selfish. Think of what's best for Kara."

Scott inwardly bristled. That was all he had been thinking about since finding the abandoned baby. Betraying Jack, going on the run again, trying to leave her in an orphanage only for her wailing to get her in trouble, trying to go to the police only to be chased out because of his damn eyes….

But Jean was right. Annoying, antagonistic, but right. He needed to think of what was best for the baby in his arms.

He glanced down at her sleeping face.

Kara was innocent in all of this. All he wanted was to give her a home she could grow up in. Could he trust in these two strangers…?

And between the shady man bound to a wheelchair and the temperamental girl, the latter, he could tell, was honest. She truly cared for the wellbeing of a baby she just met.

"…alright. One month- but if I find things are unsafe…"

"We won't chase after you." Charles reassured.

"And Kara…?"

"We'll let you leave with her."

"Professor!" Jean shot a betrayed look at her mentor.

"Jean." Charles looked at her pointedly, and then continued telepathically, 'We won't let it get to that point.'

"Fine." Jean folded her arms, clearly displeased. "Against our better judgment." She grumpily added.

"Alright." He glanced at Kara again, drawing strength from her sleeping face. He brushed his lips against her forehead tenderly before steeling himself. Glancing upwards, he offered the baby to Jean. "Here. I—I need to clean-up. And pack up."

Jean looked bewildered momentarily before silently nodding. There was a clear reluctance in Scott's demeanor, but Jean chose to focus on the more important person.

As Kara's weight settled in her arms, Jean's mind was suddenly assaulted by a myriad of emotions.

Warmth.

Fear.

Despair.

Hope.

Protection.

Goodbye.

Fear.

Trust.

Fear.

Panic.

The sky was on fire.

No matter what happens, don't let him go!

I have you! I have you! Don't let go!

Pain.

Sorrow.

Cold…

Parting.

Trust.

Parting.

Trust?

Hurt.

Don't let go!

…Warmth.

"Jean?"

She drew in a strangled breath. Belatedly, she realized her sight was blurred. When did these tears form?

"I'm fine. Go do your thing." She turned her gaze up to him. "I've got her." Jean reassured him sincerely. "I've got Kara."

Scott slowly nodded and retreated back to his camp.

Charles, who had been silent throughout the exchange, smiled.

It seemed the two weren't oil and water, after all.

Omake: Secret Origins

"Where's Scott?" Warren asked as he entered the room.

Jean turned up from her book. Beside her, Kara was teething on a piece of titanium. "He went to get something of Kara's."

"Oh? Did he say what?"

Jean shrugged. "Something about proof that Kara isn't a mutant."

"That again?"

"Yeah. Him and Hank have been at it about extra-terrestrial life."

"Just because Cerebro doesn't recognize Kara doesn't mean she's an alien." Warren sighed. "I mean, there's that spider-person in New York, and he's not a mutant."

"That's true." Jean absently agreed. She smiled as Kara put down the contorted piece of metal and wobbled towards her outstretched arms. "Good girl! That's more steps than yesterday!"

Seeing Jean's smile made Kara giggle back.

Warren stared intently at the toddler. "You don't think she's an alien, do you?"

"Hrmm?"

"Kara." Warren pointed out, not at all bothered by how distracted Jean was. He was already used to the little girl hogging everyone's attention. "Do you think she's an alien?"

Jean glanced between the giggling toddler and at her teammate, before answering diplomatically, "I think Scott is telling the truth."

"So you think-"

"We'll find out soon, anyway."

As if on cue, the door to the anteroom opened.

And with it, Scott—and a flabbergasted Hank and excited Bobby—dragged in a sizeable hunk of metal that looked very much like-

"Is that a spaceship!" Warren gasped.

"Dadaaaa!" Kara giggled in Jean's arms and clapped her hands together happily.

"Hi there, pretty girl." Scott flashed a smile- and Jean refused to blush; that was definitely, absolutely, without a doubt directed at the pretty little girl giggling in her arms. Definitely not her. Scott turned to address his fellow mutants. "I told you I wasn't lying." Scott declared. His smugness was short-lived, however.

"Scott." Jean cut in, "Did you buy Kara's formula?"

"I—we still have enough for the week." Scott stammered. "And, she can eat solids, already!"

Jean's green eyes flashed.

"Uh-oh." Bobby gulped. "Mommy's angry at daddy again."

Hank and Warren looked between the two before quickly exiting the room, dragging Bobby with them.

"That's not the point!" Jean ignored the three turncoats. "Solids take longer to digest! What if she aspirates at night? We've been through this already!"

"But Jean-!"

Omake: Flying Death Machine

"What is that smell?"

"Kara. She had osterized vegetables."

"But where is she?"

"Alright. Who's on diaper duty?"

"Bobby is!"

"Bobby!"

"Oh, my stars and garters!"

"SHE CAN FLY!"

"Yes, Bobby, but her dia-"

"WHY CAN SHE FLY!"

"Well, she's not from-"

"Warren! Get her!"

"On i-!"

"Look out!"

"Take cover!"

"Bombs away!"

"Professor!"

Professor Charles Xavier entered the room.

Just as a damp and distinctly pungent diaper slapped him on top of his shiny bald head.

There was total silence, save for Kara's giggling as she wobbled on the air towards the new arrival.

Slowly, Charles peeled the diaper off his head and tracked the blonde's approach with a strained smile.

"So," Charles began with all the dignity left in him, "You can fly, too?"

Omake: Weight of the World

Jean dragged herself down the halls of the Xavier's School for the Gifted Youngsters. It was quite late at night, but a quick telepathic probe upon entry told her that Kara was still awake.

Tired as she was after yet another battle with Magneto's brotherhood and dealing with the frustrating news reporters intent on spinning the X-Men's recent rescue into another provocative anti-mutant article to ensure the morning paper was sold out, it had become something of a habit for the X-Men's Field Leader to greet the only toddler in the institute upon her return—if not only so that the young Kara knew she had returned, but also for Jean to be reassured that Kara was still there with them.

It had been almost two years since she and the Professor had picked up the little girl during their recruitment of Scott Summers, and it had been quite the chaotic year, too. Still, despite everything that had happened—both inside the institute and out in the world—Jean had found her days, no matter how bleak, suddenly brightened just by seeing Kara's smile, or hearing the little alien's light snoring.

And holding Kara in her arms simply made the fight for equality outside their walls worth it. Jean couldn't wait for the day when Kara could safely glide through the city streets unbothered.

The very thought of it made Jean smile.

As she neared Kara's bedroom, she noticed the little girl's door was slightly ajar. Warm yellow light seeped through the gap, and so did familiar voices.

"Nights, daa." Kara sleepily giggled.

"Good night, pretty girl." Jean heard Scott say—and she could already picture the small frown on his face. "And you don't have to call me your dad. Just Scott is fine."

Jean paused at the doorway, a frown on her lips as well as she peered in. She silently watched as Scott tucked in the snoring toddler.

"Welcome back, Jean." Scott said, not even bothering to look at the doorway as he started cleaning up. "Is everyone else alright?"

"We're in one piece." Jean said as she entered. Wordlessly, she levitated Kara's building blocks back into its box. "Warren will be sore in the morning, however."

"I'll go easy on him, then." Scott said. While rarely going on the missions, Scott was a regular in their Danger Room sessions. And Jean had to admit that Scott definitely helped them improve—she supposed this was what it felt like having a coach point out things you couldn't see yourself.

"No." Jean shook her head. "The Blob won't go easy on us, either, just because we're roughed up."

Scott smirked. "If you say so, boss."

Jean nodded.

As Scott started folding the last blanket, Jean couldn't help but ask, "Why do you keep saying that?"

"What?" Scott glanced at her, confused. "Calling you 'boss'?"

"No. Correcting Kara."

Scott paused, considering her words briefly, before tucking the blanket away.

"I've noticed you're always telling her to call you by name." Jean continued when he remained silent.

"I—I don't want her getting the wrong idea." Scott finally answered.

"You're being vague again, Scott." Jean approached him. Her eyes darted to the side, glancing at the sleeping super girl, and she carefully sat on the bed so as not to wake her. Absently, she began brushing her blonde locks. Turning her gaze back to Scott, she arched a brow when she caught him staring at her. "I'm not going to wake her. Relax." She teased him.

"Unlike when we first met." Scott dryly pointed out.

Jean shrugged, but a smile remained on her lips. "What do you mean by giving Kara the wrong idea?"

She could tell Scott felt awkward, and even guilty, by the way he scratched his nape. "It's getting late, Jean, and you must be tired." He hinted.

"I am." Jean nodded. "So I'd really appreciate if you actually gave me an honest answer."

Scott's lips flattened, and Jean had the inkling that he didn't know how to articulate himself. It had been something she noticed whenever Scott had to confront his feelings.

With a sigh, Jean stared straight into him and bluntly asked, "Scott…Are you still looking for someone to adopt her?"

Scott suddenly looked alarmed and horrified. "N-no!" He stammered. "No, not exactly…" He clarified, slowly, features sagging that Jean felt he might just melt onto the floor as a puddle of shame.

"I'm not hearing an explanation, Scott." Jean prodded her fellow teen gently.

"I'm just no good for her." Scott turned away, evident to Jean that he was hiding himself again. "You, and Bobby, and Hank, and Warren—and the Professor—you're all… better at this than me."

"We're also busy with our unofficial work, Scott." Jean reminded.

"Yeah." Scott slowly nodded. "Yeah, I know. I was just thinking—maybe I'm really not cut out for this. For raising a child."

"You're definitely not doing things perfectly." Jean said, folding her arms. Scott visibly flinched, and Jean caught herself sighing. "I wanted to take Kara off your hands, you know. Back when we first met. But you wouldn't let me."

"I know…"

"Why?"

"…"

"I'll tell you why, Scott." Jean continued, knowing he wouldn't be able to say anything. "It's because you couldn't let her go with a total stranger. It's because you worried about her that much, even when you hadn't spent that much time with her yet. And even now, I don't think you truly can." She pointed out softly. "Make up your mind, Scott. Are you really willing to let go of her?"

"It's the right thing to do. I'm way in over my head—I don't even know what I'm doing, really."

Slowly, Jean rose from Kara's bed and approached the solemn teen. She rounded him, studying his sagging shoulders, to his downcast chin, before stopping before him, staring up into his hidden eyes.

Tenderly, Jean cupped his cheek.

She felt his distress and uncertainty over Kara's growth as much as she could feel his skin.

"It might be right. There might be someone out there better for her. Who can take better care of her, even." Jean finally said. They were still just teenagers, after all, and mutants at that. What did they really know about raising a child—a girl with the potential to one day make or break the world?

And yet…

Jean rested her cheek against Scott's chest. "But she loves you, Scott." She whispered, both as a fact and as reassurance. "She waits for you to tuck her into bed. Her eyes light up when you hold her in your arms. Kara already sees you as her father, Scott."

"Jean…"

She pulled back, capturing his gaze into her own.

"What you think is the right choice for Kara might not really be what's best for her." She saw the doubt on the creases of his forehead. "Scott, I know you never intended any of this—that you were just looking out for an abandoned baby, but surely you realize now…"

"I love her, Jean." Scott said. But still, the doubt lingered, "But I don't know if I can do this."

Jean remained firm. "I think you can. I think you're very responsible already. I think your heart is in the right place. And-" Jean pulled back, taking both of his hands in hers and smiled at him, "and I think you forgot that you're not the only one taking care of her. We're all here for her, Scott. We're here for you, too. You don't have to be alone anymore."

"…You're right." Scott nodded, and she could feel life seep back into his spirit. "You're right. I'm so stupid, and you're right."

He wasn't alone.

Not anymore.

His parents may be dead.

His brother may be lost.

But he has Jean.

And Hank.

And Warren.

And Bobby.

And the Professor.

And he still has his precious daughter.

His Kara.

His growing super girl.

"Good." Jean smiled—and somehow, despite how weary she had been, the weight of the world simply sagged off her shoulders. Feeling happy, she admitted, "I—I think of Kara as my own daughter, too."

It only took a moment for her words to sink in.

Scott stared at her, and heat rushed into Jean's cheeks at the unintended implication.

"N-no!" She let go of him and quickly stepped back. Whirling around to hide her burning cheeks, she hissed, "Don't read into that! It's just—I've looked after her just as long as you have!"

"Jean…"

"And—and she's everyone's daughter!"

"Jean…"

"Except the Professor's. Kara's more like a granddaughter to him, really."

"Jean."

"Y-Yes…?"

Scott smiled at her.

"Thank you."

Omake: Familial Bonds

Jean's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Kara, is there something you want to tell me?"

The young super girl visibly gulped. "Th-the vegetables were tasty today…?"

"You know I can tell when you're lying." Jean tapped the side of the girl's head. "Don't make me read your mind, little miss. Do I need to ask you again?"

Kara deflated. "But—but I don't want you to get mad at me."

"I'll get mad if you lie, Kara. Worse, I'll get hurt."

"You'll get hurt?"

"Yes." Jean nodded, before giving a mighty pout. "Because it means you don't trust me."

"I trust you!" Kara quickly protested, alarmed.

"Then can you tell me what's bothering you?" Jean knelt down so she was looking up at the little blonde. "You don't usually finish your vegetables by yourself."

There was a clear internal battle raging behind Kara's blue eyes before, finally, she sucked in a deep breath. "Promise you won't get mad, okay?"

"I promise." Jean nodded.

"I—I might have killed someone."

What. "What."

"Th-there was this homeless guy outside when I was playing." Kara stammered, "He was drinking a spicy drink from his bottle, and when I told him he stinks, he threw a bottle at me, so I got angry, so I threw the bottle back at him, but he didn't dodge so it might have cracked on his head."

"Might?"

"Okay, it broke on his head, and then he stopped moving, so I ran back here. It wasn't on purpose, honest!"

Oh, Lord. Kara was only five and she already committed murder. In school grounds, no less!

"Jean?" Kara called, her lower lip quivering in fear. "A-are, are you mad…?"

It was at that point when Jean realized Kara was truly frightened—not by the idea that she might have just murdered someone, but by the possibility that Jean might reject her.

Jean calmed her mind. First things first. "Are you alright? You weren't hurt, were you?"

"N-no…" Kara hesitantly said. "A-are you… mad…?"

Jean shook her head. "I'm in shock. But it sounds like you acted in self-defense." Unfortunately, Kara had a much stronger arm than the average child. Much stronger. "Where is he?"

"He might still be outside."

Jean pondered her statement. Nobody had returned, so, potentially, nobody saw the carcass. She'd have to make an excuse to use Cerebro later to scan for any possible witnesses—and then wipe their minds clean—but maybe she could control the situation.

"Alright." Jean stood up—the abruptness of the act making Kara's eyes widen.

"Don't hate me!" Kara flinched in her seat.

"I don't hate you, Kara."

"But—but you've got this scary look."

Jean cupped her cheek and only then realized her jaw was tight. She shook her head again, mentally telling herself to loosen. "I was just planning what to do, sweetie."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Jean nodded. "Now, go play with your toys. I just have a little gardening to do."

They had a lot of space to bury a nameless person in their backyard. The Professor didn't even need to know.

It was at that point that a disgruntled Scott walked in. "Oh, hey Kara. Jean."

"Daddy!" Kara yelped before flying into his arms.

"Something wrong?" Jean asked, noticing Scott's disheveled shirt.

"There was this homeless guy that was making a ruckus outside." Scott said. "He pulled out his knives so I might have blasted him into the woods."

"Might?" Ugh. That's where Kara got it.

"Okay, I did." Scott scratched the back of his head. "Speaking of, I'll need to get the shovel."

"What for, daddy?"

"Gardening." Scott nodded his head resolutely.

"Oh, Jean said she was going gardening, too." Kara supplied.

Something itched at the back of Jean's mind. One homeless person finding their way towards the mansion was rare, but not totally unheard of. But two on the same day?

"Scott, what did your attacker look like?"

"He was rather stocky. Not too tall—he was a bit shorter than me even though he looks much older." Scott recalled. "Oh, and he's got dark hair spread at his sides like horns."

"Oh! I saw that person, daddy!" Kara chirped.

Jean palmed her head.

"Everything alright, Jean?"

"Yeah. I just need to talk to the… homeless person."

"But he's dead!" Kara gaped. "Wait, you can talk to ghosts?"

"Don't worry, Kara. I know this person, and he gets better." Jean reassured. "Scott, you won't be needing the shovel."

"Oh. Is he someone from your team?"

Jean sighed. "Something like that. Why don't the two of you freshen up while I handle this?"

Because the last thing she needed was for Logan to go berserk inside the school after getting knocked out twice in one day.

She'd also make sure to give him a stern scolding about how to act around children!

A/N: Er, I definitely have issues with brevity. The joke went on for too long that it became unfunny.

This was from the (Asian?) joke that, if you told your grandma you killed someone, she'd immediately reach for the shovel and ask if you needed help burying the body.

Omake: The New X-Men

"So," Headmaster Scott Summers, mug of coffee in hand, addressed the newest batch of students enrolled in the school. "You asked when you'll be drafted. You're wrong. This is a school. You are only in squads so that you have brothers and sisters immediately responsible for you; so that you'll master your gifts together; and so that it's easier for us teachers to keep track of each of you for assignments." Scott paused, before adding with a shrug, "And those assignments include babysitting."

Most of the gathered stared at him oddly before shrugging and dismissing the comment as just their headmaster being eccentric.

And, besides—what kind of hero didn't have a quirk?

"Boring!" Julian Keller shouted from the middle, drawing a chorus of cheers and jeers from his peers. "Everyone knows this school is just a front to train X-Men!"

"Everyone is silly, then. We've had several batches graduate, and our alums have moved on to successful careers." Scott sighed, and slowly gave each and every member of the crowd a pitying look. "And, to be frank, none of you are ready to be X-Men."

"Oh yeah?" Julian crossed his arms and grinned up at him cockily. "Why don't you try me?"

"If you insist." Scott said, before addressing the gathered. "Show of hands who wants to be tested if they're X-Men material."

Scott was happy to note only a little over a half of the prospective students raised their hands.

"Alright. Those that raised their hands, please step forward." Scott smiled as the students followed. "Consider this initiation, then. Your mission, that you lot volunteered for, is to find my daughter and force her to eat her broccoli before this day ends."

The volunteers collectively groaned.

"What? That's it?" Julian remained nonplussed. "Babysit your daughter for a day? That's easy!"

Scott grinned knowingly.

It was just about time, too.

"NOOOOOO!"

And, as if like clockwork, the school grounds shook like a magnitude 8 earthquake for what felt like an eternity, drawing fearful cries from the students. Several bodies had even hit the floor from students that either tripped on their feet or dove for cover. Gasps suddenly echoed in the crowd as their attention was drawn upwards, while one silver-skinned red-head pointing up at the sky.

"Look!" Cessily Kincaid drew attention to where a stocky figure in a brown jacket flew through the air. "Isn't that Professor Logan?"

"Mr. Logan?"

"Wolverine!"

"Indeed." Scott calmly said, taking a long sip from his mug of coffee.

He didn't react as the group collectively winced, watching as the man who was the best there was sailed over them before crashing deep inside the nearby forest.

"What just happened?" Sofia Mantega trembled.

"That would be your Professor Logan attempting to feed my daughter carrots. He lost a bet and it became his turn to feed her." Scott thought about the taste of his coffee, and made a mental note to ask Jean where she got the beans. It was absolutely delicious. "You see, my sweet Kara is in a bit of a rebellious stage. She simply refuses all vegetables. Absolutely normal for children her age, I assure you. Now, once again-"

Scott addressed the group with a wide smile.

"Welcome to the Xavier Institute. I hope you all survive the experience."

Nearby, X-Men Field Leader Jean Grey and Deputy Headmistress Emma Frost glanced at each other.

"Your boyfriend is having too much fun." Emma pointed out.

Jean shrugged. "You can't deny his selection process is effective."

Emma didn't. The school has had more graduates than dead children and, for that, Emma was grateful.

Even if it meant siccing their resident super girl at the poor children.

A/N: Just some crack. I had this idea of Scott telling each new generation of X-Men "I hope you survive the experience" while shoving little Kara into their arms.

In this 'verse, Scott isn't as active in the field as in canon, mostly because he opts to raise Kara instead. This also means Scott has turned the X-Mansion into an impregnable fortress—moreso to contain Kara's tantrums than to ward-off the villain-of-the-week from destroying the school. Juggernaut definitely learned that the hard way.

Omake: Crisis of Infinite Cyclops Daughters – Kara Edition

"This is getting ridiculous." Ruby grumbled in frustration. "There's more and more of us popping up. We're going to need some sort of system. And no—you can't just sneak off, Ana!"

Ana froze mid-stride before slowly turning around to face Ruby, arms crossed and with a defiant frown. She was clearly displeased at being told what to do.

"I think we'll need a leader." The young Kara flew up to the opportunity.

Ruby stared—well, up—at the floating Supergirl, who had made it a point to stay a head taller than everyone else, before deciding, "No. You're the most careless among all of us here—and that's including Ana!"

"You will sleep with one-eye open, Ruby." Ana declared in a dark tone.

Ruby waved her off. "Oh, talk to the hand." Addressing the floating child once more, Ruby continued, "Anyway, you're not even really Scott's daughter."

"Yeah?" A vein popped on Kara's forehead. Clearly, Ruby had struck a nerve, and Kara placed her hands on her hips and glared down at her. "But can you beat me in a fight?"

"No, but that's beside the point." Ruby argued with the child. "You're too young, you're too reckless, so you can't really be trusted to lead our little club."

"That might be true, but can you beat me in a fight?"

Ruby rubbed her temples exasperatedly. "Kara, you can't always use violence as an answer."

"And you're right," Kara nodded emphatically, before asking, "But can you beat me in a fight?"

"I've had enough of this." Elle finally spoke up, at the end of her patience. "Meeting adjourned. I can't be bothered to listen to this anymore."

"And I'm sorry to hear that, but can you beat me in a fight?"

"Shut up!" Ruby wanted to strangle the smug alien. Whirling around wildly, she called, "Ana, shut her up!"

"She can try, but can you-"

"Wait." Ruby cut Kara off, confused. "Where's Ana?"

"She slipped away while you were arguing." Elle pointed out. No doubt to monopolize Scott again.

"And you let her?" Ruby shot her a betrayed look. "You're almost as bad as Rachel!"

"Hey!" Elle fired back reflexively before pausing, unsure if that was even supposed to be an insult. Knowing what she knew about Ruby's complex feelings against Rachel, though, Elle surmised it was an insult in Ruby's head. "It's your fault for arguing with Kara, anyway." She finally said.

Kara harrumphed cutely. "That's true, but can you beat me in a fight?"

"SHUT IT, KARA!"

A/N: This omake struck me while in conversation with crimson11116.

Basically, little Kara became the most well-adjusted among all of Cyke's daughters/ adopted daughters. This also meant Kara has developed grand ambitions as most children do- including plans to rule the world so that she is no longer forced to eat her vegetables, among other perks such as more playtime with her busy dad and 'mom'.

