Love With The Light On.

by Poi Lass

The only light comes from the dim lamp on her side of the bed; this is becoming usual, and she loathes it. She switches on the overhead light instead; he does not flinch, says nothing, and yet she knows him well enough to see pain in the way his jaw moves. And to hear pained words in it too, I'm not ready, I don't want to, leave me alone. Not tonight.

But, yes, she thinks, yes, tonight love. Or when?

She sits next to him on the bed, pretending not to notice the way he shifts his body around so she can only see his good side, and aches again for her telepathy, for the lost ability to simply show him her love and the fact that it has not altered because of this.

But showing doesn't cut it anymore. She has to find the words, and she has done so very badly up until now. He keeps insisting on talking practicalities: whether he's still capable of being an X-man, whether it's what she wants now that her powers are gone, what to do if they leave, not to mention the clinically bleak discussions about prosthetics, and physical therapy and...

"Jean," he starts, "I've been thinking -" and she is not willing to hear yet another of his well researched distractions, so she puts a finger to his lips and says:

"shhh."

He looks at her as if he doesn't understand, as if he's about to say, slightly puzzled, "Jean? Is something wrong?" or something along those lines, and she thinks that if he does, if he dares, she might very well scream - and so she keeps talking before he can.

"I got you something". She continues quietly. "Or rather, I sent Logan to get it, but - " she stops herself, and pulls the box out of her pocket. She holds it out for a second before she realises, 'oh god, fool, of-course he can't open it', but then dismisses guilt, dismisses self-blame and embarrassment, and simply opens it herself.

"Jean..." he breathes - protest, pain, anger, love? Oh, she needs her telepathy, she feels she's never needed it so badly as she does now, because how is she supposed to reach him when she can't tell how he feels - and she dismisses that too, pushes it away; normal women manage somehow, so will she.

She takes out the ring, and slips it carefully onto the ring finger of his right hand, and watches as he stares down at it. Watches his jaw tense, again, and wonders what he's not saying.

The ring is identical to the one she gave him on their wedding day; the same metal, the same pattern, as the one blown to ashes with his left arm.

"I... thank you." he says eventually, almost formally. Her lips quirk slightly. It's something. And it's very Scott.

"You're welcome," she says, equally serious, and takes his hand in hers, brings it to her lips to kiss it. She meets his eyes as she does so, making her intentions clear, and sees the doubt and refusal and fear in his,

"I don't - I'm not -" a breath and then, "Not tonight Jean." His tone is a close cousin to his 'leader' voice, firm, edged with finality - and he should know better.

"Yes," she says calmly, "Tonight."

"Jean -" But she presses her finger against his lips again, says,

"Shhhh," again, "let me." He stills, looks away; a bleak surrender that makes her want to weep.

She takes off their clothes - no telekinesis, just her hands, and refuses to feel guilt that she has two of them. She lays him back on the bed.

He does not look at her until she makes him, and she meets his eyes for a long moment before she finds what she wants to say, before she asks him, quiet and certain,

"Do you know what I feel when I look at you?" His mouth tightens slightly, she can see him biting back ugly words: revulsion, pain, grief, pity.

"Joy."

And yes, she thinks, finally a reaction, finally he's paying attention.

"Joy." She confirms against the disbelief in his face, and smiles blindingly to prove it, even though exasperated tears well in her eyes too. "Oh, love. I nearly lost you. I nearly lost you so many times. I - " and she tries to find the words, when she has never needed to be good at words, but she needs them now, for him, and so -

"This was not ordained." And she tries to make him understand with the passion in her eyes and her voice what she can no longer show him, "We weren't destined to be together, we weren't ordained, I don't believe that. And this wasn't luck Scott. We didn't fall into love, this marriage wasn't made in heaven, we did not get lucky."

And still he doesn't seem to understand -

"We made this." She could have drilled the words into his head, once; she tries to do so now with her voice.

"We built this marriage, this relationship, this love. You and me. We made this.

"We could've lost it, so many times -" and although she leaves 'we could lose it now', unspoken, still it's heard by them both - "we - we came so close, so often, and there wasn't any guardian angel looking out for us, there wasn't anything keeping us together but us, and we could've lost it. I - I could've lost you, you could've lost me, we could both have ended up some other place entirely, with someone else altogether, or with no-one at all.

"But you're here." And the tears fall from her eyes, now, to splash on scars she simply doesn't care about, "You're alive, you're with me, and you're mine, and so I look at you love, all of you," and she does, she does, she could look at him forever, "and - and - all I can feel is joy."

And then she's out. Out of words entirely, can only look mutely into his eyes, tears still spilling from hers, and wait for him to speak.

But he doesn't.

He reaches for her instead, wordlessly reaches his hand out, to touch her face, her tears, to run gentle fingers down her cheek, and her neck, and over her collar bone in a gesture she knows like her own heart. She presses his hand close to her skin, and then kisses it again, kisses the back of it, kisses his palm, kisses his fingers, and bends to kiss his left shoulder.

And to kiss everything, every inch of skin, scarred and unblemished, until he finally chokes out her name like a sob, and kisses her too, and wraps his arm around her in a way that promises not to let go.

"Jean." He says softly, eventually, before she has quite drifted to sleep.

"...hmm?"

"Do you know what I feel when I look at you?" And she smiles helplessly against his neck, presses another kiss there.

"Yes Scott." She could laugh with joy. "Yes, I do."

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