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seriousficTitle: Only a sin if you enjoy it
Fandom: X-Men
Rating: R
Word Count: 5,790
Characters/Pairings: Emma Frost, Scott Summers, Jean Grey
Author's note: This fic is set in an AU of the Dark Phoenix Saga
Summary: Emma and Scott's first date.
The room was white, empty, defined by negative space. The vibrant color of the paintings hung from off-white walls like windows into other worlds. The desk was as smoothly contoured as an egg, black furnishing it like disembodied shadows. Emma Frost cast no shadow, sitting behind the desk like a professor well into her favorite lecture.
“It’s simple,” Emma said, hands folded in front of her like she was the picture of rationality, “if you want Jean back, I want something in return. Scott, to be exact.”
Scott gritted his teeth, feeling the pain of last week’s punches flaring across his jaw. Their assault on the Hellfire Club had failed. Most of the Inner Circle had died, to which Scott felt an unleaderly gratitude to Logan for, but Emma had escaped with Jean. Then she had sent them an invitation to a meeting on the Astral Plane. As she explained it, the fight had jarred her control of Jean. She could either reestablish her control by lobotomizing Jean or cut her loose… for a price.
“Not permanently, of course,” Emma went on. “Only for one night.” She smiled at Scott. It was like a rough diamond being carved, making her more beautiful—sharper. “I understand you’re good at obeying Xavier’s wishes. All I ask is the same courtesy.”
Scott fumbled for time. He’d expected a power play, but nothing like this. “Why me?”
“Why anyone else? Jean Grey is the most powerful psychic I’ve ever met. It’d be a sin to cage such an exquisite predator—that’s why I’m even making this offer. Although she does lack my level of…” Emma idly toyed with the descent of her neckline. “Expertise.” She leaned forward, bracing her arms on the table in an indolent V. Scott ignored the tawdry distraction of her cleavage for her ice-blue eyes. “You, little man, have inscribed yourself on her: mind, body, and soul. I want to know why. If I must give up my shiny toy, I might as well exhaust all the novelty value.”
“Jean’s not a toy!” Scott shouted, unable to control himself a moment longer.
“That’s up to you, now isn’t it?”
Ororo took Scott’s arm, urging calm. “And why should we trust you, Miss Frost? Your associates have been less than trustworthy in their dealings with us.”
“That was Shaw’s prerogative. He’s dead now.” Once more her deadly smile flashed at Scott. “And don’t think I’m not impressed with the way you dealt with him, Summers. Very effective. I approve.”
Scott’s ruby-quartz glasses revealed nothing.
“I myself am a businesswoman. When I make a deal, I don’t break it. That honesty has put Frost Industries on the map. I’m a bitch, but you can trust me to be a bitch. Think of it as an historical reenactment, Scott. Jus primae noctis.”
The table was quiet as the X-Men considered her offer, none more so than Scott Summers.
“I don’t like it,” Logan said. “Normally I’d trade one-eye for Jean in a heartbeat, but the skank can’t be trusted. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“Ms. Frost, the X-Men have a great number of resources at our disposal. Surely, there’s something else we can offer you, some technology—“
“Ororo, dear, do I look like I need the money? I’ve named my price. Take it or leave it. Jean never even needs to find out. Unless you’d like her to know. I’m sure I could furnish a recording…”
“I’ll do it,” Scott said.
“Scott…”
Scott wouldn’t meet Storm’s gaze, his eyes locked on Emma. “I’m the one she wants. I lead the X-Men. And Jean’s my… responsibility. This is my decision alone and I’ve made it. When do we start?”
“The evening is traditional, though if you wish to start in the AM, I’m amenable.”
“Evening,” Scott said, his voice almost cordial.
“Charming. I’ll pick you up at seven. And try to wear something nice. Blue spandex is such a fashion faux pas.”
The telepathic conference ended, Psylocke returning them to the mansion’s formerly warm pastures. After feeling Emma’s proximity, it felt tainted somehow.
Scott got up and walked out of the room before anyone could say anything. Even if he’d stayed, it would have been a long wait.
At 7 PM, a limo pulled to the front of the mansion. The valet held open a door. Scott, wearing a dark business suit, got inside. The valet said he could help himself to the bar, then shut the door behind him. Scott laid back until acceleration rattled him, then he forced himself to relax and chart the limo’s course.
The condoms in his pocket pricked his skin like rusty nails. He didn’t want to bring them, but he also didn’t like the thought of Emma infecting him, or worse, bearing his child.
In 30 minutes, they’d reached their destination. A new valet opened Scott’s door and ushered him down the white carpet into a 5-star hotel with one-way glass in the windows, like the poor weren’t even permitted a look inside. The inside was tacitly Kubrickian, but not as sociopathically white as Emma’s office. It had the air of a beach of fine white sand, the light diffused by desks and carpets.
A valet took his coat and another patted him down, casually fondling the contours of his groin. All the valets were women with low-cut bustiers and pencil skirts. They stared at him openly, whispering to each other. He didn’t care to know what they said.
He was led to an express elevator and left inside. As soon as the doors closed, the car glided upward. Scott listened to the whispering motor pulling him toward Emma. He went over the plan. The plan was that he would control himself, as he always did, and he would give Emma what she wanted, and then he would forget it as one more horrible thing he’d been forced to go through for the team. For Jean.
He’d thought she’d died, once. If he could make it through that, he could make it through Emma Frost.
The elevator stopped and let Scott off noiselessly. Emma’s penthouse was surprisingly blue, a wall-sized aquarium splaying the glacial white with its unearthly tones. Inside, jellyfish of all sizes tumbled through space. Scott watched their sinuous unfurling as he waited for Emma.
“Beautiful creatures, are they not?”
Scott didn’t give Emma’s entrance the attention she doubtlessly felt was warranted. “I would’ve expected praying mantises, or black widows. Something insectile.”
“Just because I find something lovely doesn’t mean I feel an affinity for it.” The next time she spoke, it was a sultry whisper in his ear. “Not always.”
Scott turned. Emma was dressed in a conservative white gown, with a white sun-hat and black sunglasses serving as eyes. Scott mentally sneered. Just because she’d learned to leave something to the imagination didn’t put her anywhere in Jean’s league.
“Darling, Jean and I aren’t even the same game,” Emma tittered. Scott hated how girlish her laughter sounded. It was a noise as rich as chocolate. She paused thoughtfully: “Well, lately…”
“I want to see Jean.”
“She’s curled up with Jane Austen at the moment and you know how Jean hates to be bothered in the middle of a good read. Patience, darling. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
“Fine!” He grabbed her by the shoulders, feeling some mild relief in how her flesh yielded to his fingers, blooming red marks. How tangible she was. “Where’s the bed? Or do you want to do this standing up?”
“Down, boy, down. I’m not that kind of girl. You have to romance me, like you did Jean.”
“Sick, twisted—“
“Good start. Keep that up and you’ll be with your beloved Ms. Grey in no time.”
He let go of her. “Alright. How do you want to play this?”
"First, let us rid you of that carrion smell you call a cologne. Come.”
She led him into her bathroom which, in comparison to Scott’s living room, could only be described as depressingly large. A dark-haired valet was pouring bath salts into the large tub.
“One little caveat before we start. I must insist on complete honesty from you. I find it amusing.”