Chapter Text

"This nightmare ain't over
I watch my window for the morning sun
I know when it's over
I'll just be…"

-0-0-0-

Hungry for Another One (Six - I)

-0-0-0-

Jean Grey-Summers had a secret.

It was something she kept locked inside the black box in her mind ever since she returned from the grave.

She wasn't the only one to come back. Under the guise of burying her dead husband—and she was honestly still sour about how the rest of her friends didn't seem to mind his apparent corpse laying before them; more off putting, still, was that no one volunteered to join her—she had made her way to a secluded area before doing the unthinkable.

Jean woke him up.

Scott Summers was alive.

And he wanted a time out from the X-Men business. She couldn't blame her husband, really. He was weary and lost. Her heart ached for his plight, and she respected his decision.

So it was that every night since, she would enter her mind and place her hand on the black box. Unraveling it.

And inside it was their psychic bond.

They would converse—with how strong her telepathy had become, she needn't Cerebro's aid just to touch him. It was as if they were never apart.

He had been busying himself by doing odd jobs half way across the world. A working man by day, an occasional vigilante at night.

She could tell he was restless. No matter what he did, it was never enough.

The fire was still within him—the passion she had fallen hard for. But he would not allow himself to come back.

So they would converse of things mundane, wrapped in each other's psychic embrace.

That was when he told her of strange disappearances, that he was working on figuring out the mystery. People were disappearing—wealthy men and women, all sorts of a children—and Scott needed to find them.

It didn't sound too serious and he promised her he would call if he needed help.

She had nodded and kissed good luck.

It had been two weeks since their last contact, and suffice to say, Jean was very, very worried.

Fortunately, her team had some down time.

With another excuse, Jean left.

She had a Cyclops to find.

-0-0-0-

Rachel Grey vomited for the third time that day.

Her mother shot her a look and she quickly steeled herself, willing the bile in her stomach to return back where it came from.

She regretted coming to this horrible place.

When she caught her mother leaving alone, her interest was piqued. She could feel the worry and urgency radiating off the elder Grey and, wanting to reconnect with Jean, she offered to join her.

Jean was very against it at first. Vehemently so, and Rachel would admit the words Jean said stung.

But she was doing her best now, wasn't she?

So with the stubbornness of a Summers, Rachel followed Jean.

And she stumbled upon her secret. In hindsight, she really shouldn't have been surprised Sco—her father was alive. She was hurt—not only that the truth was kept from her, but that he had been alive for so long and he didn't say anything.

Rachel resolved that she would give him an earful once her family was reunited. She also ignored the disapproving look her mother shot her way.

Exercising their psychic abilities, they were able to trace Scott's movements to this restaurant floating above the seas of nowhere.

That was when horror struck.

Both she and her mother combed through the terrible place searching for—for Scott and survivors.

By all that was holy, that stench.

Those corpses.

That meat.

The Maw was empty save for the rotten evil that rested in its macabre depths. But the psychic residue was as palpable as it was grotesque.

This place was far from safe.

This place was evil.

"Scott's not here."

Rachel turned to her mother. As a former Hound from a dystopian future, Rachel had seen and done many things. But her mother was stone cold as she pressed on determinedly and undeterred.

"We're leaving?" Rachel hoped.

"I've found a lead." Jean nodded and Rachel visibly sighed in relief—and immediately regretted it as she was forced to inhale another foul breath. "I don't like our next stop, though."

Rachel nodded and followed her mother.

How could anywhere be worse than this?

-0-0-0-

They found Scott faster than expected.

And it turns out there was one place worse than the Maw.

Emma Frost stood before them with one delicate brow raised. "I was beginning to wonder if you were even going to show up." The White Queen said as she regarded the pair. She stepped aside, wordlessly allowing them entrance into her luxurious abode, and Rachel should have, in hindsight, found that odd. "Scott is waiting for us upstairs, Jean. Perhaps you can succeed where I have clearly failed."

"Try not to retch, Emma." Jean fired back with the same haughty tone. "Someone might think you were giving a compliment."

Emma smiled. It was not her usual smirk, but a wry curl of her lips that spoke of how stressed she was. "Trust me when I say this: you will want to be on my side in this instance. My boyfriend—and your former husband-"

"Current." Jean automatically corrected.

"Is making a grave mistake." Emma continued without missing a beat. "It is insanity of the highest magnitude. I need you to plug his bleeding heart and convince him." Emma moved towards the staircase and beckoned Jean with one hand. "Personally, I would go with euthanasia."

Jean turned to her companion. "Rachel, stay. Emma and I will sort this out."

"I want to know what this is about." Rachel folded her arms defiantly. "You can't force me."

"You and I both know I very much can." Jean pointed out.

Rachel glared. "Fine."

"Try not to touch anything, darling." Emma remarked as Jean approached her. "And try not to peer into any minds here. Trust me."

Rachel scowled. Trust? Emma Frost?

Not likely.

But she supposed she could follow her rule, for now.

When Jean and Emma disappeared—no doubt to talk to Scott about whatever the hell was happening—Rachel decided a meal was in order.

Walking through the mansion, Rachel eventually stumbled into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and scanned the available food.

An assortment of expensive sausages, cheeses, wine and bread were neatly held inside.

That was when she heard it.

A loud, grumbling sound alerted Rachel that she was no longer alone.

There, by the door, was a tiny thing in a yellow raincoat. The hood was over the child's head, but Rachel guessed, by her lithe frame, that she was probably a girl.

The little thing—the little girl's stomach grumbled again.

"Ah, hi?" Rachel called. "My name's Rachel. You hungry, too?"

The grumbling grew louder, this time, and the little girl clutched her stomach. Rachel winced—the poor thing must have been famished with hunger pains that severe.

"Sit over there. I'll whip us both a meal quickly." Rachel turned back to the refrigerator before inwardly shrugging and taking everything out. She wasn't worried about Emma's thoughts of her raiding her food.

Another rumbling sound boomed, much closer to her this time.

Rachel turned.

"AH!" She gasped and her heart stopped when she found that the little girl was right next to her.

At this distance, Rachel still couldn't catch a clear glimpse of the girl as dark hair cast a shadow over the girl's eyes.

"You startled me." Rachel remarked, her heart still throbbing in her ears. "Just wait a sec. I've got the food."

She pulled out a sausage and offered it to the starving girl.

Her stomach rumbled again.

Shakily, tiny hands reached out to the meat Rachel offered.

Their hands brushed.

And the Little Nightmare sank her teeth on fresh meat.

Omake: Six is Nine

The first thought that ran through her mind was that her husband actually looked much healthier away from mutant affairs. The second was that it was strange seeing him wear all those yellow pouches again.

Upon seeing him, Jean's mind had reached out to Scott's just so she could see exactly what happened. She was left disgusted at what Scott had gone through in The Maw, but thankful that he had the sense to drop SWORD an anonymous tip—explaining the noticeable lack of cannibals and murderous chefs inside that wretched place when she and Rachel were there.

Disgustingly, they just allowed the carcasses to lie there. Not that she could blame them.

More concerning, however, was the little girl in a yellow raincoat that Scott had taken under his wing.

Six.

She could see how Scott perceived her. Small, lost, and fragile. But Jean had seen the psychic residue in that wretched place. It chilled her enough that, even now, she hesitated to use her telepathy to locate the girl.

It was then when Emma decided to plead her case to have the girl as far away from all of them as possible. Much to her chagrin, Jean was leaning towards Emma's side. Six was extremely dangerous and they hardly knew anything about her.

Naturally, Scott was stubborn.

"This isn't like Laura's case." Emma pointed out. "Laura didn't know better. That glutton does but chooses otherwise."

"Have you tried locking her up?" Jean asked, trying to steer the discussion from further bickering.

"Emma did." Scott accentuated with an accusing finger.

"She always escapes." Emma scowled at Scott for putting her on the spot. "Her appetite is only rivaled by her cunning."

"I find it works better if you actually feed her." Scott pointed out. "Keeping her away from food only compels her to search."

Jean briefly wondered if her husband was raising a pet.

"She's a cannibal, darling." Emma rolled her eyes in disgust.

To his credit, Scott actually paused as he considered his next words. "Not most of the time." He reluctantly admitted.

Jean massaged her temples. This was becoming a terrible headache.

The girl was only nine.

"Are you sure, Scott? She's just a child—you will be raising her." Jean reasoned.

"I can't just leave her alone." Scott argued. "And not just because she's got soul-draining powers. As you said—she's just a kid. She hasn't even harmed anyone since I took her in. You know this is the right thing to do."

Jean nodded. She didn't have to like it, though.

Emma was more vocal. "Darling, she tried to bite your hand off on the very first day."

Scott waved both his hands dismissively. "We were still adjusting. She knows better now."

A loud scream echoed through Emma's mansion.

Alarmed, all three mutants stared at each other.

"Rachel." Jean confirmed, wide-eyed.

"Six." Scott grimly affirmed.

Emma scoffed. "You were saying, dear leader?"

Scott reached into the yellow pouch across his chest and took out a large cookie.

"Ah," Jean's eyes glimmered with realization. "You finally found something to fill those."

Emma rolled her eyes. "He's a walking pantry now."

"Rachel, ladies?" Scott meaningfully reminded as he held the door open.

Which was perfect timing for another anguished cry to enter the room.

Jean visibly winced. "I think Rachel just tried to peek into her mind."

Emma scoffed and glared at the only man in the room.

"I will start charging a professional fee, Scott."

Scott beat a hasty esca—rescue.

Definitely a rescue.

-0-0-0-

A/N 2018: This omake never made it because it'd ruin the oomph of the setup.

Totally stole a scene from yellow_caballero's X-Men: Evolution fanfic, Scott's Life is Hard. Specifically, chapter 3 where Scott adopts an 8 year old Ruth Aldine and the X-Men are arguing about why it's a bad idea. It all boiled down to making the right choice, and gosh darn does Scott always make it no matter how hard it is.

Scott's Life is Hard was the trigger to finally get me to type down Hungry for Another One. The idea was already in the noggin after listening to the song for ages, but the Scott & Ruth dynamic from yellow_caballero's story shot it out of the air to land on your screen.

The yellow_caballero's story is all sorts of amazing character study. I highly recommend you—especially you, Scott fans- to check it out. To reiterate: go read Scott's Life is Hard by yellow_caballero right now. And if you like it enough, drop them a review, too!

You can find their story on this site! https://archiveofourown.to/series/713088

Omake: Six and the Summers

Six and the Hound

Rachel Grey stiffened when the little girl in the yellow raincoat entered through the door.

It had already been a month since she discovered her father was not only alive and not only had moved in with Emma again—and her mother was fine with that arrangement; her mind boggled—but Scott had also adopted the most horrifying child she had ever met. She wasn't sure how she felt about her newest sister, but after making the gravest mistake of peeking into the glutton's mind, Rachel's survival instincts automatically flared whenever the little nightmare was near.

The glutton looked in her direction—and Rachel could feel her eyes, hidden in the shadow cast by her hood, bear down on the hand she had tasted when they first met—before the loud grumbling of her stomach reminded her of the more pressing concern.

Six scurried into the large pantry with the urgency of a starving monster. Literally.

The little girl emerged not too long after. In her arms, she cradled ten cans of preserved sausages—premium quality, of course, because even the junk in Emma's house was of high quality. Rachel's heart pounded in alarm when Six started in her direction and she cautiously pocketed her hands.

Time seemed to crawl as Six stalked towards her; despite the difference in height and age, Rachel felt she was prey being cornered. She tensed when the girl, tiny as she was, disappeared below the table.

The chair before her screeched against the floor. A few tense and nervous moments later, Six had piled her feast on the table, before clambering atop the chair and then finally the table.

Six paused, looking straight into Rachel's eyes.

Rachel tensed. Her telekinesis was ready and whirling lightly around her, making her red hair sway with an invisible breeze.

And then the impossible happened.

Six picked up one can in her two, tiny hands, and wordlessly offered it to her.

"Six…?" Rachel muttered, confused.

Six tilted her head to the side and Rachel understood.

A small smile etched itself on the mutant's lips.

Still cautious, but far less wary than before, Rachel opened the can with her gift.

Rachel floated one sausage to herself as Six settled on the table with her treat.

And the two sisters shared their first of many meals together.

-0-0-0-

Six and the Shaman

Nathaniel Grey was tasked with the job of teaching Six manners.

Granted, the task was self-appointed, but he felt it was his duty as the older brother to rein in his free-spirited sister.

After all, as doting as Scott was in his neurotic way, and as caring as Emma was in her own frosty way, and as warm as Jean was in her own distant way—the fact was none of them were truly raising her.

The fact that she was allowed to roam freely like an animal and spoiled rotten with food was enough of a clue for him that the three pillars of mutant-kind had become brittle in their old age.

A new brand of guidance and leadership was needed, and such a brand starts in the household.

"Now see here… Six." Nathaniel internally winced. He really hated calling her that—a number, as if dehumanizing her—but at this point, she wouldn't respond to any other name. Pushing his grievances aside, he continued, "You can't run off on your own without telling anyone."

Six, the little girl in the bright yellow raincoat, stared up at the shirtless mutant. She was sat on a chair but definitely not by choice; the preacher's telekinesis made sure of that.

"Oh, don't look at me like that." Nathaniel told her with a frown. "I'm trying to teach you. You're my sister, after all, and you have no idea how much you worry everyone whenever you disappear."

For varying reasons, of course. Scott and Jean worried she'd get lost; Emma worried how many minds she'd have to wipe when Six would inevitably go hungry.

A familiar rumble resonated around the little girl.

Nathaniel shot her a disbelieving stare. "You can't be hungry again, can you? That's the third time this afternoon."

Six's stomach growled again—much louder this time. Nathaniel winced when Six's face—at least, what was visible of it—grimaced in obvious pain.

"What do I do now…?" Nathaniel murmured to himself.

He'd read books. Habits formed in childhood. He didn't want Six to develop unhealthy eating habits, but her hunger pains gutted his heart.

Lost in his thoughts, Nathaniel never noticed how the lights started to flicker and dim in time with Six's increasingly insistent growling.

"I suppose it can't be helped." Nathaniel finally decided with a defeated sigh. A loaf of fresh bread, and a jar each of peanut butter and strawberry jam flew into the room before hovering in the space between them. "When you have to eat, you have to eat."

Using his telekinesis, he started making her a series of sandwiches.

As he fed the little girl, Nathaniel never noticed the shadowy figure that observed the proceedings.

-0-0-0-

Six and the Connection

The old mutant stared at the abyss.

The abyss stared back at the old man.

Nathan Summers sighed in resignation before opening the box of Krispy Kreme and tossing a donut at his newest sibling.

"Just one." He told her, though he knew how futile a command it was.

Indeed, Six had finished the delicious sweet in a blink and was staring up at him expectantly once more, hands outstretched.

Her stomach growled hungrily, loudly begging for another tasty treat.

Nathan glanced at the dozen donuts he planned to share with his family before shaking his head with a resigned sigh.

His dad did say to keep Six fed at all costs. To treat her condition as a mutation, Scott had said.

But what kind of mutation actually managed to make an entry in Emma Frost's financial statement!

"Fine." He grumbled, giving her the box. "Have it your way."

Though her eyes were hidden by her hood and dark hair, the little nightmare's grateful smile wasn't, and Nathan nodded in return.

And he blinked when Six scampered into the kitchen with what looked like a skip in her step.

Scratching the back of his head, Nathan decided he could get used to feeding Six every now and then.

He tried not to think too much about the little girl stuffing a donut inside one of the pouches around her chest.

Six had, as it seemed, inherited their father's utility belt.

And she was putting it to good use.

-0-0-0-

Six and the Phoenix

Jean really should be upset that her husband adopted a child—all but unofficially, of course, because nobody knew where the little girl in the raincoat came from which made procuring the necessary legal documents nearly impossible—without consulting her first, but as she observed Six pour through the mathematics workbook with the reluctance of a struggling student, Jean's motherly instinct took precedence.

"Not like that, Six." Jean corrected the little girl with a patient smile. Brushing a lock of red behind her ear, she took out a clean sheet of paper and wrote, "Like this. Do you see the pattern?"

The little girl looked up at her with a grimace on her lips. Clearly, she wanted nothing more than to get away from the numbers and patterns before her, but Jean knew Six understood that she sat between her and the bucket of deliciously fried chicken, and that Six also knew she could not sink her teeth in all that meat unless she finished the task at hand.

Jean needn't read her mind to know that the little girl hated how she was kept at the border between fed and starvation, but this was the longest Jean was able to keep her attention and by all means, she would exploit this to the fullest.

"Six?" Jean prompted, tapping on the workbook with her pen.

Snapping out of whatever reverie occupied her mind, Six refocused back on the task. It did not, however, take long for the girl to shoot glances at the bucket of meat.

After a minute of her pencil remaining still, Jean sighed. "Alright," she said, taking Six's pencil away and settling it on the table. The little girl looked alarmed as if she thought she had disappointed Jean in some way and thus would never have her treat. Jean shook her head slowly before levitating the food before them. "Don't worry. I'm getting hungry, too."

And then the girl smiled.

And Jean honestly did not know why Emma was so cautious that one might think she was frightened.

"Ah," Jean floated the chicken leg out of Six's reach. She fixed the little girl with a stern look. "I taught you to wash your hands before eating, didn't I?"

Six opened her mouth—and for a moment, Jean thought she'd finally hear her speak even if in protest—but it abruptly snapped with a click and Six pushed herself off the chair.

She scurried off to the washroom without another word.

One day, Jean thought, I'll peer into your mind and find out just what happened to you.

After all, more than simple curiosity and motherly worry, it wasn't fair that Emma was Six's only therapist.

-0-0-0-

Six and the Queen

Emma Frost trusted Scott Summers.

It was simply fact.

But trust in him did not mean Emma agreed with all of his decisions. That subsequent fact remained emphatically true in her disgruntlement at having a monster in the house.

She pitied the little nightmare, truly, and much as she wanted to like the monster in a yellow raincoat—she knew how this tragedy was going to end.

Even as Scott adamantly denied it, Emma knew he knew. The little nightmare's appetite was growing—whether it was because she was a growing monster or the being inside of her was growing hungrier, Emma could not say.

Both possibilities made her nervous.

Sat on her sofa by the fireplace, Emma cautiously watched as the small figure entered the room, scurrying towards her on tiny feet.

Any other girl and Emma's heart would have melted; but for this particular monster, Emma was diamond.

Six paused a foot before her and sat on the floor.

Emma gazed down upon her—upon the monster peering up at her. With one last sip of the blood red wine that gave her strength, Emma settled the glass on the nearby table and fully faced the waiting beast.

"Let us get on with it, then." Emma said, resigned.

Beneath her hood, Six closed her eyes and waited.

Emma Frost truly wanted to love this monster wearing a little girl's skin, she did, but Emma had seen enough tragedy to read the writing on the wall when it was presented—and Six had hers creeping inside her skin.

Ever watching; ever waiting.

And if the soft-hearted Greys would not do what needed to be done when the time came, then Emma would once again prove hers was the superior blood.

But she trusted Scott Summers—and loved him dearly, still—so she would do as he asked and do her part in this tragically futile mess.

Closing her eyes, Emma tapped into Six's mind to once more confront the darkness within.

Her heart raced in fright when it once again took the reins, pulled her in, and swallowed her whole.

Because Emma knew the nightmare was just beginning, once more.

-0-0-0-

Six and the Void

It wasn't easy getting Six adjusted to the world outside The Maw, but his family tried their hardest.

But there was always that one thing missing. Amidst buffet of sausages and chicken and pastries the girl heartily feasted on, Six would still always wander, and Scott would follow. At first, the little girl would try to lose him in the darkness, but Scott was nothing if not determined. Eventually, after much heartache, he got through to her, and she always sought his permission- in her own, silent way- whenever the need came for her to wander.

And wander, she did, with steadily increasing frequency and urgency.

Tonight was no different.

Scott Summers knew it was that time again even before Six appeared on his doorstep.

Her stomach rumbled.

Wordlessly, Scott put on his jacket and grabbed the flashlight, switching it on, and he followed Six through the house. As usual, Emma was waiting for them at the doorway, and as usual, the disapproving frown remained on her lips.

Scott nodded at her, and she turned away. She knew where they were going, and though she disapproved, neither he nor Emma nor Jean could find any alternative, and so silently she let them pass.

The plot of land Emma Frost's mansion stood on was secluded. It was an old plantation she had bought and repurposed for her own use, upon which stood one of the numerous dream mansions that filled Emma's fancy.

This one just so happened to have a thicket that secluded their dwelling place from the noisy road and prying eyes. In many aspects, it reminded Scott of Xavier's mansion, only modern and personal.

Six, impatient, scurried passed the garden and into the trees. The pitter-patter of her footsteps joined the chorus of the night, and Scott's own andante followed soon after.

The night, after all, was dark, and the thicket blocked whatever holy radiance the moon wanted to bestow.

Thus, Scott listened and followed the insatiable and unmistakable rumbling of hunger.

Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.

Crunch- a twig broke.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

Crunch, crunch.

Meew—a nocturnal deer urgently called.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

Thump, thump.

Mew, mew...

Mew...

And then, silence.

Steadily, Scott tracked, flashlight in hand, and found his wayward ward.

The little girl in the yellow raincoat was crouched upon a dying deer, but she paid Scott no mind.

Her teeth were busy feasting on fresh meat.

Still as the dead, Scott remained, and he observed as Six drained the life from the fawn, one bite at a time. Its parents were long gone—they knew better than to stay when Six preyed in the night. Undoubtedly, they cursed their trespass this night.

The little nightmare finished its meal quickly, and only then did it notice it was not alone. It turned to him, slowly, fresh blood dripping down its chin and yellow raincoat.

It smiled.

It was still hungry for another one.

The thicket darkened whatever light remained flickered and fought before it was swallowed.

Darkness grew and crept like treacherous vines.

Its maw opened and it stalked towards him.

Undauntedly, Scott met her halfway, crouched, and enveloped the girl in a hug.

And just as abruptly did the light return.

Six's eyes widened. Immediately, she struggled from his grip, pushing away from her warden with all the strength her thin arms could muster.

But Scott would not budge.

Instead, he pulled her hood back and ran his hands soothingly through the little girl's dark hair.

"It's alright." He whispered comfortingly against her ear, unflinching even as her little fists pounded on his chest in protest. "You didn't harm me, Six. It's alright."

Left alone, Six would probably be happier. She would not need to feel the guilt that was tearing her apart if she was left ignorant of such concepts. Or maybe she would have died, alone, on the beach of The Maw.

It was, ultimately, impulse, pity, and self-righteousness that prompted Scott to bring the little girl with him back into the world. And for the sin of his selfishness, Scott would bear full responsibility.

That was what parenting was all about.

Slowly, her protests waned until she was left with unshed tears.

The inner conflict and confusion swirling inside her was apparent. Emma and Jean always said he did not understand feelings, but at the very least, Scott could understand this.

As Six's stomach grumbled again—the exertion of her protest no doubt stirring her half-sated appetite; Scott released her. Replacing her hood and wiping the blood on her lips with one hand, he procured strips of beef jerky from his jacket with his other and offered it to the little girl.

