Grief
AO3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/86030296
The clock on the small nightstand beside the bed read exactly 4:23 a.m.
The cold seeped into the room, an unmistakable sign of the approaching winter, making everything feel even gloomier than it already did.
Rogue slowly got out of bed and prepared to head downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of cold water, hoping it might soothe some of the burning in her throat. She could not remember exactly what nightmare she had had, but the fear and anguish it had left behind remained lodged in her chest long after she woke.
She drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out, then did the same once more in a vain attempt to find some sense of calm. When it failed, she opened the door and cautiously scanned the hallway.
Fortunately, it seemed to be empty at that hour. She would go downstairs, get her water, and return quickly. Probably no one would even notice. After all, the last thing she wanted in the middle of that night was to have any kind of conversation.
A few of the lamps lining the walls were lit, but even their soft glow brought her no relief. On the contrary, the shadows they cast only made the hallway feel more ominous, and Rogue was suddenly struck by the impression that, at any moment, some specter might pass through those walls and tear away whatever fragile hold she had left on her sanity.
The mere thought made her heart race.
She was about to continue walking when a muffled, almost imperceptible sound suddenly made her freeze where she stood. It had come from Scottâs room, whose door she happened to be passing at that very moment.
Had that been a sob?
Surely she had heard wrong. Or perhaps her imagination was playing a cruel trick on her. That had to be it.
Still, she needed to be certain.
She waited, not daring to move a single muscle, and listened carefully.
After a few seconds, the sound came again, this time clear and unmistakable.
The sobs were quiet and restrained, mingling with deep, broken breaths. There was no room for doubt now.
Scott was crying.
She knew why.
Two months had passed since Jeanâs death, and nothing had been the same within the walls of the mansion since then. Least of all for Scott.
But this was different.
As far as Rogue knew, Scott had never allowed himself to cry in front of any of them. Not once. Not even during the ceremony they had held in honor of their fallen teammate.
The image of Jean came immediately to Rogueâs mind. Her beautiful red hair, her deep green eyes, the warmth of her presence that now existed only in memory. In an instant, the horror of Alkali Lake became tangled with countless moments of happiness and companionship, and Rogue had to remind herself how to breathe.
Jeanâs loss had devastated them all. And even after several weeks, grief continued to make its way into the X-Menâs daily lives, sometimes openly, sometimes in quieter ways that were impossible to name.
Without realizing it, she moved closer to the door and pressed her ear against it, still trying to convince herself that she was mistaken.
Her eyes filled with tears in less than five seconds, and she immediately brought a hand to her mouth, terrified of making any sound that might reveal her presence.
She needed to do something. She had to help him somehow, but...
What could she possibly do that would not make the situation worse?
A sickening burning spread through her limbs and settled heavily in her chest.
The urge to knock on his door ate away at her from the inside, making her want to act on impulse, but doubt would not let her move. It would not be right. He would not have wanted anyone to find him like this, much less her, especially when she had barely spoken more than a few words to him over the past two months.
She had never meant to distance herself from him. She simply had not known how to approach him without making his pain worse, and that uncertainty had led her to limit, or avoid entirely, every possible interaction. She had confined herself to doing whatever she could not to place any additional weight on his shoulders.
In any case, she would not even have been able to offer him a hug or any other comforting touch without putting him at risk. Not to mention that he probably would not have wanted that kind of contact at a moment like this.
She leaned back against the wall and slowly slid down until she was sitting on the marble floor. A thousand ideas raced through her mind as she searched desperately for some way to help him, but helplessness flooded her entire being.
None of them seemed right.
But she could not remain indifferent.
After a few minutes, she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to focus on finding a solution rather than on the heartbreaking sounds coming from the room. Then, suddenly, the memory of her first Christmas as an official member of the X-Men surfaced in her mind.
She and Scott had gone downtown in the hope of finding the angel mentioned in every news broadcast and newspaper headline. Later, while they drank hot chocolate and ate pie in that cafĂŠ near Central Park, he had confessed something to her.