“Alright. I think you’re an ugly bitch who’s turned nymphomania into a career.”
“You don’t think I’m ugly. Psychic, remember? Lie again and you will be separated from Jean for another hour, am I understood?”
“Perfectly.”
”Smashing. Yvaine here will help you wash those hard to reach places. Be careful not to indulge her too much. You’ll need that strength for later.”
Scott sucked in his anger and stripped as quickly as possible, getting into the bath and away from their perverse stares. He left his boxers on like a scrawny kid in a high school locker room. Yvaine gathered up Scott’s clothes.
“Have those cleaned or burnt or… something,” Emma ordered. Sitting down demurely on the lip of the tub, she picked up a washcloth and began scrubbing his shoulders. He ignored her, forcing his attention on the bar of soap he was washing his chest with.
“Ooh, you’re so tense. It’s a shame we don’t have time for you to visit my masseuse. He has very strong hands.”
“Maybe my tension has something to do with the maniac holding my lover.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. I have never and will never harm darling Jean. I merely wished for her to live up to her full potential. Did you see what she did to Wyngarde? It’s a shame I needed him to keep her under control. But then, that unpleasantness has brought us together, so we’ll simply have to focus on the silver lining.”
“You made her a slave and you talk about potential?”
Shampoo cascaded into Emma’s outstretched hand. “A happy, contented slave. At least until she could be properly educated about her place in the world. We both know mutants need control. What gives your professor the right to do it and not me?”
“Morals, honor, and integrity.”
“Overrated.” Emma began to lather Scott’s scalp. “All men are not created equal. You and I are living proof of that. And even if Jean were normal, she would never be content with an ordinary life.”
“So you want her to be a power-hungry bitch like you.”
“No, power is only a means to an end. In my case, pleasure. Of course, as a mutant, mutant rights concern me. Wouldn’t you hate it if our evening were interrupted by Sentinels?” Emma leaned over Scott, watching the thoughts swirl in his head. “The bitch is optional.” She looked down.
Scott grabbed her wrist, almost roughly. He was sick of sparring and debating like they were friends, or even polite. “If you’re so classy, why don’t you take a powder while I wash up?”
Emma smiled, pleased, and left without another word. It took Scott a moment to realize she’d been waiting for that.
***
He washed up quickly, dried himself, tied his towel securely around his waist and walked back out into the apartment. A tuxedo was laid out on the bed, and Scott realized the taunt of forcing him to get close to there. He dressed fast and waited. Emma was nowhere to be seen. Finally, he sat down on the bed, and a moment later Emma was in the room. Her evening gown was luxurious… more cleavage, more leg… but not the excessive sexuality he’d expected from her. It was understated, classy even. Almost like something Jean would wear.
Emma smiled and Scott realized sickly that she was still in her head. Games. Always playing her games.
“Why not, when I always win?” Emma offered her arm. “Shall we?”
Scott dutifully linked his arm with hers (like groom and bride; he couldn’t tell if that thought was hers or his) and let her lead him out the door, back to the elevator, down to the lobby. Another couple was arriving through the black glass doors when they got there. When the doors again sealed them in, they shed their trenchcoats for the kind of nothing the Hellfire Club favored. Both were women, one with a leash that ran to the other’s collar. The one with the collar got down on all fours and crawled ahead of the other, straining at her leash for the elevator. Emma scratched her behind the ears as they passed and the woman with the collar gratefully licked her boot.
“Lucille,” Emma nodded to the woman holding the leash.
“Emma,” she returned, as they got in an elevator.
“Friends of yours?” Scott asked.
“Acquaintances. I’ve never even had them in my bed.” Emma pinched his cheek. “You don’t think I’d ever do anything like that to you, do you darling?”
Scott didn’t say he wasn’t her darling. It would’ve been redundant. “If it amused you.”
“But that’s not your fetish, now is it? And frankly, I find bondage for its own sake a little boring. All the mistress this and mistress that… terribly unoriginal.”
Scott laughed, a bit nervously, and when they stopped in front of the black glass, he got the door. Emma smiled at him as she walked out.
“You’re learning.”
He had the notion that playing along would make things easier on him than fighting her. It was just like taking a hit in the Danger Room. Sometimes you had to go limp.
When he went outside himself, Emma was frowning, but when he opened his mouth she said “The car’s not here yet. Morons. It’s so hard to find good help these days. Of course, I’m talking to the man who works with a foul-smelling Canadian midget, so there we are.”
He didn’t laugh this time. They waited, all dressed up and nowhere to go, Emma tapping her high-heeled foot on the pavement. Scott looked at it, surprised at the humanity of the gesture, the slip in control. That left him staring at her legs, long, pale, and delicate. Not a runner’s legs, like Jean’s. No. He wouldn’t make comparisons, that would make things harder.
The car pulled up at last. It was a 1938 Packard Town Car, beautifully restored, the finish a gleaming white. Despite himself, Scott ran a hand over the hood, felt the purr of the engine in his fingers. He turned back to find Emma watching, pleased. He stuffed his hands in his pockets.
Emma went over to the driver’s side, stripping off her opera gloves. The driver was dressed in full chauffeur’s get-up, right down to the cap and driving gloves. He tried to stammer something out, but Emma brought her fingernails to his cheek and scratched four painful welts down his face. “Don’t be apologetic,” she said. “Be on time. And get the door, I am a lady after all.”
The chauffeur quickly got out and opened the door for them. Scott pushed his way in and sat at the far side of the spacious backseat, leaning against the window. Emma climbed in after him and perched beside him… well on her side, but in a pose that could be the centerfold in any pin-up magazine.
And Scott felt the same as he would reading a pin-up magazine: Ashamed and vaguely aroused.
“The Hotel Cosmopolitan,” Emma said into the partition between driver and passenger, before closing the window.
The Packard took off with a smooth rush of acceleration. Emma laid back, rubbing her thigh sensuously.
“Do you like the car?”
“Yes,” Scott said through gritted teeth, then urged himself to relax. “It’s very nice.”
“I’m told it appeals to your breed of gearhead. All nuts and bolts to me, but you can drive it later if you like.”
“No, thank you.”
“Champagne?” she asked, indicating a minibar impressively constructed inside the backseat.
“I’m not thirsty.”
The ride was silent for a while. Scott distracted himself with thoughts of the car they were in. The engines, the wheels, the turning. He could tell it was all in top condition. Emma was infuriatingly right—the car was the kind he would love to tool around in for a weekend. But without Jean in the passenger seat…
He looked over at Emma. She’d stopped rubbing herself with that self-satisfied autoeroticism, now just idly scratching at her leg with long fingernails. It was oddly enthralling – the way her skin flashed red after her nails, then faded to white.
“You’re quiet,” Emma said, apropos of nothing, fifteen minutes into the drive.
“You’re shrill,” he replied.
Emma laughed. “I was just considering the oddness of silence. It’s the natural state of things, yet how much time do we spend in quiet? We’re always filling it, like it’s something loathsome. And do you know how many reporters would kill to have such unfettered access to me?”
“Male or female?”
“Both, darling,” Emma purred, back in high spirits from her almost imperceptible depression. “I’ve been inside your beloved’s head. Isn’t there anything you’re curious about?”
“Yes.” He gave her his best stare. His best that didn’t involve optic blasts, at least. “Shouldn’t you be trying to convert me to your cause? That is how it goes, right? ‘Join the Dark Side, rule the world as my king’?”