Six's eyes darted to the side—no doubt, the girl wanted something fresh and pulsating and living—but she took the jerky anyway and ate it with one hand.

With her other, she took his, and ushered him back to the house.

As they walked, Scott could only pity his youngest daughter and ward.

Perhaps, one day, they would banish her demon.

Perhaps, one day, she would tame it.

But most likely, one day, her hunger would best her once more.

But—and Scott's gaze planted itself on her tiny hand in his—today was not that day.

And he believed Six was stronger than his fears.

-0-0-0-

A/N 2018: There was supposed to be two more bonus pieces involving Ruby (duh!) and Hope (ugh!) but as I was typing Scott's part, my thoughts remained dark and I couldn't muster any light-hearted hijinks anymore. So, I left it at this.

Just imagine Hope getting bitten I guess? And Ruby driving Six to an animal shelter to adopt a pet dog that Six takes care of and feeds and waits until it grows bigger and tastier and I'mma just stop right there kthxbye!

Hungry for Another One

El Ragna

-0-0-0-

"Ah... On the journey of 1,000 years of reincarnation
The hand and hand that are connected seek each other.
Exchanging hearts, oh, blowing wind,
Fly to a new world."

-0-0-0-

The clock sounded a tune, indicating that there was only a quarter left until the next hour.

Six paused, mouth wide open and fork in hand mid-feeding, as her eyes glanced at the clock. Her mouth then closed in a frown.

It was almost that time of the day—when she was forced to meet with The New Lady. She had a name, Six knew, but she couldn't quite remember it. Only, that The New Lady allowed her to remain in this new house after Scott had taken her from The Bad Place.

The New Lady reminded Six of The Lady from The Bad Place. Not so much in appearance, but in the way both carried themselves. It was why Six was displeased at having to meet with The New Lady.

But she had promised Scott that she would. Scott said that The New Lady was helping her, and Scott provided her food- unlike The New Lady, no. Instead, The New Lady only had a glass of wine next to her, and nothing else to sate her hunger.

And Six didn't like the way The New Lady looked at her—nor the way The New Lady barged inside her mind. But worst still, she hated the way something inside her trembled whenever she was alone with The New Lady.

It was a feeling Six couldn't quite figure out- but it made her heart race and her stomach churn. It made her throat dry; her palms, sweaty.

There was something inside her that stirred when the two were alone, and Six didn't know what it was.

And she wasn't so sure she was so opposed to it, either. It was almost like falling into an embrace, but The New Lady always tore her from its warmth.

With a resigned frown, Six stuffed the last hotdog in the yellow pouch of the belt Scott had gifted her, before securing the belt around her chest.

She scurried to the room of books where The New Lady waited.

-0-0-0-

Six cried out—the exertion setting her seldom-used vocal cords on fire, and she crumpled on the floor.

Gasping, she glared up at The New Lady.

Sweat dripped down the blonde's face, and Six drew vindictive pleasure at seeing The New Lady's chest heave with each breath. She was pale, and the skin of her knuckles were almost as white as her clothes while they gripped the armrests of the throne.

It took several more moments before The New Lady could regain her composure.

"That's enough for today." The New Lady finally said. She combed a hand through her sweat-drenched hair before straightening in her seat. Six frowned as the action made The New Lady look down upon her. "Pick yourself off the floor."

Six's stomach chose that time to growl.

The New Lady paused. "Eat." She commanded. "I know you carry snacks with you. Eat."

Slowly, Six returned to a seated position. Her whole body felt sluggish, and her stomach growled even harder, making her grimace.

"I said eat, Six." The New Lady quickly insisted, and through half-lidded eyes, Six could see the blonde's attention was drawn elsewhere.

Six wanted to shout at the woman—or bite into her lumps of meat. Anything to get the irritating New Lady to shut up.

And sate her hunger, too.

"Eat!"

With a snarl, Six pulled a can of sausages from her stash of snacks. It took her a few, incredibly agonizing tries to flick the ring up, and a few more painful moments before she mustered the strength to use the ring to tear off the lid- leaving her to a small feast, all without The New Lady's help.

"Good." Six heard The New Lady say, and she saw the blonde relax on her seat.

Six paid The New Lady no mind as she continued her meal, feeling her stomach steadily become quiet.

"You are powerful, Six." The New Lady acknowledged, her face a stony mask. "Frighteningly so. But power doesn't solve everything, and the abuse of which only feeds self-indulgence."

Six had no idea what The New Lady was speaking, and only paid her half a mind.

"You must learn control." The New Lady chastised. "To not succumb to your destructive impulse."

Six paused in her feeding, and frowned. How she wished The New Lady would keep quiet and just let her eat. Maybe—maybe she could seal The New Lady? Just for a short moment?

"I've no doubt you can kill me, you little monster." The New Lady pointed out. Reading her mind again. If she was frightened, then she was a master of hiding her emotions because Six could not feel any hint of fear. "I know you've killed before. And I know you relished in it—in causing pain to those that have inflicted pain upon you."

Of course she relished vengeance. Monsters lived in The Bad Place, and it was only thanks to her that they would never roam again.

"But let not hate for those that have harmed you fuel your urge to destroy." The New Lady said, her eyes seemingly lowered- vanishing beneath her hair such that Six could no longer read them. "Instead, harness your curse to protect the precious treasures behind you."

Six glanced behind her but found none. Was The New Lady seeing things? And The New Lady thought she had demons, ha!

The New Lady stood from her throne, striding past the kneeling child with regal steps, all the while continuing, "It would be so easy to simply rewrite people's thoughts—to make them think what I want them to think—but beyond something as fickle as morals, I would only be proving their fears right. Stooping down to their level."

There was something in The New Lady's tone that Six couldn't figure out.

She glanced at the The New Lady and, for the first time, the blonde's eyes seemed to mellow.

And yet, Six found them very sad.

"Scott believes you are far better than what people fear—including mine. Let us hope he is right." The New Lady turned away, her shoulders straightening before declaring, "If you hate me as much as you do, then prove me wrong."

The New Lady shut the door behind her.

-0-0-0-

Scott and Jean had returned and tucked her in that night.

But Six never really had what one would call a good night's sleep. Bothered by frequent hunger pains as she was, Six was once more up.

She rubbed the dust from her eyes before smacking her lips, trying to decide what delectable treat she would feast in. Her stomach grumbled, and Six decided she needed something fresher than canned meat this time.

There was a leg of lamb in the fridge—uncooked still. Just the way Six wanted it.

Her mouth watered just at the thought.

She jumped off the bed, landing on the floor quietly, before scurrying to the kitchen on bare feet.

As she made her way down the hallway, she noticed light coming from the study. And as she neared, she heard familiar voices argue.

"—said they've- vestigation."

A muffled voice that sounded like Jean said. Six slowly approached, her curiosity getting the better of her, and pressed her ear against the wooden door.

"It was only a matter of time before SHIELD found it."

Scott. That was Scott. Her stomach squirmed happily at his voice.

"But we all know who they're going to call next." The New Lady. She sounded—angry? Like she really didn't like whoever was coming. "How much time do we have?"

"I don't know." Jean answered.

"How can you not know?" The New Lady again. And yes, she was indeed angry. "I thought you read his mind!"

"Calm down, Emma." Scott said. "Six is sleeping down the hall."

Six's stomach squirmed again. Scott's concern always sounded delicious.

"I'll prepare the best I can." Scott continued. "I have a few calls to make."

"Are you finally going to tell the X-Men?" Jean asked.

X-Men?

"Oh, hell no." The New Lady hissed. "Need I remind you that the best at what he does is also the best at stabbing children?" Who? "He already stabbed Hope-" oh, she knew that person! "-and it was only because of the firebird that she survived."

"That's unfair, Emma." Jean defended. "He doesn't do it lightly. He kills only as a last resort."

"He must be incapable of thinking, then, because he does it very often." The New Lady said.

She must really not like whoever he was.

"I'll consider it."

"Scott!" The New Lady exclaimed. She sounded betrayed.

"We can't protect her." Scott said. "Not as we are right now."

"They'll betray you." The New Lady argued. She sounded certain of it. "They'll betray you- and they'll kill her."

"I thought you wanted her dead, Frost." Jean said in a tone that Six found was very unlike the mild-tempered woman she knew.

Six blinked. Oh right. That was The New Lady's name, too.

And, odd. The New Lady didn't reply immediately.

"I will protect her, Scott." The New Lady eventually said. "I may not like her, but I will not see another child murdered in front of me."

"And if the Avengers come?" Jean clarified.

Six tasted the word. Avengers? Didn't seem appetizing.

"If they make matters worse and it is unleashed?" Jean continued.

"You two won't let it come to that." The New Lady said. To Six's ears, she seemed to return back to her usual self. "That's what you two are good at, right? Heroes?"

"I'll figure something out." Scott repeated. "Trust me on that just as I trust you with her."

"But Scott-!"

It was at this point that Six's stomach grumbled.

The little girl stiffened—but seeing as the three adults continued to argue, it seemed they did not hear her.

Good.

Let them continue bickering about- who were they again?

Whatever.

She had wasted enough time already.

Maybe she'd see if she could have the steak, too?

-0-0-0-

Scott and Jean left that following morning, leaving her alone with The New Lady once more.

Six was mildly displeased, as she was accustomed to the two staying longer. Whoever the whatever-their-name-was that was coming, it seemed to spook the three adults.

Six shrugged, and her week fell back into routine.

She did notice that The New Lady peered through the window more often, as if looking for something.

There was a word for how she acted, Six was sure.

Scared? Not quite.

Cautious? Not exactly.

It was as if The New Lady was expecting something to pounce.

But that was silly, right?

-0-0-0-

It was the sound of boots rushing through a forest that brought Six back to the waking world.

"Don't move." A familiar voice commanded, and Six glanced upwards to see the determined face of The New Lady. Confused, and feeling her head could lose a few pounds, Six attempted to glance to the side so she could see what was happening.

"I said don't move!" The New Lady repeated, this time angrily. It jolted Six, making her tense up. "Your head was hit." She hissed, before ranting, "Damn those trigger-happy, self-righteous, judgmental cowards!"

Six tried to remember what happened.

She was at the dining area preparing a sandwich for her after-breakfast snack when the front door suddenly exploded, taking the entire wall with it. Before Six could even yelp, something red and white and very, very hard flew at her—and then darkness.

"To hurt a child!" The New Lady continued, still fuming.

Six didn't understand why The New Lady was angry, but somehow her voice seemed to calm Six down.

Or maybe it was the heaviness of her head?

Whatever the reason, Six felt her eyes fluttering closed once more.

"Don't you dare sleep on me, young lady!" The New Lady shouted—concerned? "Open your eyes or so help me, you will never have a meal from me again!"

The threat struck a chord in Six, and she cracked one eye open. And, sure enough, there was worry in The New Lady's face—and Six found it so very, very strange.

So, The New Lady could make that kind of face?

"Eyes open! If you do this, then I will treat you to all the best food this world could offer! So much food that even your gluttonous pit will overflow!"

The New Lady's words brought a goofy smile to Six's face as she imagined sitting at the head of a large table. All sorts of food—including food that Six had only seen on the television—were piled before her so high that they might as well have been skyscrapers.

Now wasn't that delicious?

"So keep your eyes open!"

Why was The New Lady still shouting…?

"Six! Open your damn eyes!"

-0-0-0-

The sun was at its hottest when The New Lady finally set her down.

"Figures they'd send him." The New Lady scoffed, but even Six could see it was all bravado. "I would be flattered if it were me he was aiming for, though."

Whoever him was, The New Lady knew she could no longer run.

"Have you eaten yet, Six?" The New Lady asked, before chuckling humorlessly. "I suppose you haven't. But bear with me for just a while longer, alright?"

The New Lady lifted something from her shoulder, and it took a moment before Six's heavy head recognized what it was.

"Definitely need to run some tests for your head." She chuckled again—a hollow, ringing sound. "Seems even you can suffer a concussion."

The New Lady knelt down before the stunned girl.

"Whatever happens, Six-" The New Lady said as she strapped Scott's yellow utility belt around Six's small frame. "-trust that Scott will come for you."

There was something in the way The New Lady said it that alarmed Six.

Was it The New Lady's blue eyes that now seemed to shimmer with resignation instead of certainty? Or the tone that now radiated sorrow instead of superiority?

It made Six's heart twist, and she reached out to The New Lady's white coat before she could turn.

"Six?" The New Lady asked, bending down so she could peer beneath Six's yellow hood.

Ah. Six realized what it was that bothered her.

The New Lady was concerned for her.

And Six figured out why The New Lady told her to trust that Scott would come for her. Because it meant that The New Lady would have perished by then.

Six shook her head and threw her arms around The New Lady's neck.

"Oh, you clever but stubborn girl." The New Lady whispered, her voice seemingly tearful to Six's ears. The New Lady's arms wrapped around her, impossibly warm for someone Six had always thought cold, before The New Lady drew back just enough to meet her eyes. "I shall do my best to return, my little monster."

Six's eyes shimmered. She hoped The New Lady knew she shouldn't make promises she couldn't keep.

"So run along now." The New Lady gave her one last squeeze before standing, her flesh gradually turning into diamond. "Mommy has work to do."

The New Lady gave her a gentle nudge.

Six sprinted forward, unshed tears blurring her path forward.

-0-0-0-

Why?

Why was she running?

She was-!

What was happening?

The New Lady was—!

Why was she always running away?

She was— The New Lady—

No. Not The New Lady, never.

She was—!

Her name was—!

Em—!

-0-0-0-

Electricity flashed behind her before thunder boomed in the wilderness.

Six groggily looked up at the sky—the exertion making her heavy head throb—and she struggled to focus.

No, there were no rainclouds on the sky.

So where did the lightning come from?

Feeling something churn inside her—and for once, it wasn't that other thing creeping in her skin—Six suddenly had the most horrifying thought.

Chilling dread swept through her and Six suddenly knew she had to go back.

Back to The New Lady.

Back to—

Blonde hair.

A humorless laugh.

My little monster—

Six adamantly shook the stars from her head and she sprinted back in a hurry, each footfall becoming even more panicked than the last.

-0-0-0-

Diamond was scattered everywhere, and Six's heart stopped.

Her mind—and her heavy head—struggled to make sense of the scene before her.

No, her mind already knew.

But—but this just couldn't be true!

Shouldn't!

Violently, her head whipped around for an unseen foe.

Who did this?

Who dared!

But there was none, and all that was left were Six, and shards of diamond.

Six fell upon her knees in shock—a pain far worse than anything she had ever experienced coursing through her veins, numbing her to the world around her.

Slowly, gingerly, and with increasing desperation, Six started to gather the diamonds littering the clearing.

Her stomach growled—and yet, Six could not feel even its pain.

Not when her heart was being ripped apart.

The New Lady…

Emma…

Emma…!

-0-0-0-

Emma was right. Scott did come for her—bloodied, his clothes torn, but still he had come.

Alongside him was Jean, whose face grimaced at the grisly sight.

It took Scott a moment to collect himself before he finally said, "Thor must have flown past her after-"

"Shh. I've got this, Scott. I can do this." Jean comforted. She knew what he was doing—trying to take stock of the situation. And any other time, Jean might have allowed it—to help him cope. But not this time, because it wasn't Scott that needed consoling the most.

"Be with her." She told him gently, gesturing to the girl in the yellow raincoat who was silently gathering shards of diamond.

Scott nodded his head. His mind was a whirlwind of fury wanting to lash out, but that could wait.

Six could not.

Nodding his head, Scott quietly approached the girl in the yellow raincoat, who was desperately trying to gather the diamond pieces of her teacher and protector.

"Six." Scott called out to the little girl. "Six." He tried again when the girl didn't respond.

He reached out to gently grab her shoulder, causing the little girl to drop a piece of diamond.

She instantly froze.

"Six." Scott repeated, this time more urgently as he took note of the encroaching darkness. He could feel Jean tense behind him, getting ready to defend them from The Little Nightmare if needed.

He engulfed the girl in his arms. "Emma will be alright, Six." He reassured her. "Leave her to Jean. We need to bring you to a safe place, and then get you checked."

The shadows wavered, and Scott took that as his cue to continue. "Let go, Six, and let us adults handle this." He whispered, pulling down her hood so he could stroke her dark hair. "I know this looks bad, but Emma will be alright." Scott hesitated, and glanced back at Jean. The redhead nodded in reassurance. "I promise you'll see each other again soon."

Slowly, Six turned around so she could look Scott in the eyes.

The dark look on her face made Scott swallow the sudden lump on his throat.

"We'll handle this, Six." He told her firmly, and Six's frown deepened, displeased. The shadows began to encroach once more, but Scott held firm. "There will be retribution. But it's not yours to dish out."

"Scott." Jean urgently called as dark forms emerged from the shadows, slowly approaching the pair. Hooded and small, but no less sinister.

Just like Six.

"Don't let your hatred for those before you fuel your urge to destroy." Scott said—and his words, Emma's words, caused the darkness to once more still. "But fight to protect the loved ones behind you, Six."

Those words- Emma's words- were like a spell.

Six's eyes watered once more.

The shadows slowly receded as the little girl's shoulders trembled. Slowly, with shaky hands, she raised the diamond shards she had gathered and offered her towards Scott.

"I promise I will set things right, Six." Scott whispered to her as Jean quietly took Emma's diamond pieces using her telekinesis. "But until then, let us keep you safe." He embraced the quivering little girl. Even in the waning light of the sun, Scott could see the tears her eyes stubbornly held back.

Scott brushed Six's dark hair comfortingly. "You know… it's okay."

And that was all it took.

Six buried her face into Scott's shoulder.

-0-0-0-

Jean often imagined what Six's voice sounded like.

Was it sweet like a child's? Or raspy from disuse? Maybe it was a shy, bashful note reflecting Six's quietness, or maybe it was loud and innocent showing the girl's playfulness?

But never did Jean imagine the first time she would ever hear Six's voice was during an anguished cry.

And may all heavens and hells have mercy on the bastards that hurt the girl in the yellow raincoat so—for shattering diamond.

Because Jean found she had very little mercy to spare.

-0-0-0-

"Echo... Echo, and now, return to the form you were meant to be.
Faintly... Faintly, just as the legends say.
Pray for eternity.
Ragna, Ragna, El ragna
Ragna, Ragna, El ragna"

-0-0-0-

A/N 2020: song choice for this piece is Towagatari ~El Ragna~ (Eternal Story ~The Goddess~) sung by Mizuki Nana and Horie Yui. Opening and closing lyrics taken from the song. It's an insert song from the anime, Cross Ange: Rondo of Angel and Dragon. It's what I had playing in the background as I was typing—even if it doesn't make too much sense why.

You can find the song here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IVk-hUzS2WE

Anyways:
- The Lady, like Six, is a character from the game Little Nightmares. Cold, vain, and ruthless, The Lady is also the final boss.
- Six initially views Emma as such, hence giving her the title of "The New Lady".
- "The New Lady" is definitely not a compliment, coming from Six
- Emma's a total tsundere, imho.
- And thus, AvX 2.0! Or maybe, Avengers vs Summers? Whatever, I guess.
- Nothing much else. As usual, just dusting off some rust. Or trying to regain interest; I don't know. Nothing much that interests me is happening in the Villains of X front.

Once again, if you liked what you read, please considering dropping a review.

Hungry for Another One

Kingsoul

Even as the rays of dusk flittered through the large windows, Scott Summers didn't quite feel at home in the Avenger's Mansion, and it showed.

Hidden away in the far corner of the mansion's library, Scott was still. Unmoving, despite the restless energy welling inside. His gaze was drawn to a point beyond the window, beyond the horizon and the fading light, that only he could see.

That was how his wife finally found him.

"There it is." Jean called as she gracefully rounded the corner during her approach. "The Scott Summers patented brooding pose. I suppose this is an upgrade from your nervous pacing when you were younger. Now, you're just nervously sitting still while your thoughts are pacing."

"I'm glad you're chirpy as usual." Scott retorted chillily. His body did thaw when her warm presence pressed up against him.

"What can I say?" Jean lazily murmured, her head resting on his shoulder. "I don't have as colorful a history with these guys as you."

"Colorful." Scott sighed. "That's a nicer way of describing it, I guess."

Jean shot him a sidelong glance. "…are you having second thoughts?"

Scott cracked a small smile. "Am I that transparent?"

"To a telepath that's known you since you were a teen? Yes. You're like a glass ball." Jean teased. And then, slowly, she cupped his cheek. "I can't tell you not to worry, but I can reassure you that I am here. We… are here."

And Scott immediately knew who his wife referred to.

Clad in white and gold Phoenix armor instead of her red and blue combat suit, Jean knew her presence in the upcoming ceremony was a reminder of her renewed bond with the Phoenix Force to all eyes that gazed upon her. A reminder that all those that stood against her would be judged by fire and life incarnate.

Her gesture made Scott eternally grateful- even when it made the symbolism of wearing the red of his uniform as a sign of his willingness to stand against those that harmed him and his feel like a trivial thing.

He could only wonder what manner of dress Emma would wear. Or even Six.

If he had to guess, Emma would likely wear her white just to remind everyone of her superiority.

"I know." Scott leaned against her. "I'm just uncomfortable with the future's uncertainty."

"When was it ever certain?"

"Never." Scott sighed. "It's why I have a bottomless stash of antacids."

"About that…" Jean began, and Scott glanced down at her curiously. "Some of them are out of date, you know."

"It's a tablet. It only loses ten percent efficacy per year."

"By ten years."

Scott blinked. "Ah."

"Ah is right, mister Summers." Jean giggled at his stupefied face. "You might as well drink a sugar pill."

"I'll sort through it when I have the time." Scott promised.

"That's what you said before." Jean pushed away, sensing a person's approach. "Emma was already eager to throw out the entire box in frustration if I hadn't stopped her."

"Well, Emma's solution to anything is to simply buy some more." Scott huffed.

"And with wealth like mine, why make things complex?" Emma suddenly cut in, making her presence known. The woman glided towards them with graceful steps and a teasing smirk. "I see you indolent gossips have restarted your baseless slandering of me behind my beautiful back."

"Beautiful, she says." Jean pretended to retch, though the act couldn't wipe the amusement from her lips.

"My bad." Scott apologized. He glanced over at his approaching lover and, indeed, she was clad in white. "And your contours are definitely beautiful."

"Flattery, Scott?" Emma took his other side, cupping a bicep before shooting a glance across him. "Tell me, Jean. What else should Scott be apologizing for while I was away with our dear little monster?"

"That Six chose you to help her get ready instead of him. What? I don't need to read your mind to know how you spent the afternoon, Scott." Jean ignored Scott's betrayed look. Instead, she narrowed her eyes at Emma. "And, really. Can you stop calling her that? Speaking of, where is she?"

"She's eating, of course." Emma pointed out. "And I will stop when she stops being one. But we all know that will never happen."

Sensing where the conversation was going- to another old and unfinished argument about how to properly raise the Avatar of the Void- Scott quickly changed the subject. "Six has been in a good mood ever since the two of you returned from Australia."

"Where Emma lost her." Jean curtly reminded, deciding to let the tireless argument slide for now.