She had laughed and responded with disbelief when she first heard it, but every trace of that attitude had disappeared once she saw the seriousness on his face. Now, all she felt was regret for her reaction and for the words she had directed at him when he had allowed himself to be vulnerable with her.
The conversation replayed in her mind as though she were living it all over again.
âRogue.â
âYes?â she answered, looking at him with interest.
âThese people we talked to today... they really believe this angel is for real. Do you think...? I mean, is it possible that...?â
âCome on! You donât think...â she replied, her tone slightly mocking.
Then realization dawned on her.
âYou do. Scott, Iâm sorry. I didnât mean...â
She tried to apologize, but it was already too late.
âYeah, youâre right,â Scott said, his disappointment faint but unmistakable.
After all, she was right... wasnât she?
âWhen I was a kid, after the plane crash, I thought Iâd lost everything: my parents, my brother. I just couldnât deal with it, you know? So, for a long time, I believed Alex had to be out there somewhere... with a guardian angel looking out for him.â
He explained it while she listened and nodded, regret reflected in her eyes.
âAnd after a while, I finally grew up. But when we found Alex again after all these years... I kind of wondered if maybe somebody had been looking out for us after all.â
The memory dissolved as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving an idea in its place.
How many options did she really have at that moment, anyway?
She had nothing to lose by trying.
Not entirely sure what she was doing, she clasped her trembling hands tightly together and brought them to her forehead, bowing her head slightly. She closed her eyes again and began to whisper, her lips barely moving.
âI donât know if Youâre listening to me, and I donât know if Iâm doing this the right way. Iâm sorry I havenât spoken to You all these years, and I know I donât deserve Your attention. But Iâm not asking for anything for myself. Iâm asking for Scott. Of all people, he is the last person who deserves this pain. Please bring him some relief and remind him that he isnât alone. Thank You for placing him in my life when I needed him most, and please allow me to give something back to him for everything he has done for me. Amen.â
By the time she finished the prayer, tears were falling freely down her face, and her trembling had only intensified. The effort required to keep from giving herself away was overwhelming, and with every passing second, it became a little more difficult. The ache in her chest radiated once more into her arms and legs, while her shortness of breath made it nearly impossible to regain her composure.
Years ago, before any of this had happened, when none of them had yet known what suffering the future had in store, Rogue had resented Jean for seeming almost indifferent to Scottâs obvious feelings. She had even lashed out at her because of it.
But now, all of that had vanished.
Jean was gone, and all that remained of the life she had once shared with them was desolation and bereavement.
Another truth suddenly emerged.
If Rogue had been given the chance at that very moment, she would have taken Jeanâs place without a second thought. That way Jean could come back, and the misery would end for everyone.
After a couple of minutes, Scottâs crying began to fade, eventually disappearing altogether.
Rogue assumed he had finally exhausted himself and fallen asleep.
She took another deep breath, allowing the sorrow to spread throughout her entire body, and slowly rose to her feet, fighting against the weakness threatening to overwhelm her.
The heroine returned to her room just as quietly as she had left it, the thought of getting a glass of water entirely forgotten and carefully opened the door before climbing back into bed.
Curled up beneath the sheet held her clenched fists tightly against her chest until, little by little, her grip loosened.
The tears had stopped, and tiredness was finally becoming impossible to ignore.
Through the window, the first traces of dawn began to appear along the horizon, announcing that another day was about to begin, while the chill in the room grew sharper.
Rogue remained in a state of lethargy for a while, until at last she allowed sleep to overtake her, one final thought crossing her mind before she surrendered to it.
Despite everything, perhaps someone really was watching over them after all.
âSo I just sit in my room after hours with the moon
And think of who knows my name
Would you cry if I died
Would you remember my face?â
-Priscilla Ahn.
El fin.
English is not my first language.