“You could never be my king,” Emma said down her nose to him. “And besides, why buy the cow when the milk is free?”
“Not free,” Scott needled, and the rest of the drive was made in Emma’s hated silence.
After that, it seemed to take no time at all for them to arrive. Scott heard the clamor from streets away. There was a loud voice reduced by distance into a repetitive song, several smaller voices all vying for attention, while searchlights stabbed at the evening sky. In a moment, the Packard was wading through a crowd of paparazzi, fans, and the occasional D-list celebrity.
Scott stared out the window. The two jumbotrons the hotel used to advertise its rooms were now broadcasting a presentation, scenes of water and clear-skinned women. He thought it was an ad for bottled water until he saw a map of Africa and realized it was a charity.
“Smile,” Emma said cheerily, with the flavor of an order. “It’ll look better in the papers.”
Scott took off his ruby-quartz glasses and massaged his closed eyes. This parody of a relationship was worse than he’d expected. He’d been ready for sex, no matter how depraved, in fact that would be better, more like torture, something he could endure. Having Emma hang from his arm as they walked the red carpet in front of all and sundry, that felt like some unjustifiable betrayal of Jean.
Cameras snapped at them like gunshots. Microphones were shoved in both their faces, though Emma handled hers more adroitly. Scott made an uncharitably phallic comparison in his mind and Emma laughed in the middle of answering a question. Unfortunately for her, it’d been in the middle of a question that touched on both AIDS and orphans. Emma apologized, then pointed at Ben Stiller. “He made a face. That man is so funny.”
That won them another few feet of territory. It helped Scott to think of this as a battlefield. Then a mike came so close to his mouth that Scott almost thought he was being offered an Hors d'œuvre. “And how did you get to be Emma’s date this fine evening?”
Scott shrugged. “She’s holding someone I love hostage.”
They all laughed.
“He’s a teacher,” Emma said, slapping his back hard enough to sting.
“Any good?”
“I’ve learned enough from him,” Emma gibed, pulling Scott along.
“What school?” someone else asked, and Scott felt something cold worming inside him.
“Oh, a private one up in Westchester.” Emma smiled adoringly at Scott. “For gifted youngsters, right?”
“That’s right,” Scott replied, smile clamped down in place.
“He’s so caring.” Same tone she’d used for Ben Stiller.
Then someone from a hit TV show arrived in a stretch limousine and they were able to make it into the hotel unmolested. The lobby was strung up with balloons and ice sculptures and a band warbling about love. Scott subtly dragged Emma behind a pillar. She looked pleased.
“So now what? I distract the guards by shouting battle plans while you steal something?”
“Scott, please. I only steal hearts, never jewelry. What do you think boys are for?”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“There’s a small African country that seems to be in dire straits, and we’re going to help them by eating overpriced meats and listening to people talk about things. I confess, the details elude me. Something about raising awareness. I’ll wager you didn’t know how unpleasant it was to be African.” Scott didn’t respond. Emma apparently took this as an invitation to link her arm with his. “There’s the mayor. Let’s mingle.”
And they did, for the next three hours. It was scary how many of the rich and powerful Emma knew on a first-name basis. As the night wore on, Scott realized something. None of them saw her like he did. They patronized her, they condescended to her, one even grabbed her, a liver-spotted hand casually squeezing her ass as she was asked whether she was coming to Willem’s party on the 14th. Scott almost decked him on principle before reminding himself that it was Emma Frost. Emma detangled herself in polite embarrassment, the reaction he seemed to be hoping for, and said she’d check her schedule.
Emma smiled at Scott as the old man wandered away. She seemed to do that a lot. “Relax, he’ll be dealing with some extremely unfortunate fetishes for the rest of his life. You’ve got to wonder what he would say if he knew I liked to dress up in lingerie and scheme to take over the world, don’t you?” She nodded to herself. “We all have parts to play.”
“Is that supposed to excuse you hurting people?” Scott said after she’d regained her composure. She didn’t strike him as the type to rattle easily, but maybe having him there…
“This excuses me hurting people!” Emma shook her tennis bracelet at him like a weapon. “The diamonds, the caviar, the champagne. Not all of us have an aspiration to martyrdom.” She stormed off, in that slow, precise way of hers, and he followed her to the bar. She downed a martini like it was water. “This world will never change. So why not at least enjoy the ride as it goes down in flames?”
“People like you keep the world from changing,” Scott said mercilessly.
“This place bores me,” Emma pronounced after another martini. “Where would you like to go?”
“Know any good burger joints?” Scott asked with a minimum of sarcasm.
“I’ll ask the driver. Come along.” Emma grabbed his hand and led him toward the exit.
Something about the now-abandoned red carpet put Scott on edge. The valet summoned up their car as Emma touched up her make-up, staring into her compact.
“You look fine,” Scott said off-handedly.
The compact clicked shut. “I know that.”
The car pulled up. They got in. Emma instructed the driver, with disdain that almost fogged up the windows, “Take us to the nearest burger joint.”
They didn’t talk during the car ride. Scott leaned against the window and watched the other cars on the road go from Ferraris and Bentleys to American-made cars. They parked between two minivans in front of a wood-paneled building that lacked the plastic décor of major franchises. Scott got out and walked toward the door, but turned when he saw that Emma wasn’t following. She stood outside the Packard, holding the door open like she might have to make a fast escape. “You take me to the nicest places.”
“You have somewhere better to be?”
Emma only acknowledged that walking up to the restaurant and letting Scott get the door for her. As soon as they were inside, Emma grabbed his arm, going so far as to pet it fawningly. “Order something for me.”
Finding it a little hard to focus (Emma was a born tease), Scott read the menu above the counter. Steak, steak, chicken, chicken-fried steak. He ordered two Philly Cheesesteaks and a double order of fries. Emma rested her head on his shoulder. Scott hurriedly sat her down at their table, then went to get two cups of water from the drink dispenser. Emma watched in amusement, right up until he slammed her glass down in front of her. “Is that tap water?”
“Don’t worry, I asked for it without E. coli.”
Emma made a piqued face and took a sip. “I suppose the wine list is limited.”
“That seems like a safe assumption.”
Emma pulled a flask from her purse. Scott’s eyebrow rose above the ruby-quartz.
“Good for the complexion,” Emma told him, taking a handful of pills with her swig. “Tell me about her.”
“Her who? I know a lot of women.”
“I doubt that somehow. Jean Grey. Who else does anyone ever talk about? So, talk about her with me.”
“No,” Scott said flatly.
“What? I don’t deserve to hear the legend of Jean Grey?”
“I just said no.”
“That’s alright. I know enough about her. She’s beautiful, first and foremost. Not my kind of beauty, obviously. I have the kind that gets a man, she has the kind that keeps a man. And she’s had an easy life.”
“You don’t know the first thing about her.” Scott sharpened his words, wanting them to cut. “She’s been through trials you can’t possibly imagine.”
“She’s had friends,” Emma argued. “She’s had you.”
“Are you jealous?”
Emma took a long sip of water. After she’d swallowed, she said “If I was kidnapped, the Hellfire Club wouldn’t come for me.”
Their food arrived.