"I found her again, didn't I?" Emma grumbled reflexively, shooting a small glare at the smug redhead before visibly sighing. Brushing a lock of blonde over her shoulder, she turned to Scott. "And has she, Scott? I hadn't noticed."

But despite her words, Emma's blue eyes shimmered.

"You did." Scott smirked in amusement over Emma's clear preening. Whatever peace Six found, she had found it with Emma at her side.

The White Queen was definitely a rose. For all her thorns, people were still drawn in by her natural charisma. Even the reticent Six was no exception.

Scott could still remember his surprise when happened. After days of Six's restless pacing, Emma had declared, following another session with the girl, that they needed to fly to the land down under. Scott knew how much Emma detested leaving her ivory tower, so to volunteer herself—and decline any other companion—to accompany Six had definitely taken years from his life by worry.

"She has." Jean reassured. "I'm happy to see Six happier, now. How did she master it?"

Emma shook her head.

"Mastery? Certainly not. What Six earned during our sojourn was reconciliation with the Void." Emma pointed out. After a brief pause, she then added, "And a new companion, I suppose."

Jean nodded, knowing exactly who Emma was alluding to. Six's pet insect was difficult to ignore: a headstrong spider wielding, of all things, a needle.

Had she not seen stranger things in her life, she might have been constantly perturbed. Still, Six and her spider definitely ranked in Jean's personal top three.

"And to think we're now presenting her to this community." Scott murmured.

"I just hope she doesn't misbehave." Jean sighed.

"Or, she'll at least devour Steve if she feels peckish." Emma nodded her head, before noticing the odd stares Jean and Scott shot her. "What?"

"Emma, play nice." Jean chided.

"What she said." Scott supported.

"I was." Emma pouted at them. "If I wanted to be mean, I'd have said Six should devour Logan, too."

"Now, now." Scott stood firm. "To Logan's credit, he came to protect Six when he was needed-"

"And he hasn't tried to stab me after bonding with the Phoenix Force." Jean added.

"-so I can't think of a reason why you want Logan eaten."

"He still smells like stale beer."

"Now that's just mean." But still, Jean couldn't banish her amusement.

"And your honor," Emma glanced up triumphantly at Scott, "I rest my case."

Jean giggled, and soon Emma joined her. Scott shook his head, but the tension in his shoulders eased.

"Tell me honestly, Scott." Emma sighed when her mirth finally mellowed. "When you picked up Six after leaving the X-Men, did you imagine you'd be here, preparing to present her to our little community?"

Scott took a moment to think about the question, and even longer to finally compose the words, before finally deciding, "In truth, I wanted to hide her. But Steve is right." Scott sighed, reluctant as he was to admit a very simple fact, "How can I expect trust if I'm not even willing to talk?"

"You've both been burned before." Jean pointed out. She shot a glance over at Emma, whose blue eyes had turned cold and unreadable. She could only imagine what Scott and Emma had gone through, and she wondered if she could manage to swallow the bitterness of the experience if it had happened to her, as well.

"And it's not easy to trust again." Once bitten, twice shy. And while it is easy to ask for forgiveness, broken trust is infinitely harder to repair. "But whatever issues are between them and I doesn't matter. Six does. She matters."

Trust wasn't something asked. It was a bond that took time to build, and it could never form if he was always on his guard.

"And if they decide to murder her again?" Emma coldly asked.

"Over my dead body."

"Our dead bodies, darling." The growing grin on Emma's face could only be described as vicious. "Yours, Jean's, and mine."

"Of course." Jean nodded her head.

"Good." Emma smirked. "Just so we're clear. I can't always be the one putting her life on the line."

The sarcastic barb easily cut through the lingering tension.

Scott breathed out a deep sigh. "I'm just uncomfortable with all this…"

"Pomp and circumstance?" Emma supplied.

"Grandstanding." Scott grumbled.

"It's a show of support." Emma explained. "A debut—with Six as our darling debutant. Through presenting Six as ward of both the X-Men and the Avengers, people are under the impression few will dare attempt any ill towards her."

"And you don't?"

"Neither do either of you." Emma rolled her eyes. "Some people believe they are a lot more important than they truly are. And we all know it is not the reasonable person we should be most wary of." The dark implication lingered for but a moment before Emma finally dispelled it with a sigh. "Still, I cannot refute that maybe our factions wouldn't have fought if there was proper discourse."

"People fear uncertainty." Jean, ever optimistic, reasoned. "And in response, they attempt to control. To exert their dominance to reassure themselves their fear won't hurt them. But at their core, they are not evil; just afraid."

"Oh, you." Emma shook her head slowly. If ever they decided to teach again, Jean should definitely start a course on the secrets of the universe. "And here I thought your renewed bond meant Scott and I have successfully opened your eyes."

"And corrupted me?" Jean cheekily jabbed, making light of Emma's role in driving the Phoenix Force insane those many years ago. Emma scowled in response, understanding the jab for what it was. "My eyes are open, and I see their fear as easily as I can see your blue eyes." Jean then gestured to herself. "What I am now is both deterrent and weight to balance the scales. Definitely, there can be no equal discussion if one side is clearly weaker."

"Balance, she says." Emma rested her chin on her hands, glancing out the window and towards the darkening skies. "They already know we have the Void. They know she's guarded by Scott- who is very adept at destabilizing institutions. And now we have the Phoenix Force."

"Are you worried we're amassing too much power?" Scott asked.

Emma sighed forlornly. "I'm worried about my place in all this."

Scott's brow twitched. How typical.

"You keep the Void in check." Jean pointed out helpfully. "By placating Six and diving inside her mind during your sessions, you're arguably the reason we even made it to this point in the first place."

"Huh. For all my skill and fortune, my worth is tied to a nine year-old's whimsy." Emma's hair slowly shook as the White Queen reveled in the irony. Still, she did not seem at all bothered despite her words. "This must be what is called karma." She concluded,

"You were pretty nasty before." Jean smirked.

"And yet you did appreciate my nastiness last weekend." Emma raised a suggestive brow.

The blatant and unexpected reminder instantly made Jean flustered. "You know what I meant!"

It was Emma's turn to smirk. "Despite everything, you're still such a prude."

"And you're still far too liberal!" Jean huffed, her cheeks still as red as her hair.

Scott chuckled quietly as he observed Emma and Jean's bickering banter.

He knew they were putting on a show, taking his mind off his concerns.

In an hour, it would be curtain time, and he had to perform his role.

In a few minutes, they would need to retrieve Six and prepare her.

But those worries were still several more seconds away.

For now, he still had this moment.

With Jean.

With Emma.

And so every worrisome moment after this could still wait.

-0-0-0-

A/N 2020: Yes, I'm now adding Hollow Knight into the mix. Y'all should definitely check that game out if you haven't done so.

Just a few points:
- The Kingsoul is a charm (power-up) from the Hollow Knight game symbolizing the union between higher beings. In this case, the trinity of Scott, Emma, and Jean.
- Granted, this does carry the implication that Six and the Void will eventually devour them. Certainly, the Void sees the resemblance between the Phoenix Force and a certain detestable radiant moth…
- As implied, Six, after another telepathic therapy session with Emma, was suddenly compelled to go to Australia sometime after the events of Avengers vs Summers/X-Men 2.0. There, Six stumbles upon the Dream Nail, learns of the Knight's symbiosis with the Void, and finally finds inner peace.
- And Six acquires a new friend, too- a skull mask-wearing, needle-wielding spider named Hornet in a pink dress. "Git gud!"
- Australia was chosen because Team Cherry, the devs behind Hollow Knight, are based in it
- For Jean's armor, think of Jean's Phoenix Five costume from Marvel: Avengers Alliance (yeah, that FB game) but with White Crown colors.
- Less torturing Six in this HfAO entry, and more parents talking.
- Scott being a threat to institutions/establishments/governments was a meta-joke alluding to DisMarvel (and especially JDW) pretty much becoming deranged in their obsession to make him a villain in the 2010s, before Hickman came along. Needless to say, they've consistently and spectacularly failed each time.

This piece was a 3 week struggle. It underwent numerous revisions because I wasn't satisfied with how the trio's voices came out each time I re-read this. At this point, I'm quite fed up wasting time, so here is the final version. Hopefully, I was able to convey Scott's nervous worrying, Jean's resilient optimism (not to be confused with cheerfulness), and Emma's hollow sense of superiority.

And that's it for now.

As always, if you liked what you've read, please do drop a review!

Until next time~!

Chapter Text

Crossing the Mountain (Hope Spalding - I)

To her credit, she had patiently waited.

Just as the locals said, the trek to the sanctum was far. It was a quiet journey, and she arrived at her destination without incident. After being welcomed and ushered into the garden, the waiting earnestly began.

That had been an hour ago by Earth's standard, and her tea was long gone.

Idly, the traveler wondered why she was here in the first place. Following a trail of gossip, she discovered this sacred ground the Kree created in the outskirts of the capital. It was, as the gossip described, a place where one found themselves.

The redhead would have scoffed at the thought in her youth. At the time, she was certain of who she was and what she was meant to do… and then she had grown up.

That was a very confusing and trying time.

It was a normal stage in development to lose oneself, apparently. The years had been humbling; she wasn't so sure of herself anymore—especially when she found that all who had once been beside her were gone. Loneliness became her only companion when she reached adulthood.

She thought to blame everyone for abandoning her, only to realize that this was yet another normal part of life. In truth, they were there for her when she needed them; they just weren't waiting on her anymore.

Unknown to her, she was given independence and she had no clue what to do with it. After years of people doting on her, and her struggling to prove she should be past such doting, the sudden lack of companionship was jarring.

Such was growing up, she supposed.

That was years ago. She had grown; she was less lost; she was more experienced.

Now, she was just waiting to be called.

The door opened, and a Kree woman dressed in white and green robes beckoned her.

"Smith will see you now."

She stood, flattening the nonexistent creases on her clothes before combing through her wavy red locks with her fingers in a last-ditch attempt to look presentable—a feeling that continued to be foreign despite all reassurances otherwise.

Her ritual somewhat placating her nervous self-image, she quickly followed the Kree woman.

They did not travel far. The sanctum was not an overly massive structure like she had imagined. It was just right—quaint, its architecture a rustic majesty that made the pristine halls feel warm and sacred. They walked through the carpeted path in silence.

Upon turning a corner, the Kree lead her to a door before stepping to the side. She urged her inside the room with a warm gesture.

"Smith waits for you inside." She said with a slight bow.

"Thank you." The traveler replied with a grateful nod of her own before striding past the Kree.

The first thing she noticed when she entered was how small the room was. Light streamed through the open window and illuminated a lone chair by the screen. A small table stood next to the chair, and atop it a glass and a pitcher of, she assumed, water.

Inwardly, she frowned. The place seemed to be a larger confession booth but—she thought with relief—it offered anonymity.

Subconsciously, she rubbed her eyes.

"Please sit." A smooth and masculine voice urged her warmly, and she acquiesced. He gave her a moment to settle herself before he introduced, "I am called Smith—as in one who creates. A scripter."

His voice was accented differently, albeit minutely, from the traditional Kree tongue, though she supposed that was no longer unusual. Even taking into account the Inhuman's occupation many years back, much had changed since Earth's Great Expansion and the subsequent Galactic Unification, after all. In fact, it was the immigrants from Earth that lead her to this quiet sanctum.

"That's good to know." She commented, all traces of nervousness gone. Inwardly, she rolled her eyes at the archaic wordiness of the Kree. "So what do you create?"

"Words." He replied, and she could hear the cryptic smile in his voice. "Stories."

"Stories?" The traveler skeptically asked, rubbing her disbelieving eyes with the back of her hand.

"Yes. Everyone has a story. I create their text—and it is my job to store them."

"Ah, like a historian." She concluded, nodding to herself. Their reality was truly vast—filled with strange cultures and jobs. "How long have you been at this?"

"It feels longer, at times."

"Oh? Tell me a story." She suddenly declared.

"I cannot divulge much without consent."

"But you can divulge something." The redhead pressed. Maybe it was the desire for conversation that drove her or maybe it was wanting something in exchange for her giving him her story; she really couldn't tell why she asked something so vague, but she did. "Where I'm from, we call this an exchange. Tell me about the woman outside—that Kree nun you have."

"A Kree?" The man behind the screen-wall sounded. He was amused by her description, the woman could tell, but why? He was silent for a moment, likely contemplating her offer. "She's a Skrull." He finally said.

"A Skrull?" She parroted disinterestedly. What was so special about that mention? "That's not so—wait," The traveler cut herself when realization hit her. "-didn't the Kree almost drive the Skrulls into extinction?"

"Yes." He affirmed in satisfaction. "One might also say the Shi'ar harbor the same level of hostility against mutants, but look where those two races are now."

"On separate planets?" Her jovial quip never betrayed the laps her heart ran at his casual mention of her people. Did this man know?

"A treaty of nonaggression and mutual growth." He clarified with a short chuckle. "That, in itself, is another story."

"But back to the Skrull?" She prompted before they could digress further. "I notice you never gave me her name."

Even stranger, the Skrull woman never gave hers even when she introduced herself.

"She gave up her life for the Majesdanian she loved. Upon bringing peace between their two races, she returned only to find that the Majesdanian had already married another woman."

"…It's like a bad rom-com without the com." She stated flatly, brushing her red locks behind an ear to relieve herself of the irritation the story brought forth.

Smith chuckled at her analysis. "Indeed, isn't it? But that is her story." The way he spoke sounded like he was concluding their digression; she inhaled deeply and waited. "Now, back to you—what story will you give me?"

"I'm not sure where to start…" She softly admitted while rubbing an eye.

Where does one begin a tale as colorful as hers? Her pilgrimage throughout the many galaxies had only proven to her that no planet produced as much oddities as her home planet.

"Starting with your name is always a good place." The Smith kindly offered. "One's name tells a lot about oneself."

"I guess…" She trailed, unconvinced but still willing to try. She had traveled this far, after all. "I am called Hope." The woman identified in the same manner the Smith did. With her knowledge of alien cultures was still lacking, she thought it would be best to copy. "As in, one that brings salvation to the despaired."

There was a pause after her declaration, and Hope wondered if she had offended the Smith with her imitation. Just as she was about to offer an apology, his wizened voice returned with a question, "And do you?"

"I'm working on that." Hope shrugged and relaxed on her seat once more. Her eyes took on a contemplative light as she reminisced out loud, "But I'm not sure I was named for that role. I got my name from… a woman my dad loved; a woman that loved me when I was a kid; a woman who… whose face I can't even remember anymore."

"You fear your name is not your own?"

"Not anymore." Hope explained. "I used to think my dad only named me Hope in her memory, but now I know better." Roses blossomed on her cheeks as she recalled her childhood tantrums with much embarrassment. "Still,-" She intoned a tad more forcefully after her brief pause. "-I exist because she did. I'm her legacy—the proof she existed…"

"You must have loved her."

"I like to think I did." Hope sheepishly admitted while rubbing her eyes. "I can't really remember because it's been so long…"

More than two decades, in fact. Whenever she thought of the woman of her namesake, Hope recalled sunshine and, more vividly, red hair—red as the blood that engulfed her when she was murdered.

"You seem troubled." The Smith's comment wrenched her from her dark recollection.

"You could tell?" She quipped, this time without any jovialness to her tone. It was a defense mechanism deeply ingrained into her—pressing on the attack when she found herself weakened. Maturity could not completely abolish her habit, though it did allow her to control the way it manifested. "Tell me, are these screens one-way?" She asked before delivering three loud and sharp knocks on the wall.

"Your anonymity is ensured so be at ease." Her listener kindly replied.

Hope shrugged. "Well, you're a better empath than I thought."

"I've had my years." He said. "And those years had their years."

"Yeah?" Hope nodded. She didn't find it at all difficult to trust the Smith. "I've had my own years on years, too. It's… kinda why I'm here."

"I see." He murmured, and she heard him shift on the other side. "Would you like to tell me more?"

"Alright."

And so she did.

She told him of her childhood—jumping into the future and dodging bullets with only a gruff and aging soldier as both father and friend.

She told him of her return—all the death, all the sacrifice, and all the hopes and dreams she was supposed to carry.

She told him of the turning point—of believing in her own righteousness and abandoning her family.

She told him of the aftermath—finding out that the normalcy she had craved for ceased being fulfilling, and she threw herself back into a life of running and gunning, eventually reuniting with her gruff old man.

She told him of the carnage—all the blood that followed her dying father as he struggled to revive her after a horrific injury, and the rift that grew between her and her beloved old man.

She told him of everything that came after. The carnage only continued; regret only deepened.

Why did she do the things she did?

What made her so self-assured?

When did her world become even more complicated?

Who did she become?

Where would she go now?

She rubbed her weary eyes.

With every story she told, Hope began to see more of herself. She began to see things how differently she could have handled matters but, alas, such was the fallacy of hindsight. It was only so clear because an outcome had already manifested.

Still, her reflection was not in vain. A spark had lit up in her mind; a candle burned in her stomach.

She could not name it exactly, but Hope felt like she was about to reach an answer.

"Sometimes, I can't believe all the things I said and did." She confessed, ending her tales. Embarrassment no longer colored her features—not when she had already shared a lot of herself with the Smith.

"You were young. Stupid. Selfish. It is not so bad." The Smith comforted her when her anecdotes finished. "One storyteller once said that it is better to be young and foolish rather than remain foolish when old."

"And how old is old?"

"It is difficult to say in these times." Honestly, who truly knew how long one might live now? "Still, that same storyteller goes on to say that foolishness prior to the age of twenty-five can be blamed on family; foolishness past that can only be blamed on oneself."

Family.

Hope blinked and her body ignited at the spoken word. Flames surged within her; her breathing grew fast and labored, and she had to remind herself to breathe.

That was the feeling; the release her body desperately yearned.

Family!

The Smith once more startled her with his empathy.

"What is it you wish for now?"

"I wish…" She glanced at the man behind the wall sharply. Her mind could see him, now; the revelations seemed to unlock something within her and absolute certainty had taken hold of her. "I wish to make my family whole." She told him softly, and reached out. The screen between them shook. "Smith… Scott, won't you come home with me?"

"…."

"It is you, Scott." Hope pressed, a giddy smile contorting her face goofily. "I can tell, you know? And yet… who would have thought we'd bump into each other in a place like this, right?"

The world… their world was truly a strange and marvelous serendipitous place.

Decades since they last met and light-years between them; how abysmal was the chance of this occurrence?

And yet, it happened.

A miracle.

What she was feeling—this rush was truly the joy of the miracle of meeting.

"Hope…" The Smith—Scott Summers started, bringing her thoughts back to the present. His tone was no longer the sagely voice he used. It was perplexed; more than that, it was old and weary, but it was unmistakably the tone of the Scott she remembered. "How did you know?"

"Familiarity, mostly, but you forget the ability I hold. Your eyes made mine tingle." She told him, rubbing her watery eyes. Her heart began to slow from its frantic drum as excitement gave way to solemnity. "It's strange—when I spoke with you, when you comforted me… it's just like before, you know? Even when you started talking cryptically like the Kree, I just knew it was you."

"Before was so long ago."

"See what I mean? Just like a Kree." Hope nodded to herself and surmised, "You must have been here for a long time, Scott. You must have been lonely here…" she trailed, her eyes pleading with him through the wall that separated them, "…so please, won't you come home with me?"

"Hope…" Her heart fell. "I am home."

"Your family isn't here." She reasoned.

"My home isn't there."

"Can't you come home with me? Can I be selfish once more?"

"Hope, I have a life here."

She closed her eyes.

Those words pained her. They were words she could not refute.

Years and light-years later, it was only natural that Scott would find new life.

She was an adult now. She could no longer force matters as she used to.

"Scott, I…" She tried. The screen between them shook once more as she pressed her forehead against the cool barrier. "…" Hope pressed her eyes shut. This was too bittersweet and she hated it. She wasn't supposed to be like this.

Inhaling sharply, the woman forced a smile. "Will I see you again?"

"Of course." His simple answer felt like sunlight breaking an eternal storm. "You know where I live."

"I'm departing today, Scott." Hope told him. "I'm returning to my home in the moon."

"Earth's moon?"

"Of course, you silly Kree." She snorted happily. "My journey was long but… but I think I can continue it anew."

"I won't wish you a safe trip." Scott said, and the screen shook between them. "You will never learn anything by playing safe. Instead, I wish you happiness."

She stood up and breathed.

It felt like her first true breath in so long.

"Take care of yourself, old man." She teased him, rubbing the joyous tear from her eye. "Come visit us sometime."

-0-0-0-

It would be years before they next met. As was the circumstance, light-years were between them. Still, they kept in touch about as often as a grandchild did with their grandparent.

On one summer day, she had invited him to the Summers family villa she owned on the Blue Are of the Moon, long-since terraformed for habitation.

Scott had declined.

Despite the heaviness Hope felt, she didn't press any further. He was a grown man so much older and just maybe wiser than her; she was sure he had reasons for declining a family reunion.

It was why she was gobsmacked when she had to put her game of darts against her uncle Nate—who was an incredibly proficient cheater despite his vehement denials of using his tk—and answered the front door.

He looked older than she remembered.

Though the years were kind to him, his hair, combed neatly, sported a lot more white than brown. Straight lines ran across his forehead, while curved ones curled at the sides of his lips. His frame—at least, what she could see from his indistinct sleeveless jumper over his baggy dress shirt—was somewhat stockier than his traditional slim appearance.

She might not have recognized this aged man if they met on the streets—that is, of course, if they should meet without his telltale ruby-quartz shades.

"You look beautiful, Hope." He complimented her. His words were less stiff now.

They were much warmer than she recalled—but then again, she could not recall the mundane from her growing years. It was unfortunate, but a colorful life only meant that the vibrant colors stood out from those of warmer hues.

"Hey there, old man." She smiled at him—and felt both awkward and comfortable at the same time. It was a strange and wonderful feeling, and her delight at his appearance reflected from her eyes.

"A friend dropped by." Scott told her, and Hope instantly knew where his gaze was. She glanced sharply over her shoulder and managed to catch the blonde head of Illyana Rasputin, Ruby's plus one, peering from the window behind her before she quickly retreated from their view. If Hope knew the woman right, she was likely claiming her pot from winning a bet she started with a gullible schmuck. "She offered these old bones a ride here."

Illyana had popped in unannounced. He would have proceeded straight to the gathering, but he had to stop by the nearby mall to buy clothes for the occasion. It was only proper, after all.

Hope placed a hand on her hip and shook her head in a slow and cynical manner. "Was that all it took to bring you here? A free trip?"

Scott coughed into his fist—and spoke through it as if hoping it would muffle his embarrassed tone. "I'll have you know that my wages as Wordsmith can barely cover a one-way trans-galactic trip, much less a return."

She gaped at him before hanging her head in defeat. She sighed, "I would have happily bought you a ticket, you know. All you had to do was say."

His cheeks flushed. "…I'll remember that, next time."

She raised a skeptic brow at him; they both knew he was just being too stubborn to ask. "Guess it runs in the family." She muttered under her breath. Banishing such thoughts, she extended a hand to her grandfather. "C'mon, old man. Let's see about fattening those bones s'more."