***
It took five minutes of Scott staring at his fries getting cold and Emma trying to use plastic utensils to eat a hamburger for Scott to break open. He started slowly. Even through his ruby-quartz glasses, it was obvious he wasn’t looking at Emma.
“I first saw Jean when I was seventeen. She was about the same age and, yes, she was beautiful. Not her face, not her body… her soul.”
Emma parlayed rolling her eyes into meeting Scott’s stare.
“She has a love, and an understanding, for everything. Everyone. If you could just get to know her, you would see it too.” He looked down at his food again. “But you wouldn’t be interested in that, would you?”
“No.“
***
Outside, Emma's skin pimpled and colored. The cold agreed with her no better than it would any reptile. She hugged herself, the simple gesture seeming too calculated to be real, like a pantomime.
"Take off your jacket," she told Scott.
He did.
"Drape it around me."
He did. Her shoulders knifed through the thick fabric, slender and frail against his hands.
"Kiss the side of my neck."
He didn't bother to resist. He bent and thought of Jean and kissed her neck like it smelled of soap and ash instead of lavender and lilac. He heard an intake of air, then an exhale.
"Interesting," Emma said. "Quite interesting."
A gun's click. Scott had long away attuned himself to the noise. His head jerked up and he saw a man in the dark alley behind the restaurant, leaning out, gun at his hip. It was almost comical, how he avoided the light spilling out of the burger joint like it would make him more conspicuous somehow.
"Money," he said, enunciating each syllable like he was deathly afraid he'd be misunderstood.
"Oh, dear, street crime, help," Emma drawled. "This is a fun couple-y activity, isn't it, Scott? You can play do-gooder and teach me the honest charm of vigilante justice."
"Money. Money."
Look at his gun, Scott.
Scott did. Emma pulled his glasses away. The night turned that shade of red that looked to him like blood had been smeared on everything, and the mugger's gun disappeared. The violence was cleansing after the constant tension of not thinking of Jean and having to think of Jean to get through this.
The criminal quieted mid-scream and grew still. Emma's eyes were closed.
"What are you doing?" Scott asked.
"In business parlance, I'm streamlining your operation. A little mental nudge and he can become one of those quiet, productive sheep you seem so dead-set on safeguarding. Should he go to church on Sundays, Scott, or maybe just listen to jazz?"
"Stop it."
"Why? So he can return to drugs and violent crime? How inefficient of you. A month from now, prison overcrowding will have him back on the streets, mugging some young couple unfortunately lacking in superpowers. Perhaps I should just kill him. Would that be more to your liking?"
"Ask Jean."
Suddenly, Emma was against him, not quite an embrace but more like how a cat would rub against one's leg. Scott felt his own pilfered jacket rub his chin. "Would it kill the mood, darling? I understand. What's violence without a little sex? Let's go home. You can have your hero's reward."
***
The atmosphere of sexual sophistication in the hotel had lost its coquettish teasing when Scott and Emma returned. Everyone in the lobby was occupied in an orgy, hair and lingering clothes ruffled by the breeze that came in when they were admitted. It was all rather low-key, seemingly scored to the post-punk music replacing the buzz of conversation. People were piled in stacks two or three high, lumps on couches and chairs and carpets. It reminded Scott of Indian burial mounds.
Emma backed herself against the reception desk. "Is here good? Someone always has to do it on the desk."
"I don't think I could get aroused here," he said simply.
Emma pouted and went to the elevator. Scott got in with her, even though he considered taking the stairs. After the sounds of the orgy—the moans, the music, the stifled screams—the whisper of the elevator's ascent felt odd on Scott's ears. Emma leaned across from him, splayed against the railing. She twined a spaghetti-strap around her slender finger and let it fall away from her shoulder. Her dress pulled away from her body like a shadow in the evening. He saw her areola through lace and the strap of her bra and met her eyes. The blue there was as metallic as his ruby quartz.
The elevator arrived and the door opened and without even the sound of the mechanism it was dead quiet. Emma stepped out. The only sound became that of her dress working its way to the floor. Scott followed her. His footsteps didn't make a sound.
Her room was empty. The bed wasn't. Emma lingered on the bed, atop the sheets, lingerie on display more than her body. It was all a showcase. Her hair, her make-up, her exercise regiment, her plastic surgery. That was what she was showing off, not her.
"You have Jean Grey on your mind." Emma pronounced it like a diagnosis. "I hear you have a link with her in your head. A bond."
"We share thoughts," Scott said obliquely. There was no way to get across to someone like her what it meant, one part shared secret and two parks intimacy. Body language and eyes could only hint at so much; they'd merged souls.
"Do you feel her now?"
"No." He hadn't felt her since the crash, the sea, the new costume like a gossamer wall between them, growing thicker with time. He was still able to see her, but the glass was so thick…
Not that he'd let Emma know that. Things would go back to normal when he got her back. They'd hold each other and make love and this would not be another layer, she would not be standing on a translucent floor above him.
"Would you like me in there? Filling that gap?" Her hand rolled over her belly, her fingers quested under her panties. "I think I belong there much more than she ever did… agreed?"
He could feel her arousal, sickly sweet, here and there on his body, like an itch, an ache. Jean teased fulfillment, Emma teased… longing. A brief respite from everything Jean would make go away forever.
Emma moaned softly, another ingredient in her persona. Scott wanted to fall for it, kind of, sort of.
He hated how good it felt.
Another finger. She moaned, not louder, but more vibrant. Like she didn't care if she was louder, though she wasn't. Like she really was aroused by having him there, him, personally, Scott Summers.
Her fingers, wet, settled on the bedsheets as she crawled to him.
"This doesn’t feel right," he said, seeing her come up, feeling her hands on his starched shirt, her desire for what lay underneath.
"I could make it feel right. Or perhaps you prefer it dirty."
He could feel that she was more aroused undressing him than she had been touching herself.
"Would you like to see through my eyes?" Emma broadcast a mental image like a caress. Him on his back, her on top, watching them reflected in the mirror above. Scott seeing the image, Emma seeing the cold glass, the physical perfection between them, the tapestry she'd pulled together. Two disparate elements united. Good feng shui.
"You'll never be her," Scott said.
Emma kept undressing him. He kept thinking of Jean. She stopped at his boxers. They were the only thing of his he'd kept on, and the soft material felt harsh after everything she'd removed. Emma ran her hand over his hip, pressing it flush to the muscular flesh. Inches away, he was half-hard and fighting it.
"I'll never try." She settled back against the bed, made a yawning motion with no sound. "This isn't fun any more. You'll find Jean waiting for you outside. Your clothes are in the launders if you want them."
He walked out the door, jogged to the elevator, ran through the lobby, grabbing a coat from someone who wasn't using it and there she was. His girl.
"Scott, I—" Jean's voice was like putting on a shirt warm from the dryer, a glass of wine after a hard day's work, the sheen of your car after it'd been washed. She wasn’t even in her Black Queen costume anymore. Jeans and a T-shirt. Emma's wit, placing Jean in such low-class clothing. The joke was on her. "I had a bad dream."
"Yeah, me too," Scott said.
From a window in her tower, Emma watched the hero hail a cab for his damsel. She would have to call room service, have them send up Fernando, Monique, and a goodly amount of oxycontin. It would make for a far more memorable night than one spent with Scott bloody Summers.