He took her hand before suddenly frowning.

"Scott…?" She glanced at him in concern.

The aged former leader of the X-Men turned his unhappy gaze towards her. "…am I really that fat?"

She could not help it; she sniggered at the unexpected question. At his offended look, she explained,

"Not quite,-" Hope Summers reassured her grandfather, Scott, and, feeling mischievous, teased him conspiratorially, "-but wait 'til you see Nathan!"

Scott stared at the beaming woman before the corners of his mouth twitched. Chuckles rumbled through his chest and Hope's joyous giggles joined it soon after.

They both would treasure the laughter they shared as Hope lead her grandfather to where the rest of the family were happily enjoying the sun and barbeque.

Summer was truly endless.

Omake: Twerk it like…

"So how did you wind up being a, well, story-keeper in Kree territory?"

"I needed something to occupy my time."

"Yes, which is usually why jobs are important—but you sidestepped the question. I really doubt the Kree posted an ad looking for a story-smith."

"…it started with a drink."

"…huh?"

"I caught up with the Starjammers when I left Earth. We went pub crawling across all the galaxies we stumbled across—all in search of the ultimate beer."

"That's… not so bad."

"Somehow, our drinking buddies always approached me to tell their stories."

"Must've scored a lot, right?"

"…I was almost raped a lot. When I wound up in a bar in Hala, well, things sort-of got out of hand with my drinking buddy-at-the-time." His shudder deepened Hope's interest. "Apparently, everyone loves a man that can listen. Everyone."

"So why did you listen?"

"It should have been harmless." Hope stared at him, unconvinced. In an ashamed voice, he relented, "…and there was free beer."

"Why in Kree-space, though?"

"…said drinking buddy provides lots of beer for my services."

Hope shook her head incredulously. How the mighty have fallen… "I think she wants to get inside your spandex, Scott."

"I know. I didn't realize that she was trying to get me drunk until much later, though."

"So why didn't you? Was she ugly?"

"No. She was very beautiful, in fact, and she had red hair."

Hope sighed at his last point. Somethings never really changed.

"But…?"

"But she kept telling me about the things she wanted to do to me with her hair, and I knew to stay the hell away."

"Urk." Hope retched.

"Yeah. On the bright side, I've an answer for one of life's greatest questions: tentacle-play is not exclusively Japanese*."

Omake: Cyclops Appreciation

"Hope, what are you doing?" Rachel asked when, on her way from the toilet, she spotted the younger redhead crouched before her computer.

"Processing stuff." Hope absently told her aunt while she was busying fiddling with her work through touchscreen.

Rachel peered over her niece's shoulder. "Who took all these pictures? And why are they all of dad?"

"Ruby and Illyana did, and as for why…" Hope stared at her in thought and Rachel chose to patiently await the reply. Moments later, Hope inhaled deeply before continuing, "What I'm about to say is strictly confidential." Hope's green eyes narrowed determinedly. "By no means will this information reach Scott."

"What informa-" Rachel's question never formed as Hope tapped the screen to reveal a website filled with Scott Summers—in varying ages and states of undress! "What the hell is this?" The incredulous aunt demanded of her mischievous niece.

"This is a fan-page." Hope stated proudly. "Scott's fan-page."

"Boys of Summer, DILF Edition?" Rachel read the heading, aghast.

"It occurred to us that Scott is still single." Hope explained with a nod and candidly declared, "Luckily, he's still got a very sexy bod."

"He's your grandfather!" Rachel hissed at the scandalous woman.

"I'm not gonna bend over and take his one-eyed monster." Hope raised her hands in reassurance, oblivious to her aunt's incoherent stammering. She would have been offended at the insinuation had she not understood where Rachel was coming from. "But I'm sure some lady out there wants to—she just doesn't know about it yet." At her aunt's conflicted countenance, Hope calmly argued, "Look, do you want Scott to remain a lonely widower forever or do you want him to have someone keep him company into his old age?"

That finally won Rachel over and Hope saw her shoulders relax.

So long as Scott was happy…

Still, Rachel felt it prudent to warn the younger woman, "…The Phoenix won't be too thrilled with you for this, you realize."

Rachel was perplexed by Hope's dismissive scoff.

"We've got a relationship of mutual disdain." Hope waved off the catastrophic threat with casual disinterest. "What do I care if it hates me even more?"

Rachel had to chuckle at that. "Oh, you…"

As the two women continued their plotting, it never did occur to them to ask Scott what he wanted for himself.

How did the saying go?

The more things change, the more it stays the same.

Chapter Text

The Doggo of Destiny

(Pom-X - I)

Steve Rogers, the Super Soldier, read the hundred-page report.

Apparently, a lot had happened to the X-Men in the time between Wanda’s mental breakdown and the superhero Civil War against Tony that ended with his own assassination then return.

Really. What the hell kept happening to the mutants?

They seemed to keep stumbling from one apocalyptic and/or massacre to the next – from chasing a Messianic newborn across the globe, to a riot in San Francisco, to establishing the Island Nation of Utopia in response to the oppression of Norman Osborn’s dark cabal, to an attack by an undead army AND a vampire legion, then to the most recent reckoning with a horde of advanced sentinels from the future, and god knows what other shenanigans the mutants got up to during their downtime. Honestly, it was a miracle how the man that lead them through it all, Scott Summers, hadn’t gone insane.

And as top cop of the United States of America, Steve wanted to keep it that way.

He needed to make a call.

Sam did say there was this one service dog they had – some Pomeranian with the uncanny ability to connect with its ward at a 100% success rate.

Maybe it could work its magic with Scott Summers, too?

-0-0-0-

The medal weighed heavy on his chest.

Not because of its metal — but because of everything it meant.

All the blood that was spilled for Hope to return.

Xuân lost her legs.

Julian's lost his hands.

Ariel and Vanisher were lost.

Kurt sacrificed himself...

...as did Nathan.

The X-Men were still reeling from their mountain of losses, each one more painful than the last – and here he was, getting a medal.

Getting photos while Hope grieved.

Scott Summers stood on the stage, straight-backed, stoic, visor gleaming in the hot press lights.

Around him were applause, camera flashes, and the murmured discontent of people who hated giving an X-Man – especially the one that brought American supremacy to its knees when Osborn wielded the full might of HAMMER – anything resembling credit.

Still, Steve Rogers shook his hand.

The applause swelled.

“You carried your people through hell, son,” Rogers said, voice even and smiling for all to see the birth of this new heroic age. “I know it doesn’t feel like victory. But you should have someone to carry you for once.”

That was when they brought him forward.

At first glance, it was just a dog.

A fluffy little Pomeranian with white fur and a tail that wagged like a metronome set to joy. He pranced across the stage, tongue lolling, eyes shining.

The crowd instantly melted.

Scott stared. “…What is this?”

“A service dog,” Rogers said. “The best. Trained for trauma response, companionship, and emotional stability. Thought you might need him.”

The dog barked.

Everyone in the auditorium smiled against their will.

Everyone but Emma Frost, whose eyes narrowed behind a practiced smile.

She felt it — the brush against her mind, impossibly cheerful, impossibly bright.

Scott’s shoulders loosened for the first time in months.

He bent down, scooped the Pomeranian into his arms, and felt the dog nuzzle against his jaw.

And against all odds, the leader of the mutants smiled.

The cameras flashed.

History recorded it.

That was how Pom-X arrived.

-0-0-0-

The X-Men noticed the effects almost immediately.

Debates ended early. Mission planning suddenly went in Scott’s favor.

They thought they were just imagining things – until Scott was stood in front of the league of nations.

And then it happened again.

World leaders folded after one meeting. Even Logan, ready to stab Scott over cereal, would find himself scratching Pom-X behind the ears instead.

Emma Frost was the only one besides Scott who knew the truth.

That the United States had unwittingly gifted Scott a telepathic dog.

And it had bonded with him as most telepaths did.

The White Queen was the only one who heard the constant stream of happy telepathic chatter.

'We should fix things!' Pom-X happily suggested to Scott’s mind. 'Everyone deserves snacks and safety! Let’s make the world fluffy!'

To Emma, Pom-X was more than Scott’s dog.

He was… an accomplice.

A co-conspirator in rewriting the world’s ugliness with absurd and fluffy joy.

But to Scott?

Scott just thought Pom-X was the best dog in the world.

And really, what was so bad about that?

-0-0-0-

Omake: Kitty Pryde is a brat!

The war room at Utopia had weathered plenty of heated strategy sessions, but tonight it was holding court over something far more volatile than Bastion’s assault.

Hope had left after an hour of arguing, shoulders squared in defiance.

That was enough to set Kitty Pryde off.

“She’s impossible! She doesn’t listen, she contradicts every order, and she—” Kitty’s voice cracked, somewhere between fury and exasperation. “And you just let her! Scott, you’re spoiling her and you know it!”

Scott exhaled slowly, steady as always. “She’s still learning.”

“Learning?!” Kitty’s hands flew up. “Is she learning that the rules don’t apply if you’re Hope Summers?!”

Her ranting pause landed her gaze on the floor.

And then she spotted him.

Pom-X.

Sitting like a fluffy angel, tongue poking out, tail wagging faintly.

“And why is the dog even here?” Kitty screeched. “This is supposed to be a strategy meeting!”

Pom-X suddenly tilted his head, eyes going glassy, his lips puckering in the saddest, most heart-crushing pout imaginable.

It was the kind of look you’d see on a “please adopt me” poster — the soulful, tragic eyes of a puppy who just learned his owner was never going to return.

Scott blinked down at him. His jaw twitched. Then he looked back up.

“Pom-X stays.” He declared.

Kitty almost choked. “Scott—”

But Pom-X had already shifted gears. The pout morphed into a radiant smile — ears perked, teeth flashing, fluffy chest puffed out as if he’d just solved world peace by existing.

He yipped happily at Scott.

Colossus muttered a prayer in Russian and refused to meet Pom-X’s gaze. Storm pressed her lips together, fighting not to laugh. Iceman actually clutched his chest.

“This is RIDICULOUS!” Kitty all but screamed. “I am a genius! I’m a senior X-Man! I have actual plans that could save lives, and none of you can think straight because of that— that— weaponized puffball!”

Scott, meanwhile, had one hand absently scratching Pom-X’s ears while his other pointed vaguely at the tactical hologram. 

“Listen to me, Scott Summers!” Kitty actually frothed.

“I’m listening.”

No, he really wasn’t.

The leader of the mutant race was fist-bumping the tiny dog’s paws.

“You’re not focused!” Kitty stomped, half-phasing into the floor in fury. “You’re playing with your dog while the genocide of mutantkind is happening!”

Pom-X barked happily, as if to strike through her point.

The table cracked into suppressed laughter. Iceman slid halfway out of his chair. Colossus covered his face. Storm shook her head, smiling despite herself.

Kitty finally threw up her arms. “You know what? Fine! Let’s just let the fluffball run the X-Men!” She stormed out through the wall, muttering, “Unfair. Totally unfair.”

Silence followed her exit.

Pom-X rolled onto his back at Scott’s boots, kicking the air with his stubby legs.

Emma crossed her arms, lips curving into a smug little smile.

Only she knew Pom-X wasn’t just “adorable.” He was subtly radiating telepathic calm, amplifying Scott’s confidence like a furry little psychic loudspeaker.

Scott, of course, just looked down at him fondly.

“Good boy.”

Pom-X barked once, delighted.

As far as he was concerned, Pax Utopia had already begun.

-0-0-0-

Omake: Rise of Pom-X

The marble chambers of the United Nations had seen dictators, generals, and warlords.

Today, it faced its greatest threat: Pom-X.

Scott stood at the podium, speaking of mutant sovereignty. Emma lingered nearby, diamond composure on full display. And at Scott’s feet, Pom-X sat like a little snowball of destiny.

It was supposed to be symbolic — a display of normalcy and relatability. What could be less threatening than a puppy?

But by the third minute of Scott’s speech, delegates were visibly swooning. Representatives of nations with nuclear arsenals were leaning over to coo. A half-dozen ambassadors had already crouched to snap unsanctioned photos. One even abandoned his translator headset to scratch Pom-X behind the ears when the little Pomeranian made its rounds on happy paws.

By the fifth minute, the chairman slammed his gavel.

“This meeting is suspended. The representative from mutantkind has introduced an unfair advantage before this assembly!”

Scott froze, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

A resolution was hastily drafted.

Effective immediately: no animals may be present during League deliberations, on account of weaponizing cuteness.

Security gently escorted Pom-X out.

Cameras caught the moment — a desolate puffball, carried like contraband, his dark eyes shimmering with hurt and betrayal.

Scott bristled, fists clenching at his sides. “They just undermined everything. Because of my dog.”

Emma, unruffled, smoothed a hand over Pom-X’s trembling head. Her voice was soft but edged with steel.

“Darling, when the world fears you for being too powerful and too cute in the same breath… that’s not failure.” She met the Pom-X's gaze without flinching. “That’s victory.”

Pom-X nuzzled into her arm, soothed. His tail gave the faintest wag.

Emma tilted her chin, eyes flashing.

“Let them have their resolutions. We’ll keep the real power on a leash.”

Scott almost smiled.

Pom-X barked once, his exile already forgotten.

-0-0-0-

Omake: Diplomatic Pup

The UN might have barred Pom-X, but Emma Frost was not so easily dismissed.

She was staging Pom-X’s comeback tour.

The White Queen entered the gala in regal white silk that caught every camera flash, Pom-X at her heel like a snowball with legs. The pup’s bow matched her gown perfectly.

The first target was France.

Emma bent, scooped Pom-X into the arms of the French First Lady with a grace that suggested intimacy. Cameras flashed as the woman gasped, tears glimmering.

“Magnifique…” she whispered, clutching the pup as though he embodied the spirit of liberty itself. Emma let her hold him for precisely forty-five seconds — long enough for a cover photo, short enough to make her beg for more.

Since then, Emma and Pom-X (and Scott) began their world domination.

The next PR campaign found them in Spain.

Schoolchildren in Madrid shrieked with delight as Pom-X pranced through the steps of a museum, his pawprints smeared blue paint across the concrete like a living exclamation mark.

Emma’s statement to the press was simple, “Hope should always leave pawprints.”

In South Korea, Emma had gifted Pom-X to the arms of a pop star with a following of sixty million. Her feed detonated in likes before dessert was served.

The singer crooned, “This is the real ambassador of the mutant race!” while Pom-X licked her cheek.

Scott trailed behind all of this with the patience of a condemned man.

“Emma,” he muttered between camera flashes, “this was supposed to be about our sovereignty...”

“Darling,” she replied without looking at him, one hand delicately scratching Pom-X behind the ears, “Politicking bores people. Puppies stop wars.”

Pom-X yipped, as if on cue. The press corps roared.

And then came Latveria.

The delegate was a large militant man with a jaw tight as steel.

Doom’s chosen voice in the world stage radiated disdain for everything in the room, even Emma Frost.

Undeterred, Emma glided forward, eyes ice and diamonds, Pom-X balanced effortlessly on her arm.

“Ambassador,” she purred. “Perhaps you’d like to meet Utopia’s… unofficial envoy.”

The man began to scowl. He opened his mouth, likely to deliver a sermon about mutants and sovereignty and Doom’s inevitable triumph.

Then Pom-X tilted his head. Big, dark eyes. Tragic, soulful, shimmering with every ounce of genetically weaponized cuteness that sensible nations would need to outlaw if they had any foresight.

The ambassador faltered. His scowl wavered.

Slowly, against every instinct, he reached out and lifted Pom-X into his arms.

The room went dead silent.

Then, Pom-X licked his nose.

The Latverian delegate froze, and then cleared his throat. On live television, with the world watching, he announced:

“Mutant rights must be… eh… considered. Yes. Considered. With dignity. Latveria acknowledges the Island Nation of Utopia.”

The ballroom erupted into applause.

Emma’s smirk was a blade drawn under moonlight. She leaned toward Scott, voice just for him.

“Tell me again, love, how this isn’t working.”

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is insanity.”

Pom-X barked once, triumphant.

The cameras ate it alive.

At the end of the crusade, on a crisp afternoon back at Utopia, Emma scooped Pom-X into her arms, and brushed a kiss across his furry head.

“Congratulations, my little prince. You’ve done more for mutantkind in a month than Charles did in a lifetime.”

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose, resigned. “Give Charles some credit, Emma...”

Pom-X barked twice, fluff vibrating with joy.

Emma’s eyes glittered as she pecked her lover on the cheek.

“And yet, I hear no denial.”

And the world seemed to agree.

-0-0-0-

Omake: Prelude to AvX

Utopia’s war room no longer smelled of burnt coffee and tension.

Maria Hill, Director of SHIELD, had come prepared to lay into Cyclops about the threat of sovereignty.

Abigail Brand, Director of SWORD, was ready to bark about sightings of cosmic firebird activity.

Instead, both women were currently crouched on the floor of Utopia’s command center.

“Who’s a fluffy ball of concentrated sunshine?” Hill cooed, her clipped, militant tone dissolving into baby talk. She was scratching under Pom-X’s chin. “You are, yes you are!”

Brand, normally sharp enough to slice steel, was rubbing Pom-X’s belly with both hands, her sunglasses knocked askew.

“Such a little alpha predator,” the half-human gushed. “Yes, you are. Gonna bite the bad fire turkey, huh? Show the mean birdy who’s boss?”

Scott Summers stood stiff as a statue, arms crossed. “Weren’t you both here to tell me something important?”

Hill tried to regain composure, straightening her blazer with one hand while still dangling a squeaky toy with the other. “Yes. Right. Mutant—sovereig—oh look at that tail wag. Who’s got the best tail wag?”

“Shut up Summers and let me have this!" Brand jabbed a finger toward Scott, though it wobbled as Pom-X pawed her wrist.  "Aww, who’s mama’s widdle diplomat fluff?”

Scott exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Emma,” he muttered, “tell me again why we keep letting him into these meetings?”

Emma smirked, watching Hill kiss Pom-X on the nose.

“Because, darling, nothing else reduces world governments to compliance this efficiently.”

Pom-X barked once.

Both directors applauded like proud moms.

-0-0-0-

Omake: Hope just wants to get hit!

Hope was pacing restlessly.

“He’s supposed to be training me. Training me! And what do I get? Scott Summers, legendary mutant leader who taught Nathan everything he knows—” she spun dramatically toward the rest of the Extinction Team, “—spends more time with his dog than with me!”

Storm folded her arms, calm as a summer breeze. “Pom-X is not merely a dog.”

Namor smirked. “Indeed. Pom-X once stared down a leviathan and made it weep. I was there.”

Hope blinked. “That’s not—he’s a puffball!”

“He’s an apex predator,” Betsy pointed out dryly.

Magneto tilted his head, utterly serious. “Pom-X’s restraint is legendary. Were he to unleash his full power, the Earth would kneel.”

“Are you people kidding me!?” Hope cried. “I’m the one destined to host the Phoenix! I need sparring, combat drills, danger rooms, not… tail wags!”

Colossus cleared his throat. “To be fair, he does bite ankles with impressive ferocity.”

Danger interjected, voice flat, “Supporting data. Pom-X’s ankle bites exceeds Colossus’ grip strength.”

Magik simply smirked, eyes never leaving Hope. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous!” Hope shouted, cheeks red. “I just—ugh! Fine, you know what? If Scott won’t push me, one of you better start throwing punches that actually hurt!”

Namor leaned back smugly. “Very well. But if you lose, you must scratch Pom-X’s belly.”

Hope groaned so loud it echoed off the walls.

-0-0-0-

Omake: And now… AvX, but with 100% Pom-X

The dust of the lunar battlefield hadn’t even settled when Tony Stark’s HUD painted the readings in crimson:

Phoenix energy signatures…

…six of them.

Cyclops. Emma. Namor. Colossus. Magik.

And—Tony blinked—

“Wait. No. No, no, no. Is that a dog?”

A tiny pomeranian, wreathed in burning cosmic fire, floated smugly above the crater, eyes glowing like twin supernovas.

Pom-X barked once, and all the Avengers were brought to their knees.

Tony ripped off his helmet, shouting to no one in particular:

“Who the hell brings a dog to the moon?!”

The pomeranian growled.

The moon trembled.

And Hope’s unconscious body was forgotten by everyone.

-0-0-0-

Hope Summers had expected the Phoenix to look like fire and death, not like free hospitals, endless food supply, and headlines about “Global Peace.”

On the balcony of Utopia, she watched the so-called Phoenix Six descend like gods—

Cyclops cutting deals with diplomats, Emma soothing world leaders with a glance, Namor parting the seas for trade routes, Magik ending centuries of war, Colossus stopping global warming.

And then there was Pom-X.

The tiny fire-wreathed Pomeranian hovered above the crowd, yipping once to purify an oil spill into clean water. A bark ended a border skirmish in the Middle East. A wag of his tail produced enough energy to power half of Europe for a week.

People chanted his name like he was dog Jesus.

Hope’s fists clenched.

She was supposed to be the messiah.

The chosen one.

The Phoenix’s intended vessel…

...but apparently, the Phoenix had decided a dog was cuter.

Storm landed beside her. “You should be proud. Look at what we’re building.”

Hope’s jaw set. “Yeah. Sure. So proud.”

That night, she slipped out of Utopia.

If she couldn’t be the Phoenix’s heir, she’d be the Avengers’ weapon.

At least they would need her!

-0-0-0-

Captain America had faced gods, aliens, and Tony Stark hungover and naked on his bed, but nothing unnerved him quite like the way Hope Summers was staring at him.

“Let me get this straight,” she said slowly. “You—you—gave Scott Summers that dog?”

Cap blinked. “…Pom-X? Uh, yes. Little guy was meant as a… morale boost.”

Hope leaned forward, voice rising. “I train my whole life for the Phoenix, bleed for it, and he gets handed a cosmic golden ticket in the shape of a Pomeranian because you thought he looked sad?!”

Cap opened his mouth, closed it again.

For the first time in years, Steve Rogers truly had no defense.

-0-0-0-

Wakanda was sinking.

From the palace balcony, T’Challa stared down at his capital city with the expression of a man who had just realized his throne room might need flotation devices. The mighty river that sustained his people had burst its banks, transformed into a frothing inland sea.

At the center of the chaos was the culprit: Pom-X.

Tail wagging and eyes bright, the small Pomeranian balanced on a half-submerged market stall, fur still somehow perfectly fluffed despite the deluge.

T’Challa’s teeth clenched. “Which one of you thought it wise to teach the Phoenix-infused pup of destiny to shake?”

He was expecting one of the X-Men – Scott, even – to raise his hand.

His heart sank when one of the Avengers did.

Clint Barton raised a hand sheepishly from atop a chunk of vibranium ore. “Technically, I just said ‘shake,’ and he… uh… interpreted.”

Interpreted, in this case, meant displacing an entire nation’s worth of water in one enthusiastic paw-slap.

T’Challa growled.

“Someone give that river a dam!”

-0-0-0-

Wakanda’s inadvertent flooding was the final straw.