Fandom: X-Men
Rating: R
Word Count: 5,790
Characters/Pairings: Emma Frost, Scott Summers, Jean Grey
Author's note: This fic is set in an AU of the Dark Phoenix Saga
Summary: Emma and Scott's first date.
The room was white, empty, defined by negative space. The vibrant color of the paintings hung from off-white walls like windows into other worlds. The desk was as smoothly contoured as an egg, black furnishing it like disembodied shadows. Emma Frost cast no shadow, sitting behind the desk like a professor well into her favorite lecture.
“It’s simple,” Emma said, hands folded in front of her like she was the picture of rationality, “if you want Jean back, I want something in return. Scott, to be exact.”
Scott gritted his teeth, feeling the pain of last week’s punches flaring across his jaw. Their assault on the Hellfire Club had failed. Most of the Inner Circle had died, to which Scott felt an unleaderly gratitude to Logan for, but Emma had escaped with Jean. Then she had sent them an invitation to a meeting on the Astral Plane. As she explained it, the fight had jarred her control of Jean. She could either reestablish her control by lobotomizing Jean or cut her loose… for a price.
“Not permanently, of course,” Emma went on. “Only for one night.” She smiled at Scott. It was like a rough diamond being carved, making her more beautiful—sharper. “I understand you’re good at obeying Xavier’s wishes. All I ask is the same courtesy.”
Scott fumbled for time. He’d expected a power play, but nothing like this. “Why me?”
“Why anyone else? Jean Grey is the most powerful psychic I’ve ever met. It’d be a sin to cage such an exquisite predator—that’s why I’m even making this offer. Although she does lack my level of…” Emma idly toyed with the descent of her neckline. “Expertise.” She leaned forward, bracing her arms on the table in an indolent V. Scott ignored the tawdry distraction of her cleavage for her ice-blue eyes. “You, little man, have inscribed yourself on her: mind, body, and soul. I want to know why. If I must give up my shiny toy, I might as well exhaust all the novelty value.”
“Jean’s not a toy!” Scott shouted, unable to control himself a moment longer.
“That’s up to you, now isn’t it?”
Ororo took Scott’s arm, urging calm. “And why should we trust you, Miss Frost? Your associates have been less than trustworthy in their dealings with us.”
“That was Shaw’s prerogative. He’s dead now.” Once more her deadly smile flashed at Scott. “And don’t think I’m not impressed with the way you dealt with him, Summers. Very effective. I approve.”
Scott’s ruby-quartz glasses revealed nothing.
“I myself am a businesswoman. When I make a deal, I don’t break it. That honesty has put Frost Industries on the map. I’m a bitch, but you can trust me to be a bitch. Think of it as an historical reenactment, Scott. Jus primae noctis.”
The table was quiet as the X-Men considered her offer, none more so than Scott Summers.
“I don’t like it,” Logan said. “Normally I’d trade one-eye for Jean in a heartbeat, but the skank can’t be trusted. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“Ms. Frost, the X-Men have a great number of resources at our disposal. Surely, there’s something else we can offer you, some technology—“
“Ororo, dear, do I look like I need the money? I’ve named my price. Take it or leave it. Jean never even needs to find out. Unless you’d like her to know. I’m sure I could furnish a recording…”
“I’ll do it,” Scott said.
“Scott…”
Scott wouldn’t meet Storm’s gaze, his eyes locked on Emma. “I’m the one she wants. I lead the X-Men. And Jean’s my… responsibility. This is my decision alone and I’ve made it. When do we start?”
“The evening is traditional, though if you wish to start in the AM, I’m amenable.”
“Evening,” Scott said, his voice almost cordial.
“Charming. I’ll pick you up at seven. And try to wear something nice. Blue spandex is such a fashion faux pas.”
The telepathic conference ended, Psylocke returning them to the mansion’s formerly warm pastures. After feeling Emma’s proximity, it felt tainted somehow.
Scott got up and walked out of the room before anyone could say anything. Even if he’d stayed, it would have been a long wait.
At 7 PM, a limo pulled to the front of the mansion. The valet held open a door. Scott, wearing a dark business suit, got inside. The valet said he could help himself to the bar, then shut the door behind him. Scott laid back until acceleration rattled him, then he forced himself to relax and chart the limo’s course.
The condoms in his pocket pricked his skin like rusty nails. He didn’t want to bring them, but he also didn’t like the thought of Emma infecting him, or worse, bearing his child.
In 30 minutes, they’d reached their destination. A new valet opened Scott’s door and ushered him down the white carpet into a 5-star hotel with one-way glass in the windows, like the poor weren’t even permitted a look inside. The inside was tacitly Kubrickian, but not as sociopathically white as Emma’s office. It had the air of a beach of fine white sand, the light diffused by desks and carpets.
A valet took his coat and another patted him down, casually fondling the contours of his groin. All the valets were women with low-cut bustiers and pencil skirts. They stared at him openly, whispering to each other. He didn’t care to know what they said.
He was led to an express elevator and left inside. As soon as the doors closed, the car glided upward. Scott listened to the whispering motor pulling him toward Emma. He went over the plan. The plan was that he would control himself, as he always did, and he would give Emma what she wanted, and then he would forget it as one more horrible thing he’d been forced to go through for the team. For Jean.
He’d thought she’d died, once. If he could make it through that, he could make it through Emma Frost.
The elevator stopped and let Scott off noiselessly. Emma’s penthouse was surprisingly blue, a wall-sized aquarium splaying the glacial white with its unearthly tones. Inside, jellyfish of all sizes tumbled through space. Scott watched their sinuous unfurling as he waited for Emma.
“Beautiful creatures, are they not?”
Scott didn’t give Emma’s entrance the attention she doubtlessly felt was warranted. “I would’ve expected praying mantises, or black widows. Something insectile.”
“Just because I find something lovely doesn’t mean I feel an affinity for it.” The next time she spoke, it was a sultry whisper in his ear. “Not always.”
Scott turned. Emma was dressed in a conservative white gown, with a white sun-hat and black sunglasses serving as eyes. Scott mentally sneered. Just because she’d learned to leave something to the imagination didn’t put her anywhere in Jean’s league.
“Darling, Jean and I aren’t even the same game,” Emma tittered. Scott hated how girlish her laughter sounded. It was a noise as rich as chocolate. She paused thoughtfully: “Well, lately…”
“I want to see Jean.”
“She’s curled up with Jane Austen at the moment and you know how Jean hates to be bothered in the middle of a good read. Patience, darling. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
“Fine!” He grabbed her by the shoulders, feeling some mild relief in how her flesh yielded to his fingers, blooming red marks. How tangible she was. “Where’s the bed? Or do you want to do this standing up?”
“Down, boy, down. I’m not that kind of girl. You have to romance me, like you did Jean.”
“Sick, twisted—“
“Good start. Keep that up and you’ll be with your beloved Ms. Grey in no time.”
He let go of her. “Alright. How do you want to play this?”
"First, let us rid you of that carrion smell you call a cologne. Come.”
She led him into her bathroom which, in comparison to Scott’s living room, could only be described as depressingly large. A dark-haired valet was pouring bath salts into the large tub.
“One little caveat before we start. I must insist on complete honesty from you. I find it amusing.”
“Alright. I think you’re an ugly bitch who’s turned nymphomania into a career.”