Professor Xavier glared at the Phoenix hosts, jaw tight, ready to shut down Pom-X once and for all. The Pomeranian cocked its head, tongue lolling, then squinted with gleeful intensity.

To Pom-X, this was clearly a game—a contest of wills, mind against mind.

Xavier reached in.

Pom-X, excitedly, barked back telepathically.

The professor reeled, clutching his temples.

The world swam with the raw, overwhelming imagery of squeaky squirrels, tennis balls, and a thousand bacon treats.

Xavier collapsed from sensory overload.

Pom-X bounced onto his chest, triumphant, tail wagging. In the dog’s mind, it had won fetch forever.

-0-0-0-

The battlefield was chaos—flashes of lightning from Thor, repulsors from Iron Man, the Hulk bellowing as he waded through fire and psionic walls.

In the center, three figures stood: Cyclops, Emma Frost, and the glowing, absurdly fluffy Pom-X, tail wagging with cosmic authority.

Scott’s visor burned brighter than ever.

'This is it', he projected grimly. 'No more compromises. We fight them to the bitter end.'

Before Emma could agree, a small, high-pitched voice piped into his mind. 'But what about that fluffy, happy wonderland we always talked about?'

Scott faltered. 'Pom-X, this is war.'

'Yeah,' the pup barked cheerfully in his thoughts, 'but wars are dumb. Imagine it—cloud castles made of pillows, rivers of squeaky toys, chew treats raining from the sky! You said we’d build it together!'

Scott’s jaw tightened. The Avengers and the X-men were closing in. His power coiled, ready to detonate—then he exhaled.

'…Oh, alright. But you’re going to have to use the puppy eyes on other people, too."

Pom-X’s entire being radiated joy. 'Yay! It’s going to be awesome!'

A moment later, Captain America froze mid-charge, shield lowering as Pom-X fixed him with the full force of those cosmic puppy eyes. Thor’s hammer sagged, Hulk blinked, and even Wolverine grumbled, “Oh, hell, fine. But just this once.”

The battle dissolved into mass bewilderment.

Later, as the dust settled, Emma crossed her arms, shaking her head. “You magnificent jerk. I still can’t believe you pulled this off.”

Scott allowed himself a small smirk. “I have my moments.”

-0-0-0-

The world was quiet now in a way Scott Summers had never known.

Cities hummed with harmony, mutants were being born again, and Pax Utopia stretched across the globe. No one starved, no one suffered, no one even stubbed their toe without a healing aura drifting in to patch it up.

Scott stood at the balcony of the rebuilt Xavier Institute, watching children—human, mutant, Inhuman, and alien alike—play with cosmic chew toys Pom-X had generously scattered across the lawn.

Emma sidled up beside him, crystal flute of champagne in hand. “You realize you’re smiling,” she teased.

Scott blinked. “I am?”

“Like an idiot,” Emma confirmed, smirking. “Ever since Pom-X trotted into our lives, you’ve looked… lighter. Less broody. It’s… endearing if it wasn’t so obscene.” She brushed a lock of gold behind her ear. “We really should send Steve a fruit basket. After all, he’s the one who gifted you the little furball.”

Scott gave a soft chuckle. “A fruit basket. Right. Grapes of gratitude. Bananas of benevolence.”

Emma laughed, looping her arm through his. “Exactly. Let’s make sure they’re organic, too.” Then, almost idly, she added, “Though if Pom-X ever vanishes chasing a squirrel across realities, you aren’t going to pull a Dark Phoenix on me, are you?”

Scott shrugged at the absurdity. “Probably not. You’d find a way—like you always do. Pom-X, the world, me… you have a talent for turning chaos into something better.”

Emma’s smirk softened, but she said nothing.

Her hand simply slipped into his, fingers lacing tight.

From the corner, Hope Summers stood arms folded, jaw clenched, eyes practically glowing with indignation.

She was supposed to be the one destined to reverse Decimation, to be heralded as the Mutant Messiah, and yet—and yet—the future now belonged to a six-pound Pomeranian with cosmic puppy eyes.

No one noticed her seething.

Not Scott, not Emma, not the children giggling over chew toys of destiny.

The world was perfect.

-0-0-0-

Epilogue:

Hope had sworn she’d never forgive the fluffball that stole her destiny.

And yet, when she stumbled down the Institute steps, boots hollow against stone, Pom-X was already there. Tiny paws, big eyes, tail wagging like the metronome of joy that he was known for.

He sat as if he was waiting for her hand.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, lowering herself onto the bench. “I’m not bitter. I’m just… I feel sidelined.”

Pom-X tilted his head.

Then—gentle as a sunrise—pressed against her shin.

Hope exhaled, tension bleeding out.

“Fine,” she sighed, scratching behind his ears. “You can be my service dog. But no more stealing my messiah gigs.”

Pom-X barked once, triumphant.

For the first time, Hope laughed with him instead of against him.

Pax Utopia.

Chapter Text

Sincerely, Me (Tyke - I)

Dear Scott Summers,

Hi. It's Scott Summers. Younger-you, I mean.

I don't really know how this time-travel thing works. I don't even know how to start this letter. And, maybe this letter will be pointless. Maybe you'll wake up with the memories from this side-trip.

But when last we spoke, you didn't remember anything, so I just wanted to be sure. Because I'm unsure of a lot of things, currently.

What I do know is you'll come back to life to read this—and gee, the present future has really thrown common sense out the window when the only certainty is life after death. And not in the metaphysical or spiritual sense, either.

Jean—your Jean is back. As in, she's walking around in flesh and bones and in the tightest suit I've ever—you get the picture.

I just wanted to tell you my observations about the present future and, I don't know, offer you advice. I guess.

Sorry, things have just gone crazy. I dread thinking about growing up now. Honest.

Sorry, I'm rambling. I'll just get back to the point.

Sorry—wait, am I saying sorry too much? I apologize. It's—a lot of things have happened, and I feel bad you'll have to put up with all of the… things.

Alright. Here it goes:

1) Dad is doing fine. It's surreal to see him again after—I'm sure it's been much longer for you, but not coming back for us really tore him up, you know. Just wanted to let you know. Maybe you should visit him? I think we're about to have a mother-in-law, too, and she's great.

2) The future is complicated. I don't know what happened, but there's just so much… noise. And not always for the good, either. Not even for the most part. Maybe a 70-30 split, to be frank. I don't know. Maybe we're just in the wrong crowd? More on that later.

3) I'm sorry about the Space Pirate after your life. I broke her heart, but not intentionally. It's all your fault, though. You told me not to go for blondes or redheads. Just, be careful when you go to off-planet, alright? Oh, did I mention Vileena Malafect blames me for killing her father? Sorry.

4) Emma Frost is frightening but she really does love you. Not me or us. You. She went crazy after you died, you know? Her sanity jumped off a cliff. She tried to transplant your memory into my body. I think it's supposed to be romantic, and it probably is if, you know, you're crazy. I don't think she has many friends. Find her, Scott. Find her and save her.

5) Jean Grey is confusing. One moment, she's leaning forward and the next, she pushes back. One moment, she's saying she doesn't want us to get together and the next, she's angry when we're talking to someone else. But then there are those times when she smiles and it's like it's just us two in the world, you know? I don't know how we actually ended up marrying her, but treasure her. I guess we can't avoid redheads no matter how hard we try, right?

6) I made friends outside the X-Men. They're great. And it's refreshing to not have to fight for your survival every other Tuesday. I think we should make more friends. Outside the X-Men, I mean. I don't think the X-Men like us that much. But not the Avengers. They're a bunch of douchebags. Can you believe that Captain America is the head of Hydra?

7) I used up most of the money you've been saving. I bought us a small house in Anchorage. It's good for us—you. I think. It'll also require some work, but the manual labor will do you good. I promise. It's also the best excuse if we need a quick escape to clear our head. And I really do think we need time to clear it.

8) Time-travel sucks. Travel to the past, and you risk creating a paradox. Stay too long in the future, and you realize it's not all it's cracked up to be. Then there's Nathan and Rachel. I don't know how to talk to them. I tried, once, but Nathan mentioned he has an evil clone and an alternate-reality counterpart and I don't think I'm up for this science-fantasy setting anymore. At least Rachel turned out okay.

9) World-ending events occur bi-annually, at best. Don't stress about it. It's a fact of life. It usually starts on a Wednesday so always be prepared. Strangely enough, most end on a Wednesday, too, so you have something to look forward to. I've created a manual detailing what to do during an apocalypse and saved it in our laptop. It's based on all the mission reports in the X-Men's database. I figured, since it's happening so frequently, and we've written nearly all the reports in the database, we might as well put the data to good use. I've highlighted all the important parts and made annotations. I suggest browsing through it and editing it as you see fit.

10) I'm really sorry about your car.

Anyway.

Things have really gotten strange in the present future. There are times when I think about how nice it was when I only had to worry about mutant-hunting robots and the occasional mob outside telling mutants—not just me, specifically—to go to hell.

And I still can't control my optic blast. Isn't that just the nail in the coffin?

But then I look out the window and I see our species flourishing. I see the flashiest game of baseball, ever. And I see Storm bring rain to a drought and I think… wow. No matter how complicated things have become, we're still making a difference, you know?

And I think that's all it boils down to.

So when you read this, I just wanted to remind you.

From me, to you.

"You did alright."

I'm not sure how to end this, so I'll end it at that.

Sincerely,

Me

Ps. Don't let Laura Kinney cut onions. It's absolute torture for someone with heightened senses.

PPs. Also, I think onions are the base compound of her trigger scent. I've never been more frightened for my life.

PPPs. DO NOT LET HER CUT ONIONS EVER AGAIN. You have been warned.

Chapter Text

All the World in One Girl (Kara Zor-El – II)

It all started with a boyfriend reveal

The chandeliers of Avengers Mansion glittered like stars, throwing golden light across a hall filled with gods, superhumans, Inhumans, and mutants alike.

Post-crisis galas were always strange affairs—half victory lap, half reassurance to a nervous world that its champions were still strong enough to fight another day.

To the aforementioned champions, however, it was just another social gauntlet brimming with adrenaline, wine, and too many questions.

Jean Grey smoothed the hem of her dress and endured the sidelong glances.

Months of whispered speculation had followed her.

Was she with anyone?

Why the secrecy?

Surely, with her looks and power, she couldn’t possibly be single.

And then Tony Stark slid to her side with a glass in hand and a grin that was angling for an afterparty in his suite.

“You know,” he murmured, “the universe has nearly ended twice this year, and I still haven’t convinced you to a dance. Is the third time the charm?”

Jean’s polite smile cracked. That was enough.

So, when Reed Richards finished his toast and the applause swelled, Jean slipped her fingers into Scott Summers’ hand and stepped forward.

“Allow me to introduce someone,” she said, her voice carrying with telepathic precision. “You’ve all met Scott. He’s not just a teacher at the Xavier School—he’s my boyfriend.”

The effect was immediate. Conversations stilled. Avengers, Defenders, Inhumans, Asgardians—every face turned as one.

Scott was hardly dressed for spectacle, his dark blazer hanging loose over broad shoulders, ruby quartz shades flashing with embarrassment. He looked like a man who had memorized every emergency exit in the building and was already deciding which one to use.

What no one expected was the small figure in his arms: a blonde girl in a red bow, tucked against his shoulder, dozing through the noise.

“Oh my stars,” Sue Richards breathed, already halfway to maternal cooing. Her blue eyes glimmered – it seemed Valeria would soon have a new friend!

Thor’s booming laugh rattled the crystal. “Strategist, you sly wolf! Is this your Valkyrie? Bring her forth—I would greet her as a daughter of battle!”

Scott adjusted Kara carefully, his voice even. “Her name’s Kara. And please, Thor, not so loud…”

Spider-Man whistled. “Explains why you’ve been dodging poker nights.”

“Babysitting duty,” Clint grinned. “Heard she’s a handful.”

“Not a handful at all.” Scott’s mouth softened into a smile. “She’s perfect.”

Jean caught the look from the X-Men at the bar—Logan snorting into his drink, Storm hiding a knowing smile, Hank visibly damp with nervousness under the fur.

Only they knew Kara wasn’t just a child.

She was lightning bottled in ribbons and blankets, holding a wail that rattled forests and a tantrum that once stopped the unstoppable Juggernaut.

And yet here she was, safe against Scott Summers as if the world were nothing but a lullaby.

A crowd gathered—curious mothers, enchanted heroines, and more than a few beautiful women in spandex fawning over the quiet man with the toddler.

Jean smiled thinly. She also tightened her grip on his jacket.

This was why she hadn’t wanted to introduce Scott.

Every woman loved a man who was good with kids.

And Scott, oblivious as ever, hadn’t noticed that in a single evening, her “boyfriend reveal” had made him the most eligible man in the room!

-0-0-0-

Kara’s best friend

Kara blinked curiously at a different pair of blue eyes staring back at her from her dad’s legs.

The other girl was around her age – or maybe just a few years older, with blonde hair with a straight fringe. She was nibbling on a sandwich, looking only mildly interested at what was happening.

“Kara, you remember your uncle Piotr, right?” Scott asked of his daughter.

The blonde Kryptonian’s eyes instantly lit up.

Of course she remembered Uncle Metal Man!

“Um!” Kara nodded her head happily.

“Awesome. Meet Illyana Rasputin.” Scott gently nudged the other blonde girl forward. Kara immediately floated towards her, meeting the newcomer halfway, as Scott continued, “Jean’s team recently resc—ah… she recently returned from… somewhere bad.”

Illyana looked up owlishly at the man stumbling over his words before nodding once with a, “Yeff.”

“Hi!” Kara greeted with a bright smile, “I’m Kara! Papa’s daughter!”

“Hello.” Illyana tilted her head.

“Great to see you two getting along already.” Scott nodded, inwardly proud of his daughter taking the first step in making a new friend. “Listen, Kara… Illyana came from a not-so-nice place, and she could really use a friend.”

Illyana shrugged, but didn’t exactly say no.

“There were meanies?” Kara, on the other hand, gasped. Her hands balled into a fist. “I’m strong! Come with me!”

Kara grabbed Illyana’s hand and tugged – making the older girl stumble, eyes widening in surprise by Kara’s unexpected strength.

“W-wait!” Illyana tried to regain control.

“I will protect you, Illyana!”

It was also the first crack in the demonic mutant’s armor since her return from death.

Scott couldn’t be more proud of his daughter.

-0-0-0-

Captain America & the Stolen Shield

“Where is it this time?”

Steve Rogers sounded more like a man reporting a missing umbrella than the owner of one of the most iconic weapons on Earth. He stood on the front lawn of the Xavier Institute, arms crossed, lips pressed into the kind of line that meant he was trying very, very hard to stay civil.

Scott Summers sighed, lifted a hand, and pointed toward the far end of the grass. “There.”

Steve followed the gesture. His shield—America's shield—was currently being hurled like a discus by a beaming Kara. The blonde girl clapped her hands as the vibranium disc sailed across the lawn, where Lockheed swooped down with a victorious screech, caught it in his jaws, and skidded into the flowerbeds. Kara cheered.

“Again!” she cried, hands outstretched. Lockheed obligingly bounded back, tail lashing happily, the shield glinting in his teeth.

Steve closed his eyes, counted to five, then opened them again. “She’s playing fetch,” he said flatly.

Scott’s mouth pressed into a grimace. “I’m sorry, Steve. We’ve been trying to get her to understand it’s not a toy—”

“Oh, don’t apologize,” Jean called from the porch, arms folded and smile positively feline. “She loves it. Honestly, Steve, you should be flattered. She doesn’t treat anyone else’s toys with this much care.”

“Care?” Steve sputtered, watching Lockheed slam the shield into the ground with enough force to leave a crater.

“Relatively speaking,” Jean amended, smirk widening.

Kara darted past, scooping up the shield with surprising ease, and hurled it again with a delighted squeal. The dragon shot after it.

Steve dragged a hand down his face.

He couldn’t raise his voice at a child.

He couldn’t scold a baby dragon.

He couldn’t win this.

As Lockheed launched skyward, shield in tow, Steve muttered under his breath, “I swear the whole school is letting this happen on purpose.”

Jean’s ensuing laughter confirmed his worst suspicion.

-0-0-0-

The playdate in Latveria

When Valeria Richards disappeared from the Baxter Building, Reed assumed the worst. The sensors pointed to Latveria, and within the hour, the Fantastic Four stormed Castle Doom.

They expected shackles, threats, and bargaining chips.

What they found was their daughter seated comfortably on a velvet rug, presiding like a monarch at council.

Valeria was joined by two other girls they'd easily recognized from their numerous encounters with the X-Men.

Kara leaned forward eagerly, blonde hair bouncing as she jabbed at crayon-drawn schematics of what looked suspiciously like an orbital cannon.

Beside her, Illyana nibbled a cookie, her expression unreadable but her eyes glinted with quiet mischief.

Victor Von Doom loomed behind them... in a relaxed posture.

“Valeria Richards,” Reed hissed at his daughter while keeping an eye on the tyrant astride his throne. “What are you doing?”

“Parents.” Valeria nodded back, not at all sounding like a little girl that was being scolded. “We’re simply playing house. I’ve drafted a preliminary design for planetary defense, and realized I needed Kara to handle its power output. Illyana volunteered for logistics.”

Illyana tilted her head, voice small but certain.

“I can… move things.” She smiled faintly.

Kara’s hand shot up, bright eyes wide. “Valeria said I get to be queen! With a castle, and a crown, and a dragon!”

From across the room, Lockheed snorted.

“You’re the best Lockheed.” Kara assured the dragon, “But I can’t keep borrowing you from Aunt Kitty.”

Lockheed seemed to shrug before curling on himself again.

Sue sputtered, “You—this—Victor, you kidnapped—”

“Silence,” Doom commanded, cape sweeping wide. “Look upon Doom’s favored and see her destiny unfold. Her allies flock to her – their loyalty freely given. –”

“I like cookies.” Illyana quietly added.

Doom ignored the demonic mutant, continuing, “–Is this not the mark of true leadership?”

Reed hung his head helplessly.

Johnny muttered, “She’s planning orbital warfare with crayons.”

“Valeria said it will be shiny,” Illyana looked excited in contrast to her deadpan tone.

Ben rubbed his face. “Kid’s not wrong.”

Sue exhaled, then slowly pulled up her communicator.

“Jean? Yes, they’re fine. Kara’s with Valeria. Illyana’s here too. No, I don’t think Doom’s holding them hostage. They’re… redesigning a death ray. Yes, over cookies...”

“It needs more fire!” Kara bounced on her knees. “Everything’s better with fire!”

“I can help.” Illyana’s smirk was absolutely demonic. “I know a place with lots of fire.”

Valeria nodded. “Good. We’ll need both scale and intimidation. Now, as for targeting protocols—”

Doom folded his arms, voice rich with pride.

“Bear witness as the next generation already surpasses their forebears. As is the will of Doom.”

The Fantastic Four could only stare.

This was, without question, the strangest diplomatic crisis of their careers.

-0-0-0-

Spider-Man’s Worst Day Ever

Peter Parker had survived body-jumping symbiotes, existential clone wars, and at least three different Goblins and Hobgoblins.

He thought he’d seen everything.

That was before a blonde blur launched out of an open window of Xavier’s Mansion, shrieking at the top of her lungs.

“SPIDER!” Kara screamed.

Peter barely had time to look up before she slammed into him mid-crawl, tackling him clean off the wall. They hit the lawn with a bone-rattling thud, and suddenly the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man was flat on his back, spidey senses going overdrive and parrying tiny fists – wrecking balls? – like his life depended on it.

“Wait, kid—”

“Justice is coming!” Kara shouted, each punch punctuated with righteous fury. “Back, foul bug!”

“I’m—friendly—neighborhood—” Peter wheezed, every word muffled by his mask.

“IT TALKS!” Kara shrieked even louder, eyes blazing—and actually turning red for the scariest of moments.

He tried to web the one-girl wrecking crew, only for her to grab the webbing from his wrist and spun him into a neat bundle, giggling triumphantly as she whipped him into the grass like a yo-yo.

“Kara!” Scott Summers ran from the porch, “Kara, that’s Spider-Man! He’s a friend!”

Kara paused, tilting her head, then beamed with sudden pride.

“I beat him, though!” she announced, hands on her hips, chest puffed out. “Nobody else even helped!”

Peter groaned from inside the cocoon of his own webs. “Yeah, no kidding. You’re a real hero, kid.”

Kara crouched over him, peering at the mask. “I'm the strongest hero ever!”

Scott rubbed the bridge of his nose, crouching down to peel webbing off Peter’s arm. “Sorry. She had a… a bad Danger Room run with giant spiders.”

Peter spat out a mouthful of webbing. “Why even put her in the Danger Room?”

“It’s… the only place that can really occupy her for extended periods of time.” Scott looked embarrassed. “We… haven’t exactly found someone that can babysit her, ah, properly.”

Kara struck a triumphant pose, hands in the air like she was soaking in imaginary applause. “Kara saves the world! Again!”

Scott sighed. “Sure, kiddo. You sure did.”

-0-0-0-

Cable’s Tea Party Hell

Nathan Summers had fought wars across centuries.

He’d faced Apocalypse, Stryfe, and nightmares that broke entire timelines.

Nothing, however, prepared him for the tiny tug on his cloak.

“Big brother,” Kara said, chin tilted upwards at him with serious determination, “you have to come to the tea party.”

Cable blinked. “The what now?”

Jean’s voice floated from the library, “Humor her, Nathan. You need to spend time with your little sister.”

Minutes later, the veteran soldier of the future sat at a doll-sized table, knees bent at impossible angles, his plasma rifle leaning awkwardly in the corner. Plastic cups and saucers wobbled in front of him like fragile landmines.

Kara poured “tea” from a pink plastic pot, biting her lip with concentration.

“Careful,” she whispered. “If you spill, the cookies explode.”

Cable raised his cup stiffly. “…Right.”

Across from him, Illyana stirred her tea with a tiny demon skull, eyes glinting. “Mine talks back.”

Cable just stared at Colossus’ sister.

Was that a real skull?

Kara gasped in delight. “Oh! The tea is magic!”

Valeria Richards sat primly at the head of the table, arms crossed, “Mister Nathan Summers. Your table manners are abysmal, your chewing is too loud, and your posture is absolutely atrocious. Minus three points.”

Cable stared at her. “There are points?”

“Yes, and minus one more for being daft.” Valeria said. “You’re already losing.”

Kara set down her cup and gave him a look far too solemn for a child. “You have to try harder, big brother. Valeria says if we fail, she will take over the whole kingdom. Mister Snuggles is counting on you.”

Cable closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He had led armies through fire and blood.

Now, it seemed he was saving his adopted sister’s imaginary kingdom.

Jean peeked in through the doorway, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

The sight of the grizzled warrior with a plastic tiara perched on his head was worth more than gold.

“How long does this last?” Cable asked her in a low growl.

Jean smiled serenely. “Only until nap time. You’re doing great, Nathan.”

Kara lifted her teacup high, beaming. “See? Big brother and I are saving Mister Snuggles together!”

“Yay.” Illyana deadpanned.