“You don’t think I’m ugly. Psychic, remember? Lie again and you will be separated from Jean for another hour, am I understood?”
“Perfectly.”
”Smashing. Yvaine here will help you wash those hard to reach places. Be careful not to indulge her too much. You’ll need that strength for later.”
Scott sucked in his anger and stripped as quickly as possible, getting into the bath and away from their perverse stares. He left his boxers on like a scrawny kid in a high school locker room. Yvaine gathered up Scott’s clothes.
“Have those cleaned or burnt or… something,” Emma ordered. Sitting down demurely on the lip of the tub, she picked up a washcloth and began scrubbing his shoulders. He ignored her, forcing his attention on the bar of soap he was washing his chest with.
“Ooh, you’re so tense. It’s a shame we don’t have time for you to visit my masseuse. He has very strong hands.”
“Maybe my tension has something to do with the maniac holding my lover.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. I have never and will never harm darling Jean. I merely wished for her to live up to her full potential. Did you see what she did to Wyngarde? It’s a shame I needed him to keep her under control. But then, that unpleasantness has brought us together, so we’ll simply have to focus on the silver lining.”
“You made her a slave and you talk about potential?”
Shampoo cascaded into Emma’s outstretched hand. “A happy, contented slave. At least until she could be properly educated about her place in the world. We both know mutants need control. What gives your professor the right to do it and not me?”
“Morals, honor, and integrity.”
“Overrated.” Emma began to lather Scott’s scalp. “All men are not created equal. You and I are living proof of that. And even if Jean were normal, she would never be content with an ordinary life.”
“So you want her to be a power-hungry bitch like you.”
“No, power is only a means to an end. In my case, pleasure. Of course, as a mutant, mutant rights concern me. Wouldn’t you hate it if our evening were interrupted by Sentinels?” Emma leaned over Scott, watching the thoughts swirl in his head. “The bitch is optional.” She looked down.
Scott grabbed her wrist, almost roughly. He was sick of sparring and debating like they were friends, or even polite. “If you’re so classy, why don’t you take a powder while I wash up?”
Emma smiled, pleased, and left without another word. It took Scott a moment to realize she’d been waiting for that.
***
He washed up quickly, dried himself, tied his towel securely around his waist and walked back out into the apartment. A tuxedo was laid out on the bed, and Scott realized the taunt of forcing him to get close to there. He dressed fast and waited. Emma was nowhere to be seen. Finally, he sat down on the bed, and a moment later Emma was in the room. Her evening gown was luxurious… more cleavage, more leg… but not the excessive sexuality he’d expected from her. It was understated, classy even. Almost like something Jean would wear.
Emma smiled and Scott realized sickly that she was still in her head. Games. Always playing her games.
“Why not, when I always win?” Emma offered her arm. “Shall we?”
Scott dutifully linked his arm with hers (like groom and bride; he couldn’t tell if that thought was hers or his) and let her lead him out the door, back to the elevator, down to the lobby. Another couple was arriving through the black glass doors when they got there. When the doors again sealed them in, they shed their trenchcoats for the kind of nothing the Hellfire Club favored. Both were women, one with a leash that ran to the other’s collar. The one with the collar got down on all fours and crawled ahead of the other, straining at her leash for the elevator. Emma scratched her behind the ears as they passed and the woman with the collar gratefully licked her boot.
“Lucille,” Emma nodded to the woman holding the leash.
“Emma,” she returned, as they got in an elevator.
“Friends of yours?” Scott asked.
“Acquaintances. I’ve never even had them in my bed.” Emma pinched his cheek. “You don’t think I’d ever do anything like that to you, do you darling?”
Scott didn’t say he wasn’t her darling. It would’ve been redundant. “If it amused you.”
“But that’s not your fetish, now is it? And frankly, I find bondage for its own sake a little boring. All the mistress this and mistress that… terribly unoriginal.”
Scott laughed, a bit nervously, and when they stopped in front of the black glass, he got the door. Emma smiled at him as she walked out.
“You’re learning.”
He had the notion that playing along would make things easier on him than fighting her. It was just like taking a hit in the Danger Room. Sometimes you had to go limp.
When he went outside himself, Emma was frowning, but when he opened his mouth she said “The car’s not here yet. Morons. It’s so hard to find good help these days. Of course, I’m talking to the man who works with a foul-smelling Canadian midget, so there we are.”
He didn’t laugh this time. They waited, all dressed up and nowhere to go, Emma tapping her high-heeled foot on the pavement. Scott looked at it, surprised at the humanity of the gesture, the slip in control. That left him staring at her legs, long, pale, and delicate. Not a runner’s legs, like Jean’s. No. He wouldn’t make comparisons, that would make things harder.
The car pulled up at last. It was a 1938 Packard Town Car, beautifully restored, the finish a gleaming white. Despite himself, Scott ran a hand over the hood, felt the purr of the engine in his fingers. He turned back to find Emma watching, pleased. He stuffed his hands in his pockets.
Emma went over to the driver’s side, stripping off her opera gloves. The driver was dressed in full chauffeur’s get-up, right down to the cap and driving gloves. He tried to stammer something out, but Emma brought her fingernails to his cheek and scratched four painful welts down his face. “Don’t be apologetic,” she said. “Be on time. And get the door, I am a lady after all.”
The chauffeur quickly got out and opened the door for them. Scott pushed his way in and sat at the far side of the spacious backseat, leaning against the window. Emma climbed in after him and perched beside him… well on her side, but in a pose that could be the centerfold in any pin-up magazine.
And Scott felt the same as he would reading a pin-up magazine: Ashamed and vaguely aroused.
“The Hotel Cosmopolitan,” Emma said into the partition between driver and passenger, before closing the window.
The Packard took off with a smooth rush of acceleration. Emma laid back, rubbing her thigh sensuously.
“Do you like the car?”
“Yes,” Scott said through gritted teeth, then urged himself to relax. “It’s very nice.”
“I’m told it appeals to your breed of gearhead. All nuts and bolts to me, but you can drive it later if you like.”
“No, thank you.”
“Champagne?” she asked, indicating a minibar impressively constructed inside the backseat.
“I’m not thirsty.”
The ride was silent for a while. Scott distracted himself with thoughts of the car they were in. The engines, the wheels, the turning. He could tell it was all in top condition. Emma was infuriatingly right—the car was the kind he would love to tool around in for a weekend. But without Jean in the passenger seat…
He looked over at Emma. She’d stopped rubbing herself with that self-satisfied autoeroticism, now just idly scratching at her leg with long fingernails. It was oddly enthralling – the way her skin flashed red after her nails, then faded to white.
“You’re quiet,” Emma said, apropos of nothing, fifteen minutes into the drive.
“You’re shrill,” he replied.
Emma laughed. “I was just considering the oddness of silence. It’s the natural state of things, yet how much time do we spend in quiet? We’re always filling it, like it’s something loathsome. And do you know how many reporters would kill to have such unfettered access to me?”
“Male or female?”
“Both, darling,” Emma purred, back in high spirits from her almost imperceptible depression. “I’ve been inside your beloved’s head. Isn’t there anything you’re curious about?”
“Yes.” He gave her his best stare. His best that didn’t involve optic blasts, at least. “Shouldn’t you be trying to convert me to your cause? That is how it goes, right? ‘Join the Dark Side, rule the world as my king’?”