“He is still minus four points!” Valeria fired back at the resistance.

Cable muttered darkly into his cup.

He really did prefer Apocalypse.

-0-0-0-

Madelyne Pryor’s Wholesome Moment

Madelyne Pryor wasn’t supposed to be here.

The X-Men had learned to tread carefully around her appearances—sometimes adversary, sometimes uneasy ally.

And yet in the Mansion’s quiet common room, Kara barreled toward her without hesitation.

“Mama Maddie!”

The little Kryptonian flung herself into the redhead’s arms, nearly knocking her back into the couch. Madelyne froze, startled—and then slowly tightened her hold instinctively.

Her arms still knew how to hold her.

For a moment, the years fell away.

The memories she tried to bury clawed their way back—Nathan’s cries, Kara’s giggling, Scott’s warmth in the dark...

“You remember me,” she murmured.

Kara pulled back just far enough to sniff, eyes bright. “You still smell like pancakes.”

Madelyne blinked. “Pancakes?”

“Uh-huh,” Kara nodded, “The crispy kind.” She giggled, wrinkling her nose. “Papa ate them all even when they were kinda burnt.”

Madelyne’s breath hitched.

That had been such a small thing.

A small, imperfect moment.

But it was theirs.

She looked down at Kara – the daughter who was once hers, now nestled closer against her bosom.

“You’ve grown,” she whispered, brushing a lock of blonde hair from Kara’s bow. “Stronger. Brighter.” Her voice softened, almost trembling. “Still perfect.”

Kara wriggled in her lap, producing a crayon drawing from somewhere in her overalls. She spread it proudly over Madelyne’s knees.

It was a family portrait.

Scott in red square glasses, Jean with big hair, Kara in the middle with a star on her head… and Madelyne, hand-in-hand with the child. A burly Nathan loomed protectively over them all.

“Isn’t it perfect?” Kara said proudly.

Madelyne stared. The waxy lines blurred as her world began to tilt.

Kara was so certain. So careless.

As if Madelyne had always been there.

A tear slid down her cheek before she could stop it.

She pressed her forehead against Kara’s.

“It really is.” she whispered.

From the doorway, Scott and Jean watched in silence.

Scott looked like he had forgotten how to breathe. Jean’s hand found his, a rare truce in place of jealousy.

For now, there was just Madelyne Pryor—mother again, if only for a moment—and the little girl who refused to let her be anything else.

-0-0-0-

The Incredible Hulk meets a gremlin

The Hulk had been promised peace.

A quiet afternoon in Westchester.

No battles, no smashing—just a chance to brood under a tree while the X-Men sorted their business.

He should’ve known better.

Something small and blonde and strong landed squarely between his shoulder blades.

“Got you!” Kara crowed, clinging to the green mountain of muscle like a blonde barnacle. “You’re my dragon now!”

Hulk snarled, twisting to shake her loose. “Off! Hulk not dragon!”

The jade giant managed to grab hold of her, tossing her aside—only for Kara to disappear into a blue portal and slam back onto his shoulders, stunning him.

From the sidelines, Illyana calmly munched an apple, watching with mild interest.

Kara giggled, “Throw me again!”

Another disk burst open.

Kara vanished, only to drop straight out of the sky, legs spread like a professional wrestler. She splat-landed on Hulk’s head, sending him staggering into the flowerbeds.

“Higher, Illyana!” Kara demanded, arms raised like she was on a rollercoaster.

Illyana nodded once. Another disk swallowed Kara, spitting her out twenty feet above Hulk’s shoulders. She cannonballed down, bouncing off his spine with a gleeful squeal.

Hulk flailed, smashing a tree in half as he tried to grab her. “STOP! LITTLE DEMON!”

“Demons?” Illyana tilted her head, faint smile tugging at her lips. “I have those, too.”

Hulk bellowed, trying to shake the gremlin attached to him.

Kara clung tighter, crowing, “You're the best!”

He finally managed to seize her by the scruff and hurl her skyward like a baseball.

Kara laughed all the way up, disappeared into a waiting portal, and came crashing down feet-first on his head.

“Again! AGAIN!” she screamed, bouncing off his back.

Hulk sagged to his knees in the wreckage of the flowerbed, wheezing. “Hulk… hate… babysitting…”

From the porch, Scott Summers pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Kara! Illyana! What did we talk about?”

“Sharing?” Kara guessed, dangling upside down from Hulk’s arm.

“Not terrorizing houseguests,” Scott said, voice even.

Illyana shrugged, flicking her apple core into another portal. “He hasn’t killed Kara yet. That means he likes it.”

“Mutants crazy.” Hulk groaned. “Hulk moving to space.”

-0-0-0-

N.A.N.N.I.I., assemble!

The Avengers weren’t sure what was worse: Skrull invasions or babysitting duty.

Carol Danvers folded her arms, looking far too smug as she unveiled the official seal projected on the briefing room wall.

“Welcome to the New Avengers Nurse and Neglect Infants Initiative,” she announced. “N.A.N.N.I.I., for short. Effective immediately, all male personnel will rotate childcare duty for Kara Zor-El Summers, Valeria Richards, and Illyana Rasputin.”

Thor squinted. “This is… an honor?”

“No,” Clint muttered. “This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Consider it character development,” Carol said sweetly, handing out clipboards.

Two hours later, chaos ensued.

Thor tried to tell bedtime stories and was loudly corrected by Valeria. Kara had flown halfway up Avengers Tower before Tony finally caught up to her. Illyana sat on Hulk’s shoulders, opening portals at random to drop Kara back on top of him like a yo-yo.

Hulk rumbled, “Hulk hate babysitting,” for the second time that week.

“Don’t look at me,” Clint hissed, ducking as Kara whizzed past wielding Cap’s shield like a frisbee. “I’ve already lost an arrow and half my dignity.”

From a safe distance, Carol raised her comm to Jean.

“They’re alive. Mostly. Want me to extend this for another week?”

Jean’s laughter crackled over the line. “Absolutely. It’s wonderful to finally have alone time with Scott.”

Carol just shook her head.

“I know you miss him, but try not to tire him out too much. We might still need him if Kara gets her cookies.”

“No promises.”

Carol sighed.

“…you’re insatiable.”

-0-0-0-

Arcade’s Worst Game

Arcade knew a jackpot when he saw one.

The Avengers gala had been crawling with gods, geniuses, and mutants—too risky to touch. But there, perched in some school teacher’s arms, had been the real prize: the Summers brat.

Adopted, whispered the tabloids.

Protected, whispered the body language of every cape in the room.

The perfect leverage.

Kidnap the kid, dangle her in Murderworld, demand a ransom.

He’d done it a hundred times before.

He grinned, practically hearing the payday.

Heck, why stop there? He’d ransom the brat, wipe the floor with the Avengers and the X-Men, and finally earn the respect he deserved!

Instead, hours later, Arcade was staring at his monitors in mounting horror.

The little blonde didn’t cry when the floor dropped out.

She squealed in delight and floated.

“Best playground EVER!”

She bounced off walls like a pinball, tore through the roof from inside, and punched a robot clown’s head clean off before giggling, “Give me more!”

Arcade’s hands flew over the controls, frothing at the mouth, “More fire! More buzzsaws!”

Flamethrower corridors lit up. The child swung on the rigs like monkey bars.

Buzzsaws spun—she caught one and started tossing them like she was in the Olympics.

Hydraulic crushers slammed—she braced her shoulders against them, then flipped the slabs aside like toy blocks.

“She’s supposed to be terrified!” Arcade shrieked.

Instead, Murderworld was crumbling.

By the time the walls blew open, the X-Men, Avengers, and even Madelyne Pryor, cloaked in hellfire, stormed in.

Jean Grey’s eyes blazed with Phoenix fire.

Not that it mattered. He was already dangling upside down, ensnared in his own buzzsaw rig, whimpering as the girl waved goodbye.

“I beat the game!” Kara announced proudly.

“Please, make her stop!” Arcade pleaded. “Never again. I am never kidnapping another mutant child again. You mutants are crazy.”

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. Jean smirked. Madelyne shook her head.

Kara tugged her father’s sleeve, bright-eyed. “Papa, can we go back? That was fun.”

Arcade whimpered.

-0-0-0-

Epilogue:

The Supergirl Squad

Kara zipped over the Mansion’s rec room, arms flailing as she retold the Murderworld story for the third time.

“And then the clown-bots went boom, and I punched one’s head right off! And Hulk—ohhh, Hulk is the best uncle! He throws me so high I can see airplanes!” She hopped in place, beaming. “The owner said it was an arcade, and I won!”

“His name is—oh, fine Kara. You won.” Valeria thought of correcting her friend, but thought better of it.

Illyana watched them, sat cross-legged on the rug, slowly eating her favorite sandwich. She didn’t laugh, not exactly, but her lips curved faintly as Kara stomped and twirled through her tale.

A year ago, she believed friendship had been buried forever with Storm and Cat. Yet here Kara was, dragging it back into the light.

I will protect you, she’d said.

Maybe Kara didn’t even understand what it meant.

But somehow, Illyana felt… protected.

At the table, Valeria adjusted her green hood and sketched furiously with crayons.

“We need contingency plans for future kidnappings,” she said, looking coldly furious. “First, DNA trackers—once I find a needle hard enough to pierce your skin.” She pointed at Kara.

Kara gasped. “Ew, I don’t like needles!”

“Second,” Valeria continued, ignoring her, “weaponize Illyana’s portals for instant retrieval.”

Illyana licked crumbs from her fingers. “I’m not a bus.”

“Third, we need to move forward to secure our orbital bombardment.”

Kara bounced. “I can fly trees to space! But Papa doesn’t like it when I do that. Oh, oh! Can we call it the Friendship Beam?”

“That’s the worst name I’ve ever heard… but also the most marketable to get the idiots on-board, I suppose.” Valeria begrudgingly muttered.

Kara collapsed against them both, wrapping her arms around sorceress and scientist alike, squeezing too tightly. “You’re the best best friends in the world!”

Illyana blinked but didn’t pull away. Valeria muttered something about “every conqueror needs a reliable inner circle.”

The three girls laughed, their strange harmony filling the room—a budding sorceress supreme, a future overlord, and an omnipotent Kryptonian, already stronger together than they knew.

“Let’s fly, Supergirl Squad!”

Illyana squinted.

“…we need a squad logo.”

-0-0-0-

Omake: 

From the Mansion’s porch, Scott Summers and Jean Grey watched the three girls collapse into giggles, crayons and crumbs scattered like battle trophies. Kara’s laughter echoed down the halls, Valeria’s muttering about “global infrastructure” followed close behind, and Illyana simply smirked into her sandwich.

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose, though his mouth softened despite himself.

“Supergirl Squad,” he murmured. “Heaven help us.”

Jean slipped her hand into his, eyes warm even as her voice turned wry. “Heaven won’t help. Not with those three. They’ll remake the world whether we like it or not.”

She leaned against him, watching their daughter drag her friends into another impossible adventure.

For once, Jean didn’t feel the weight of the Phoenix or the endless wars waiting outside.

For once, tomorrow had hope.

And chaos.

Always chaos.

“No one can ever take over the world… because I will first!”

Scott and Jean sweat-dropped at their daughter's declaration.

Chapter Text

The Heart Dances (X-Men – I)

The good and the bad will work out eventually,
Occasionally, rolling our entire hearts
So today’s a new day
Gonna forget about tomorrow
Gonna make you dance your heart out for this moment

The hangar filled with the sharp click of cooling metal as the Blackbird’s engine wound down.

Inside, everyone moved like they were underwater — straps unbuckled sluggishly, X-Men slow to rise from their seats, and tender bruises trying to be ignored.

All of them—except for one.

Scott Summers stood near the ramp controls, visor a thin red line in the dark. His voice cut through the silence, steady and commanding as ever.

As if a building hadn’t just collapsed on top of him a few hours prior.

“Debrief in twenty.”

Groans rolled across the cabin.

Emma Frost didn’t even glance his way as she descended the ramp, somehow remaining immaculate as if the skirmish had been another gala. “I speak for everyone when I say—absolutely not. No debrief. Not tonight.”

Scott frowned. “Emma—”

“Darling,” Emma pressed, “you may enjoy running yourself into the ground like a machine, but some of us actually have blood in our veins.” She flicked imaginary dust from her sleeve. “The world is saved. Are you the only one who missed the applause?”

A puff of brimstone filled the air. Kurt appeared on top of the cargo crates, crouched with a grin that belonged to a man stepping out of a carnival instead of a battlefield.

“She is right, mein Freund,” he said, voice warm. “Ve should breathe vhile ve can. Even Gott rested on ze seventh day.”

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose under the visor. “It’s Monday.”

“Zen ve are behind schedule,” Kurt answered, tail curling like punctuation.

Warren descended, wings folding close. Dust clung to his blond hair, but his posture was straight and steady. “You’re not going to sleep like this, Scott. Neither are we.”

Last came Illyana, boots loud against the ramp, dragging her sword so the floor groaned in protest. She stopped in the middle of the hangar and leaned on it like a staff, her grin sharp as broken glass.

“What we need,” she said, “is a pick-me-up. An encore.”

Scott turned, slow, as though testing if he’d heard right. “An encore?”

“Yes.” Her tone was flat, as if it were obvious. “You don’t end a night like this with another lecture. You end it with something that reminds people why they cheered in the first place.”

“That’s not—” Scott started.

Emma cut across him smoothly, slipping her arm through his. “Don’t overthink it. For once in your life, just follow along.”

He looked at them — Emma’s arched brow, Kurt’s warm grin, Warren’s steady calm, Illyana’s mischief. His instinct was to argue, but something in their faces left him outnumbered.

His shoulders dropped.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But someone explain what we’re actually doing.”

Kurt dropped lightly to the floor, bowing as though to an unseen audience.

“Simple. Ve do vat ve do best.”

-0-0-0-

What they did best was, evidently, community service.

The air still smelled of dust and burnt wiring when Illyana teleported them into the city streets.

Floodlights from emergency trucks washed everything in pale yellow, but most of the block was dark. Windows cracked, bricks scattered, wires sagged loose. A street lamp was tilted on its side, somehow managing not to fall—but barely.

A woman and her son stood by the curb, the boy clutching her sleeve, staring at the pole as if waiting for the light to return.

Scott frowned as his brain quickly processed at least twenty-one environmental hazards with a glance, and triaged them accordingly.

“That’s not safe,” he muttered, already moving towards the lamp.

Emma sighed like she was being dragged into a chore.

“Darling, must you? The city pays people to deal with—” She glanced at the boy and stopped herself. “Oh, fine. Carry on.”

“Warren, steady the pole,” Scott said. “Kurt, keep people back. Illyana—”

Illyana was already crouched, dropping a battered toolbox with stickers that read PROPERTY OF LIMBO’S QUEEN and ABSOLUTELY DO NOT OPEN.

Out spilled a bone hammer, a dagger labeled “crowbar,” and a glowing crystal that hummed ominously.

“Pick one,” Illyana said.

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re… not using any of that.”

“Boring,” she muttered, shoving them back inside.

Illyana dug into her battered toolbox again and held up a roll of duct tape like it was the Holy Grail. “Behold. Civilization’s greatest invention.”

Scott stared. “That’s not—”

“You’d be shocked how much I’ve fixed with this,” she cut in, already tearing a strip with her teeth.

“Very well.”

A puff of brimstone later, Kurt was in the middle of the intersection, setting traffic cones in neat little triangles.

“Everyone stay clear, ja? No one gets squished,” he called cheerfully, tail flicking as he bowed to a confused driver.

Warren braced his feet, wings flaring wide for balance. “On your call.”

“Now.”

The pole groaned as Warren pulled it upright. Scott narrowed his visor, releasing a thin ruby beam— the precise application of force was enough to press warped brackets back into place. Metal screeched, then locked.

Scott then went to work with the wires.

The light flickered, then steadied and then, finally, turned on.

The boy clapped before he could stop himself, sharp and loud. His mother laughed with relief. From a window above, someone whistled in appreciation. A few more hands joined in.

Emma folded her arms. “Well, would you look at that. We’re not freaks after all.”

“It’s just a street lamp,” Scott said, visor dimming as he checked the weld.

“Maybe,” Emma murmured, her gaze drifting to the boy’s smile, “but not to them.”

Illyana kicked the toolbox shut with her boot. “Not bad. You have another one in you?”

The faintest tug of a smile curled Scott’s lip.

“Let’s get to work.”

They pushed deeper into the block.

Glass crunched underfoot, brick dust clung to their boots. A bus stop sign had toppled sideways, a storefront was cracked through the middle, and a pile of loose bricks blocked a crosswalk.

“Clear the walkway first,” Scott said, “People need to move through here.”

Warren bent to lift heavier rubble, wings folding close for balance. Kurt bamfed back and forth, arms full of glass each time, each arrival punctuated with a jaunty “Ta-da!” that made the neighborhood kids giggle.

Illyana used her sword like a shovel, dragging piles of debris with theatrical protest.

By that point, several townsfolk and emergency responders had convened to help.

A shopkeeper watching from the doorway looked horrified at the glowing sword until Emma laid a cool hand on his arm. “Relax. The blade only bites when she wants it to.”

The man swallowed, nodded, and ducked back inside.

Little by little, the street changed.

Broken glass cleared. Signs righted. Dust swept aside.

It wasn’t clean or whole, but it was better—and that was enough to make more people gather on the sidewalks, watching quietly as the team worked.

-0-0-0-

By the third block, the city felt less like a disaster zone and more like a neighborhood trying to wake back up.

A bus bench was tipped halfway into the street. Kurt appeared beside it in a puff of smoke, wagging a finger at two teenagers who’d been poking the wreckage with a stick.

“Nein, nein. Iz not a toy. Go help your mama instead, ja?” He crouched, tail curling for leverage, and righted the bench with a grunt. When he looked up, the teens were already carrying bricks to a growing pile. He laughed, approvingly. “Good lads.”

Warren was the quiet backbone of it all, muscles working in steady rhythm as he lifted collapsed beams while his wings swept clouds of dust away from cracked storefronts. He moved with an enchanting grace.

One little girl followed him for half a block, holding a broken doll in her hands like an offering. Warren smiled faintly when he noticed her, set the beam down, and with a gentle feather from his wing, dusted the doll clean before giving it back.

The child’s face lit up. “Thank you, kind angel.”

Warren managed a small smile. “Just Warren’s fine.”

“Kind Angel’s better,” Illyana muttered from nearby, “Has more flair.”

“Spoken like someone who named herself Magik,” Emma said, gliding past. “Subtlety was never your strong suit.”

Illyana leaned on the hilt, smirking. “Neither was yours.”

Emma didn’t rise to it. Choosing, instead, to make herself indispensable in the way only she could.

She moved among shopkeepers and residents, redirecting panic with a few well-placed words, slipping into the cadence of someone who was obviously in charge.

“No, the building is structurally sound enough for the night. Yes, someone will be by tomorrow. In the meantime—” She flicked her gaze toward a group of gawking teenagers. “—make yourselves useful and sweep.”

The boys scrambled for brooms without complaint.

Emma’s lips curved, satisfied.

Scott kept pace through it all, his eyes scanning constantly.

A broken awning here, loose wiring there, a section of cracked pavement marked with a shoeprint that would’ve tripped someone by morning.

Every detail logged, processed, and fixed in turn.

He didn’t have to give many orders now—people seemed to know what to do, drawn into the quiet current of it.

Illyana leaned against her sword like a staff, watching townsfolk form an impromptu chain to move bricks.

“You know,” she muttered, “for a bunch of civilians, they’re not bad at following orders. Almost makes me want to start a union.”

“Not orders,” Scott corrected without looking up, hands busy tightening the bolts on a fallen street sign. “People are just showing initiative and responsibility for their homes.”

Emma’s voice floated in, smooth as silk. “Initiative and responsibility, darling, that you set. The rest simply follow.”

Scott’s jaw flexed, uncomfortable. “It’s not—”

“Don’t argue with the compliment,” Warren interrupted, dusting his hands. “You’re terrible at it.”

Scott’s jaw flexed, uncomfortable at the praise, but he didn’t argue further. Warren was right; he really was terrible with compliments.

Another bamf, and Kurt appeared beside him with two bottled waters tucked under his arm. He offered one over. “Drink, ja? You look like a man trying to fix ze entire world in a single night.”

Scott accepted it with a small nod. “Feels like it.”

“Speak for yourself,” Illyana said, sipping from a bottle she’d pilfered who-knows-where. “I’m just here for the overtime pay.”

“Any cent more and your contract is void,” Emma said crisply.

Illyana stuck out her tongue. “My union will hear about this.”

Kurt chuckled, tail flicking as he gestured toward the residents working shoulder to shoulder, some laughing, some trading stories as they swept and hauled.

“See, mein Freund? Not alone.”

Scott did. And for the first time all night, he let himself.

The street wasn’t perfect—not by a long shot—but it was alive. Children carrying scraps of wood as if it were treasure. Neighbors passing buckets down the line. The crackle of laughter in the dark.

The weight on his chest eased, fraction by fraction.

-0-0-0-

They turned the corner into a small park wedged between two apartment blocks. The place had taken a beating — benches overturned, trash cans dented, a slide bent crooked on its base.

But what caught Scott’s eye was the swing set.

The frame leaned to one side, one chain twisted, the whole thing ready to give out. Two children crouched at the edge of the sandbox, whispering to each other. One tugged at the other’s sleeve and pointed. “Do you think they can fix it?”

Scott was already striding forward. He set a gloved hand against the bent crossbar, visor tilting as he assessed the stress points. “This won’t take long,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Darling,” Emma drawled, surveying the park as if she were deciding whether it was worth investing in, “it’s a swing.”

Scott adjusted his grip. “It’s not much of a save, but no kid should miss a swing because of us.”

That gave Emma pause. She glanced at the children.

“Ja,” Kurt added warmly, crouching on top of the crooked slide with his tail curled around the railing. “A child’s laughter is better music than alarms. Or marching boots.”

Illyana spun her sword once, then drove it into the ground beside her with a grin. “I’ll handle the demons. You fix the playground.”

Scott’s lips tugged faintly upward. He nodded at Warren. “Like before.”

Warren smirked back. “Like always.”

His wings spread wide as he pushed the frame upright, muscles taut under the dim glow of the floodlights. Scott narrowed his visor, releasing a thin, precise beam of concussive force. It wasn’t heat, but pressure, enough to press warped brackets into place. Metal groaned, screeched, and then—

“Little more to the left,” Warren said through clenched teeth.

Scott adjusted, visor flaring again. The frame shuddered, then locked into place with a solid thunk.

A cheer went up from the sandbox. The two kids scrambled closer, eyes wide. “Cool laser eyes!” one of them shouted.

Illyana, never one to be outdone, flicked her hand. The scattered sand leapt like water, flowing back into the box in a tidy wave. She gave a theatrical bow. “There. Enough sand to rebuild your castles. Royal grounds for our tiny subjects.”

The kids giggled and clapped; their awe now divided between the glowing visor and the smirking sorceress.

Scott tugged at the chains twice, testing their give, then stepped back. “Feels safe enough.”