“You could never be my king,” Emma said down her nose to him. “And besides, why buy the cow when the milk is free?”
“Not free,” Scott needled, and the rest of the drive was made in Emma’s hated silence.
After that, it seemed to take no time at all for them to arrive. Scott heard the clamor from streets away. There was a loud voice reduced by distance into a repetitive song, several smaller voices all vying for attention, while searchlights stabbed at the evening sky. In a moment, the Packard was wading through a crowd of paparazzi, fans, and the occasional D-list celebrity.
Scott stared out the window. The two jumbotrons the hotel used to advertise its rooms were now broadcasting a presentation, scenes of water and clear-skinned women. He thought it was an ad for bottled water until he saw a map of Africa and realized it was a charity.
“Smile,” Emma said cheerily, with the flavor of an order. “It’ll look better in the papers.”
Scott took off his ruby-quartz glasses and massaged his closed eyes. This parody of a relationship was worse than he’d expected. He’d been ready for sex, no matter how depraved, in fact that would be better, more like torture, something he could endure. Having Emma hang from his arm as they walked the red carpet in front of all and sundry, that felt like some unjustifiable betrayal of Jean.
Cameras snapped at them like gunshots. Microphones were shoved in both their faces, though Emma handled hers more adroitly. Scott made an uncharitably phallic comparison in his mind and Emma laughed in the middle of answering a question. Unfortunately for her, it’d been in the middle of a question that touched on both AIDS and orphans. Emma apologized, then pointed at Ben Stiller. “He made a face. That man is so funny.”
That won them another few feet of territory. It helped Scott to think of this as a battlefield. Then a mike came so close to his mouth that Scott almost thought he was being offered an Hors d'œuvre. “And how did you get to be Emma’s date this fine evening?”
Scott shrugged. “She’s holding someone I love hostage.”
They all laughed.
“He’s a teacher,” Emma said, slapping his back hard enough to sting.
“Any good?”
“I’ve learned enough from him,” Emma gibed, pulling Scott along.
“What school?” someone else asked, and Scott felt something cold worming inside him.
“Oh, a private one up in Westchester.” Emma smiled adoringly at Scott. “For gifted youngsters, right?”
“That’s right,” Scott replied, smile clamped down in place.
“He’s so caring.” Same tone she’d used for Ben Stiller.
Then someone from a hit TV show arrived in a stretch limousine and they were able to make it into the hotel unmolested. The lobby was strung up with balloons and ice sculptures and a band warbling about love. Scott subtly dragged Emma behind a pillar. She looked pleased.
“So now what? I distract the guards by shouting battle plans while you steal something?”
“Scott, please. I only steal hearts, never jewelry. What do you think boys are for?”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“There’s a small African country that seems to be in dire straits, and we’re going to help them by eating overpriced meats and listening to people talk about things. I confess, the details elude me. Something about raising awareness. I’ll wager you didn’t know how unpleasant it was to be African.” Scott didn’t respond. Emma apparently took this as an invitation to link her arm with his. “There’s the mayor. Let’s mingle.”
And they did, for the next three hours. It was scary how many of the rich and powerful Emma knew on a first-name basis. As the night wore on, Scott realized something. None of them saw her like he did. They patronized her, they condescended to her, one even grabbed her, a liver-spotted hand casually squeezing her ass as she was asked whether she was coming to Willem’s party on the 14th. Scott almost decked him on principle before reminding himself that it was Emma Frost. Emma detangled herself in polite embarrassment, the reaction he seemed to be hoping for, and said she’d check her schedule.
Emma smiled at Scott as the old man wandered away. She seemed to do that a lot. “Relax, he’ll be dealing with some extremely unfortunate fetishes for the rest of his life. You’ve got to wonder what he would say if he knew I liked to dress up in lingerie and scheme to take over the world, don’t you?” She nodded to herself. “We all have parts to play.”
“Is that supposed to excuse you hurting people?” Scott said after she’d regained her composure. She didn’t strike him as the type to rattle easily, but maybe having him there…
“This excuses me hurting people!” Emma shook her tennis bracelet at him like a weapon. “The diamonds, the caviar, the champagne. Not all of us have an aspiration to martyrdom.” She stormed off, in that slow, precise way of hers, and he followed her to the bar. She downed a martini like it was water. “This world will never change. So why not at least enjoy the ride as it goes down in flames?”
“People like you keep the world from changing,” Scott said mercilessly.
“This place bores me,” Emma pronounced after another martini. “Where would you like to go?”
“Know any good burger joints?” Scott asked with a minimum of sarcasm.
“I’ll ask the driver. Come along.” Emma grabbed his hand and led him toward the exit.
Something about the now-abandoned red carpet put Scott on edge. The valet summoned up their car as Emma touched up her make-up, staring into her compact.
“You look fine,” Scott said off-handedly.
The compact clicked shut. “I know that.”
The car pulled up. They got in. Emma instructed the driver, with disdain that almost fogged up the windows, “Take us to the nearest burger joint.”
They didn’t talk during the car ride. Scott leaned against the window and watched the other cars on the road go from Ferraris and Bentleys to American-made cars. They parked between two minivans in front of a wood-paneled building that lacked the plastic décor of major franchises. Scott got out and walked toward the door, but turned when he saw that Emma wasn’t following. She stood outside the Packard, holding the door open like she might have to make a fast escape. “You take me to the nicest places.”
“You have somewhere better to be?”
Emma only acknowledged that walking up to the restaurant and letting Scott get the door for her. As soon as they were inside, Emma grabbed his arm, going so far as to pet it fawningly. “Order something for me.”
Finding it a little hard to focus (Emma was a born tease), Scott read the menu above the counter. Steak, steak, chicken, chicken-fried steak. He ordered two Philly Cheesesteaks and a double order of fries. Emma rested her head on his shoulder. Scott hurriedly sat her down at their table, then went to get two cups of water from the drink dispenser. Emma watched in amusement, right up until he slammed her glass down in front of her. “Is that tap water?”
“Don’t worry, I asked for it without E. coli.”
Emma made a piqued face and took a sip. “I suppose the wine list is limited.”
“That seems like a safe assumption.”
Emma pulled a flask from her purse. Scott’s eyebrow rose above the ruby-quartz.
“Good for the complexion,” Emma told him, taking a handful of pills with her swig. “Tell me about her.”
“Her who? I know a lot of women.”
“I doubt that somehow. Jean Grey. Who else does anyone ever talk about? So, talk about her with me.”
“No,” Scott said flatly.
“What? I don’t deserve to hear the legend of Jean Grey?”
“I just said no.”
“That’s alright. I know enough about her. She’s beautiful, first and foremost. Not my kind of beauty, obviously. I have the kind that gets a man, she has the kind that keeps a man. And she’s had an easy life.”
“You don’t know the first thing about her.” Scott sharpened his words, wanting them to cut. “She’s been through trials you can’t possibly imagine.”
“She’s had friends,” Emma argued. “She’s had you.”
“Are you jealous?”
Emma took a long sip of water. After she’d swallowed, she said “If I was kidnapped, the Hellfire Club wouldn’t come for me.”
Their food arrived.
***
It took five minutes of Scott staring at his fries getting cold and Emma trying to use plastic utensils to eat a hamburger for Scott to break open. He started slowly. Even through his ruby-quartz glasses, it was obvious he wasn’t looking at Emma.
“I first saw Jean when I was seventeen. She was about the same age and, yes, she was beautiful. Not her face, not her body… her soul.”
Emma parlayed rolling her eyes into meeting Scott’s stare.
“She has a love, and an understanding, for everything. Everyone. If you could just get to know her, you would see it too.” He looked down at his food again. “But you wouldn’t be interested in that, would you?”
“No.“
***
Outside, Emma's skin pimpled and colored. The cold agreed with her no better than it would any reptile. She hugged herself, the simple gesture seeming too calculated to be real, like a pantomime.
"Take off your jacket," she told Scott.
He did.
"Drape it around me."
He did. Her shoulders knifed through the thick fabric, slender and frail against his hands.
"Kiss the side of my neck."
He didn't bother to resist. He bent and thought of Jean and kissed her neck like it smelled of soap and ash instead of lavender and lilac. He heard an intake of air, then an exhale.
"Interesting," Emma said. "Quite interesting."
A gun's click. Scott had long away attuned himself to the noise. His head jerked up and he saw a man in the dark alley behind the restaurant, leaning out, gun at his hip. It was almost comical, how he avoided the light spilling out of the burger joint like it would make him more conspicuous somehow.
"Money," he said, enunciating each syllable like he was deathly afraid he'd be misunderstood.
"Oh, dear, street crime, help," Emma drawled. "This is a fun couple-y activity, isn't it, Scott? You can play do-gooder and teach me the honest charm of vigilante justice."
"Money. Money."
Look at his gun, Scott.
Scott did. Emma pulled his glasses away. The night turned that shade of red that looked to him like blood had been smeared on everything, and the mugger's gun disappeared. The violence was cleansing after the constant tension of not thinking of Jean and having to think of Jean to get through this.
The criminal quieted mid-scream and grew still. Emma's eyes were closed.
"What are you doing?" Scott asked.
"In business parlance, I'm streamlining your operation. A little mental nudge and he can become one of those quiet, productive sheep you seem so dead-set on safeguarding. Should he go to church on Sundays, Scott, or maybe just listen to jazz?"
"Stop it."
"Why? So he can return to drugs and violent crime? How inefficient of you. A month from now, prison overcrowding will have him back on the streets, mugging some young couple unfortunately lacking in superpowers. Perhaps I should just kill him. Would that be more to your liking?"
"Ask Jean."
Suddenly, Emma was against him, not quite an embrace but more like how a cat would rub against one's leg. Scott felt his own pilfered jacket rub his chin. "Would it kill the mood, darling? I understand. What's violence without a little sex? Let's go home. You can have your hero's reward."
***
The atmosphere of sexual sophistication in the hotel had lost its coquettish teasing when Scott and Emma returned. Everyone in the lobby was occupied in an orgy, hair and lingering clothes ruffled by the breeze that came in when they were admitted. It was all rather low-key, seemingly scored to the post-punk music replacing the buzz of conversation. People were piled in stacks two or three high, lumps on couches and chairs and carpets. It reminded Scott of Indian burial mounds.
Emma backed herself against the reception desk. "Is here good? Someone always has to do it on the desk."
"I don't think I could get aroused here," he said simply.
Emma pouted and went to the elevator. Scott got in with her, even though he considered taking the stairs. After the sounds of the orgy—the moans, the music, the stifled screams—the whisper of the elevator's ascent felt odd on Scott's ears. Emma leaned across from him, splayed against the railing. She twined a spaghetti-strap around her slender finger and let it fall away from her shoulder. Her dress pulled away from her body like a shadow in the evening. He saw her areola through lace and the strap of her bra and met her eyes. The blue there was as metallic as his ruby quartz.
The elevator arrived and the door opened and without even the sound of the mechanism it was dead quiet. Emma stepped out. The only sound became that of her dress working its way to the floor. Scott followed her. His footsteps didn't make a sound.
Her room was empty. The bed wasn't. Emma lingered on the bed, atop the sheets, lingerie on display more than her body. It was all a showcase. Her hair, her make-up, her exercise regiment, her plastic surgery. That was what she was showing off, not her.
"You have Jean Grey on your mind." Emma pronounced it like a diagnosis. "I hear you have a link with her in your head. A bond."
"We share thoughts," Scott said obliquely. There was no way to get across to someone like her what it meant, one part shared secret and two parks intimacy. Body language and eyes could only hint at so much; they'd merged souls.
"Do you feel her now?"
"No." He hadn't felt her since the crash, the sea, the new costume like a gossamer wall between them, growing thicker with time. He was still able to see her, but the glass was so thick…
Not that he'd let Emma know that. Things would go back to normal when he got her back. They'd hold each other and make love and this would not be another layer, she would not be standing on a translucent floor above him.
"Would you like me in there? Filling that gap?" Her hand rolled over her belly, her fingers quested under her panties. "I think I belong there much more than she ever did… agreed?"
He could feel her arousal, sickly sweet, here and there on his body, like an itch, an ache. Jean teased fulfillment, Emma teased… longing. A brief respite from everything Jean would make go away forever.
Emma moaned softly, another ingredient in her persona. Scott wanted to fall for it, kind of, sort of.
He hated how good it felt.
Another finger. She moaned, not louder, but more vibrant. Like she didn't care if she was louder, though she wasn't. Like she really was aroused by having him there, him, personally, Scott Summers.
Her fingers, wet, settled on the bedsheets as she crawled to him.
"This doesn’t feel right," he said, seeing her come up, feeling her hands on his starched shirt, her desire for what lay underneath.
"I could make it feel right. Or perhaps you prefer it dirty."
He could feel that she was more aroused undressing him than she had been touching herself.
"Would you like to see through my eyes?" Emma broadcast a mental image like a caress. Him on his back, her on top, watching them reflected in the mirror above. Scott seeing the image, Emma seeing the cold glass, the physical perfection between them, the tapestry she'd pulled together. Two disparate elements united. Good feng shui.
"You'll never be her," Scott said.
Emma kept undressing him. He kept thinking of Jean. She stopped at his boxers. They were the only thing of his he'd kept on, and the soft material felt harsh after everything she'd removed. Emma ran her hand over his hip, pressing it flush to the muscular flesh. Inches away, he was half-hard and fighting it.
"I'll never try." She settled back against the bed, made a yawning motion with no sound. "This isn't fun any more. You'll find Jean waiting for you outside. Your clothes are in the launders if you want them."
He walked out the door, jogged to the elevator, ran through the lobby, grabbing a coat from someone who wasn't using it and there she was. His girl.
"Scott, I—" Jean's voice was like putting on a shirt warm from the dryer, a glass of wine after a hard day's work, the sheen of your car after it'd been washed. She wasn’t even in her Black Queen costume anymore. Jeans and a T-shirt. Emma's wit, placing Jean in such low-class clothing. The joke was on her. "I had a bad dream."
"Yeah, me too," Scott said.
From a window in her tower, Emma watched the hero hail a cab for his damsel. She would have to call room service, have them send up Fernando, Monique, and a goodly amount of oxycontin. It would make for a far more memorable night than one spent with Scott bloody Summers.
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no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 01:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-28 11:32 am (UTC)And, now, back to my English essay...
obsessed
Date: 2012-03-02 04:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-05 01:31 am (UTC)