One child didn’t wait for permission. He bolted forward, hopped onto the swing, and kicked off with both legs. The seat arced higher and higher, shoes scattering sand, his laughter ringing sharp and bright.

The second child cheered, then climbed onto the swing beside him. Together, they swung out in mismatched rhythm, their laughter bouncing off the battered apartment walls.

Their laughter carried—windows cracked open; neighbors leaned out. A shopkeeper leaned on his broom and smiled. Even the emergency crews paused long enough to look over. Someone began clapping, and soon others joined in, the applause rolling down the block.

Emma folded her arms, expression halfway between fondness and exasperation.

“You called it nothing,” she said quietly. “And yet they’ll remember this longer than any headline.”

Scott didn’t reply at once. He watched the children, watched their joy cut through the night like something brighter than floodlights. His shoulders eased another notch.

Finally, he let a smile settle. “All right,” he said softly. “One more.”

Kurt slid down the bent slide with a laugh, landing in the sand with a flourish. “I call next!”

“You’ll break it,” Warren said dryly, though his smile gave him away.

“I’ll break you if you get ahead,” Illyana shot back, leaning on her sword. “But fine, you can have the second turn.”

The kids shrieked with laughter, pumping their legs harder as if daring the swings to soar higher.

“Hey, Scott.” Illyana waved her massive sword at him, grinning wildly, “I don’t hate to put you on the spot, boss – but the whole block is watching.”

And they were.

More residents had drifted over, drawn by the sound.

Scott looked around the park.

Parents, children, shopkeepers, even exhausted responders — all standing a little taller now, as if reminded the night could still hold more than ruin.

His team stood with them, all looking various shades of pleased and devious.

For once, Scott didn’t feel the need to direct or command.

He just let it happen.

-0-0-0-

The swing-set laughter trailed after them like a song caught on the breeze.

By the next block, the street no longer felt like wreckage—it pulsed with people. Families had spilled out from dim apartments, emergency crews leaned against their trucks, and neighbors had found their rhythm in sweeping, carrying, and fixing.

This wasn’t just cleanup anymore.

It was an ongoing revival.

Kurt vanished in a puff of brimstone and reappeared beside an elderly man sitting on the stoop of a cracked apartment building, his pant leg dark with dried blood where a brick had clipped him.

“Ach, that looks nasty, my friend,” Kurt said softly, crouching low. “Let us get you fixed, ja?”

The old man tried to wave him off, but Kurt had already torn a strip from his own tunic and was carefully wrapping the wound. “See? Nothing to it. You vill be dancing again in no time.”

The man chuckled, a low, wheezing sound, but his shoulders eased. “Haven’t danced in twenty years.”

Kurt tied the bandage with a neat flick of his tail, eyes twinkling. “Then tonight is a good night to start again.”

The man actually smiled.

Across the way, Emma had somehow acquired a companion: a scruffy mutt with too much fur and not enough sense.

It trailed after her like she was royalty, tail wagging every time she so much as breathed. Emma carried on directing a cluster of gawking teenagers with brisk hand gestures, pretending not to notice her furry companion.

“No, not there—corners first, please. Sweep efficiently. And for heaven’s sake, straighten your backs. Have you never held a broom before?”

The boys scrambled to obey. The dog barked once, loudly, as if to underline her point.

Emma looked down, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. “Yes, exactly. Thank you.”

The teenagers snickered.

The mutt barked again and sat on her foot. Emma sighed, long-suffering, and bent to scratch its ears with the barest flick of her fingers. “Very well. Consider yourself… an honorary X-Man.”

Illyana had been watching this with undisguised glee. She stomped over, sword slung across her back. “Congratulations, Frost. You’ve recruited your first hellhound.”

“It’s a dog,” Emma said coolly.

“A mutt,” Illyana corrected, grinning. “Which means it’s probably smarter than half the people here.”

“Careful,” Warren muttered as he passed, hefting a warped beam over one shoulder, “they’ll hear you.”

“Good.” Illyana smirked. “Motivation through fear.”

“Or,” Warren countered, wings flaring as he set the beam down, “motivation through example.” He turned, steady and patient, to a group of locals watching him. “Could use some extra hands here.”

Three teenagers hurried forward, one carrying a crowbar. Warren showed them where to pry, guiding their movements with calm, measured patience. When the final nail gave, he shifted the board aside with ease.

One of the kids gawked. “You’re, like…actually strong.”

Warren smiled faintly. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“You should lean into it more,” Illyana called. “Think of your branding, Worthington. They don’t remember the polite ones.”

Warren shot her a look. “Not all of us need to swing a sword taller than we are.”

“Cowardice is a choice,” she said sweetly, then stomped off to kick over a broken street sign for no reason at all.

Scott, tightening bolts on a lamppost nearby, exhaled. “Illyana.”

She held up her hands innocently. “What? It was leaning already.”

“Mmhm.” Scott went back to his work.

The block was changing.

Broken glass still glittered in gutters, but there was more now: the steam of soup being ladled from a dented pot a family had dragged to the sidewalk, the smell of spices cutting through the dust. They handed out bowls to anyone who passed, X-Men included.

Kurt accepted one with a dramatic bow, steam fogging his grin. “Danke schön, meine Damen. Exquisite.” He slurped loudly enough to make the children laugh.

Illyana snatched a bowl without asking and perched on the hood of a ruined car, legs swinging as she ate like it was the finest meal she’d ever had.

“Better than Frost’s cooking,” she declared between bites.

“I don’t cook,” Emma replied without looking up.

“Exactly,” Illyana said, mouth full.

Music drifted from the far end of the street—an old man with a battered guitar, his fingers calloused and sure. His voice was worn, but the melody threaded through the night, soft at first, then stronger as a woman joined with a tambourine, then a man with percussion drums. Children clapped along, a few trying to dance, tripping over each other with giddy energy.

Scott slowed at the sound. He had been cataloging hazards nonstop—loose wires, cracked curbs, unstable bricks—but he found himself pausing, just for a moment.

The music seeped under his skin, steady and unforced.

Emma caught his glance and murmured, “Darling, if you fix every broken nail tonight, you’ll never let yourself hear it.”

Scott’s lips pressed tight, but he stayed still long enough to watch a boy strum his own tiny plastic guitar in clumsy mimicry of the busker, proud as though he were on stage.

The crowd thickened. Neighbors carried buckets in chains, some sweeping, some hauling rubble. Others fetched extra food to share. The rhythm was no longer just the X-Men pushing forward—it was the whole street.

Scott heard laughter over his shoulder and turned just in time to see Illyana sword-fencing with three children wielding broomsticks.

Illyana exaggerated her movements, stumbling theatrically when one tapped her shin.

“A fatal blow! Tell my brother he still owes me twenty bucks!” She collapsed into the sand with a dramatic groan, earning shrieks of delight.

“Unbelievable,” Emma muttered, but there was no venom in it.

“She keeps them busy,” Warren said, folding his wings back with a small smile.

“And not destroying property,” Scott added.

“Yet,” Emma corrected.

Another cheer rippled down the block as Kurt, now with a flower crown gifted by an elderly woman, joined the busker for a verse. His accent was thick, his pitch uneven, but his joy infectious. The tambourine rattled, the guitar thrummed, and for the first time since the battle, the night sounded alive.

Scott found himself smiling without realizing it.

-0-0-0-

When the team found Scott again, he was at the quieter end of the block, the noise softening to a hum behind them—music, laughter, the scrape of brooms on stone.

There, under a crooked lamppost buzzing faintly, it almost felt like another world.

Scott leaned against the post, gloved hands braced against cool metal. For a moment, he just listened: the far-off guitar, the occasional cheer. Then he exhaled, long and low.

“I should’ve seen it sooner,” he said at last. His visor tilted down, ruby glow cutting across the sidewalk. “You were all right back in the hangar. Not every mission has to end with a debrief. Not every fight needs a report.”

Emma’s brow arched, her voice lilting. “Did I just hear Scott Summers admit he was wrong?”

Kurt’s grin widened from where he crouched on the lamppost above. “It is a historic night, mein Freund.”

Scott didn’t bite. His jaw tightened. “I only keep pushing because… it feels like if I stop, even for a second, something else will fall apart. And maybe I can’t put it back together fast enough. Maybe people get hurt.”

Warren folded his arms, his tone calm, steady. “Scott—nobody can catch everything.”

“That’s not good enough,” Scott snapped, then caught himself. He pressed a hand to the bridge of his nose, fingers brushing the edge of his visor. His voice dropped quieter. “Every time I miss something—one loose beam, one bad call—it costs someone. And I don’t know how to carry that and still…” He hesitated. “Still smile. Still act like I believe it’ll all work out.”

The silence stretched. Even Illyana didn’t jump in with a quip. She just leaned on her sword, watching him with her usual sharp grin tempered by something quieter.

Finally, Emma stepped closer, her hand ghosting against his arm. Her tone softened, velvet smooth but edged with truth. “Darling, you don’t carry it alone. You never did. You just convince yourself you do.”

Illyana tilted her head, blunt as ever. “And if you think you’re supposed to fix everything by yourself, you’re dumber than you look.”

Kurt dropped lightly from the lamppost, tail curling as he landed. “Look around you, Scott. Tonight, ze people carried it too. Zey vill remember the laughter, not ze broken glass. Zat is not failure.”

Scott let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is,” Warren said firmly. “You showed up. You stayed. That’s enough.”

“Ze music never ends, mein freund.” Kurt added, his smile a beacon of reassurance, “You just forgot how to hear it.”

Scott’s shoulders slumped, tension easing by a fraction. He looked back toward the glow of the street, where music and voices carried. The weight in his chest loosened just enough for him to admit, softly:

“This… wasn’t so bad, after all.”

Emma’s smile curved, sharp but genuine. “Finally, some progress.”

Scott huffed a breath, almost a laugh, and pushed off the lamppost. “Don’t get used to it.”

But the way his voice lightened betrayed him.

-0-0-0-

When they returned to the heart of the neighborhood, the street had already transformed.

The quiet despair that had clung to the place hours ago was gone, replaced with a restless kind of energy.

Windows glowed with lantern light, casting warm squares across cracked asphalt.

Soup pots steamed on folding tables dragged from kitchens, the scents of garlic and spice and broth cutting through the acrid tang of dust.

A guitar thrummed at the far end of the block, its strings worn but sure, accompanied by the rattle of tambourines and the hollow clang of spoons striking bottles.

All this revival, and the night continued on.

Scott slowed as he reached the center of the block.

He couldn’t help himself—his eyes still caught on the fractures and the hazards: scaffolding leaning, bricks that might tumble, wiring too close to water. Instinct told him to move, to fix, to direct personnel and mitigate damage.

But everywhere he looked, he saw it already happening.

Neighbors were clearing rubble. Shopkeepers swept glass from their own doorsteps. Children clapped in rhythm with the music while parents leaned against trucks, laughing in between tired sips of soup.

It wasn’t his orders guiding this. It wasn’t even the X-Men.

It was the street itself, pulling itself up one beat at a time.

Someone waved from the soup line. “Back again, huh? You already saved the city. You don’t need to keep saving our block too.”

Scott opened his mouth, uncertain how to respond, but Emma stepped neatly into the gap, her tone cool and composed. “It’s far less tedious than paperwork.”

The man chuckled and ladled soup into two bowls. Scott accepted one out of reflex, and Emma took the other.

The warmth of it spread through his gloves and into his hands, grounding him more than he expected. He stood there a moment longer than he meant to, just letting the steam curl into the cool night air, listening to the melody that threaded through the street.

Around him, the others blended seamlessly into the rhythm.

Kurt hopped in short bursts of brimstone, letting a cluster of children chase his smoke trails until they collapsed in giggles.

Warren knelt by a bench, his wings arching wide as he gently lifted an old woman onto the seat, his presence steadying the way a lighthouse steadies ships.

Illyana, naturally, had found the highest point available—a dented car hood—and was sword-fencing three broomstick-wielding kids at once. She was riling them up to “beat the demon”, and Scott could only sweat-drop dumbfoundedly at her antics.

Honestly, the less he thought about the way Illyana’s brain worked, the better he could sleep at night.

Instead, Scott let himself breathe, soup untouched in his hands.

He stood still in the middle of the block, visor catching the lantern glow. He hadn’t even said anything—but the crowd noticed him anyways.

It began with a single clap. He thought at first it was for the busker, but when a second and third joined, he realized the rhythm carried closer.

Palms smacked together, slow but deliberate, gathering force. More joined in. Children stomped their feet. Someone whistled.

The sound rolled down the block, echoing, then growing louder with each beat.

And it was aimed at him.

Scott stiffened, heat rising under his collar, and a denial or a protest already at his lips. “I—”

Emma’s hand slipped through his arm, light but steady, her voice low and velvet. “Don’t ruin it, darling.”

“But I didn’t—” he began, helpless.

Kurt appeared in a puff of brimstone on top of a lamppost, bowing with a flourish. “Sometimes ze leader does not march at the front. Sometimes he only keeps ze beat.”

Illyana cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted over the noise. “Speech! Speech from the laser eyes!”

The block erupted in laughter and cheers.

Scott shook his head, but he couldn’t stop the small curve of his mouth.

He raised his voice, steady but quieter than command. “We didn’t come here to fix everything. We couldn’t. But tonight…” He faltered, the weight of so many eyes on him, but forced himself to continue. “Tonight proved it doesn’t take much to start putting our homes back together. And you did that. Not us—you.”

The crowd answered with applause that thundered down the block. Children whooped. Someone struck the side of a truck in rhythm, others banged on pots, the sound swelling until it was a wall of music.

Scott lowered his head, overwhelmed, visor catching the floodlight glare.

Illyana jumped back onto the hood of the car, her sword raised high like a conductor’s baton. “See? Even the boss knows when to admit we did good!”

Kurt spun from his lamppost and landed in the sand with another puff of brimstone, arms wide. “An encore, for everyone!”

The music surged again—tambourines, spoons, laughter.

Warren let two children climb onto his wings, lifting them just high enough that they shrieked with delight.

Kurt tumbled in flips across the pavement, every landing punctuated with applause.

Illyana mock-duelled another wave of kids, pretending to stagger dramatically at each broomstick strike.

Even Emma allowed the mutt to leap into her lap as she perched on a stool, scratching its ears with absent grace while pretending it was a terrible inconvenience.

And Scott—Scott found himself swept into the center of it all, still holding the forgotten soup bowl in his hands, visor dim against the glow of the lanterns.

He closed his eyes, just for a heartbeat, and listened. The clapping, the singing, the stomping feet. The scrape of spoons on pots. The joy breaking like sunlight through smoke.

For once, he wasn’t the conductor. He wasn’t setting the tempo. He wasn’t barking orders. He was just there, part of the rhythm. And the rhythm of the street carried him.

When he opened his eyes again, Emma was watching him.

Her lips curved in that way only she managed, caught between fondness and something sharper. “See? You only had to stand still enough to hear the encore, darling. You don’t command it; you just let it happen.”

Scott’s chest ached in the best way. A quiet laugh escaped him. “Maybe so.”

“And that is why they’ll always follow you—even when you stop leading.” Emma shifted closer, brushing her hand against his chest as if it were nothing at all, though her touch lingered. “It is your heart that beats for them, love.”

The applause swelled again, echoing between cracked buildings, louder than any alarm or battle cry.

Scott didn’t look away from her. The music, the cheers, the rhythm carried on around them, but he only saw her in that moment.

“Then maybe,” he said softly, “Maybe missions don’t have to end with a debrief. This is good, too.”

Emma’s smile sharpened, velvet over steel. “Careful, love. I might actually start enjoying your company if you keep talking like that.”

Scot just smiled in reply.

He let the music, the cheers, and the warmth of her hand against his chest carry the rest of the words he could never quite bring himself to say.

The block danced, sang, laughed, stomped, and clapped—the dog on Emma’s lap yipping as her warmth settled against his side—each sound folding into the next until the night itself vibrated with it.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, Scott Summers didn’t try to hold the rhythm steady.

He simply let his heart keep time.

Now, more than reaching just the goal,
Leap across, let the rhythm take control.
Enjoy (enjoy), it’s join (it’s join),
Hearts in harmony keep echoing in time!

Epilogue:

The Blackbird sat dark in the hangar, its engines long cooled. The mission log glowed faintly on the briefing console, cursor blinking as if waiting for Scott to command it into order.

But for once, he didn’t know what to write.

His mind kept circling the usual categories—enemy neutralized, civilians protected, structural damage contained—but those weren’t the moments that clung to him.

Instead, it was the lamplight steadied back into place. The laughter from the swings. The old man rediscovering dance after twenty years, tapping his foot to the guitar while Kurt sang off-key.

How did you file that into “mission outcome”?

The cursor blinked, insistent and unyielding.

“You’re brooding again.”

Emma’s voice curled through the stillness. She leaned against the doorway, carrying two mugs of tea as though she’d plucked them from thin air. Immaculate, as always, though her boots still bore traces of dust.

Scott glanced over, then back at the log. “It’s supposed to be a report.”

Emma crossed the room, setting a mug down beside him with delicate precision. “And what would you write? ‘Objective: rebuild morale with soup and a swing set. Result: successful beyond expectation?’”

The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. “That’s not standard format.”

“Nothing about tonight was your standard.” Emma slipped gracefully into the chair across from him, chin propped against her hand. “Which is why you should stop trying to pin it into tidy boxes.”

He exhaled, fingers drumming once against the console. “I keep trying to measure it all in wins and losses. In things I could’ve done better. But tonight…” His visor tilted down, ruby glow cutting across the table. “Maybe it was enough just to give people one night to smile.”

Emma’s lips curved, sharp but soft at the edges. “Progress. Almost human of you.”

Scott gave a quiet laugh under his breath, shaking his head. “You make it sound like I’ve never thought this way before.”

“You’ve thought it,” Emma said, swirling her tea lazily, “but you’ve never let yourself believe it.”

His jaw tightened, then eased. “I don’t know. I’ve always focused on the big picture—preventing the catastrophe, saving the most lives. But maybe… maybe the small saves matter too. Fixing a swing. Clearing a path. Staying long enough to remind people they weren’t alone.”

Emma studied him, her expression unreadable until she set her mug down. “Of course they matter. Those are the pieces people carry forward. The ones that remind them life continues. And you gave them that tonight.”

For a moment, silence settled comfortably between them. The console’s glow faded as Scott powered it down, the mission log closing without a word typed. No report. Just the memory of a neighborhood alive again.

Emma sipped her tea, watching him with a feline sort of patience. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Scott arched a brow. “For what?”

“For dragging you out of your own rigidity. You would have buried yourself in paperwork before sunrise.”

He let out a low chuckle. “You’re not wrong. And—” His voice caught, just slightly. “You were right. I needed this more than I thought.”

Emma tilted her head, lips curving into a smile that was half fondness, half triumph. “Darling, you’ll find I am rarely wrong.”

Scott reached for his mug at last, the warmth bleeding through his gloves, grounding him in the moment. He looked at her—really looked—and felt the weight in his chest loosen another notch.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Her brows rose. “Careful, love. I might get used to hearing that.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he shifted his hand across the table, gloved fingers brushing against hers, a gesture small but deliberate. For once, not command. Not control. Just contact.

Emma let her own hand linger there, cool against his. She didn’t speak, and she didn’t need to. The silence held.

The cursor on the console no longer blinked. The night no longer demanded orders. And Scott Summers—for this moment, at least—allowed himself to stop.

It was enough for tonight.

Omake:

The sun was only just beginning to edge over the rooftops when the block finally went still. Lanterns had guttered out, soup pots scraped clean, the last residents slipping back indoors with tired but lingering smiles.

The X-Men lingered at the edge of it all, boots dusty, uniforms frayed.

And at Emma Frost’s heel sat the mutt.

Scruffy, panting, drooling slightly on her pristine boots, it had refused to leave her since she’d scratched its ears earlier in the evening. Its tail wagged like a metronome, thumping the ground each time she shifted.

Emma stared down at it, sighing as though carrying the weight of the world. “This is intolerable.”

The mutt barked once, delighted.

Warren, still brushing brick dust from his wings, smirked. “Face it, Emma. You’ve been adopted.”

Emma flicked him a glacial look. “I do not get adopted. If anything, I do the adopting.” She tilted her chin toward the mutt. “Which, apparently, leaves me with a problem to solve. It requires a name.”

“Careful,” Illyana drawled from her perch on a dented mailbox, “naming’s binding. Grant your hellhound one, and it becomes your familiar.”

Emma ignored her and tapped her chin. “Something fitting. He’s an unkempt, slobbering creature who follows me around without thought. We’ll call him… Cretin.”

The mutt barked again, proudly.

Warren straightened, glaring. “Absolutely not. You can’t just call a dog Cretin.”

“I can and I just did.”

“Emma,” Warren pressed, exasperated. “He’s not a bad dog.”

“Yet,” Illyana muttered.

Emma sighed theatrically, relenting. “Very well. If we must aim higher… Byron.”

Kurt tilted his head, golden eyes twinkling. “Ah, like ze poet. Tragic, romantic, prone to scandal. A good fit.”

Emma arched a brow. “See? At least someone here appreciates literary refinement.”

Illyana rolled her eyes. “Please. That mutt looks more like he eats Byron than embodies him. Next.”

Emma hummed, undeterred. “Ozymandias, then. King of kings, ruler of ruins. Appropriate, considering the scenery.”

Illyana snorted. “Appropriate, considering your queenly ego. But sure, crown the dog while you’re at it.”

The mutt sneezed, tail still wagging.

Emma crouched, finally running her fingers along his scruffy fur with the air of someone evaluating an expensive fabric.

“Fine. Something dignified, yet restrained. Wellington.” She glanced up sharply at Scott. “Summers, do weigh in. I refuse to have this beast saddled with mediocrity.”

Scott, who had been crouched nearby adjusting his visor strap, froze as every eye turned to him.

“Wellington?” he repeated slowly.

Emma’s tone sharpened. “Yes. Stalwart, respectable, victorious. You do agree, of course?”

There was a pause. The mutt looked up at Scott, panting expectantly.

Scott’s lips tugged faintly at the corner. “Yeah. Wellington works.”

The mutt barked, once, sharp and certain, as though the matter were settled.

Illyana groaned. “Unbelievable. We’re really letting him be the tie-breaker?”

“Leadership has its burdens,” Emma said smoothly, rising to her full height. “The name stands. Wellington it is.”

Kurt chuckled warmly. “A noble name for a scruffy knight.”

“Lord Wellington,” Warren muttered under his breath, resigned.

Emma brushed invisible dust from her sleeve, already pretending she wasn’t still absently scratching the mutt’s ears. “Don’t be ridiculous. Titles are earned. He will have to settle for Wellington—for now.”

The mutt—Wellington—thumped his tail against the pavement, utterly content.

Scott shook his head, amused despite himself. “Guess that’s decided.”

Illyana smirked, leaning on her sword. “Careful, boss. Next thing you know, she’ll be putting the dog on payroll.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Emma murmured, cool as ice. But the faintest curve of her lips betrayed her.

And Wellington pressed closer to her boots, as if he’d always belonged there.