X-Men Christmas Story
folder
X-men Comics › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,469
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
X-men Comics › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,469
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own X-Men, and I do not make any money from these writings.
X-Men Christmas Story
Christmas lights blink outside the window, reflecting off the snow that had gathered on the sill. The effect is surreal, like a scene from any number of the over-played holiday specials occupying almost every cable television channel. As a result, the television remains firmly off. The only one currently "home" isn't interested in Santa Claus or misfit toys. His attention is captivated by the thin layer of fog covering the inside of the beautifully made-up window.
Scott Summers extends the index finger of his right hand, pressing the fingertip against the glass. Under his careful administrations, the words "Merry Christmas" appear. Trailing from the "s," his finger falls to the ledge. When the front door opens, Scott makes a fist, wiping away the words. When he turns to face his mentor, there is only a clear porthole to the outside world.
Scott?"
The sound of his name makes him jump and he mentally berates himself for the involuntary action ("Scott? Where the fuck are you, you little shit?" Jack Diamond roars from his position on the roach-infested sofa, "You better be getting me another beer, boy"). If Xavier notices, he doesn't say anything. He sits, dignified even in his wheelchair, and adjusts the festive blanket on his lap. The blanket, a dark green decorated with tiny boughs of holly, is a contrast to his face.
The lines are solemn, almost worried, and it shows through every slight hand gesture, "Are you alright?"
The boy shifts his focus from the Professor to the window, behind the ruby quartz glasses his eyes squint, trying to see more than the smeared image of lights, "When's your plane leaving?"
Xavier sighs, "Tomorrow morning. The cook stocked the kitchen and the housekeeper will be here on Boxing Day."
"I'll be alright." One closed hand rises, clearing another patch on the frosty window. After a moment, the index finger makes another appearance and several dots appear above the blob, making a foot-like shape, "So you won't be here for Christmas."
***
Hank, Jean and Bobby leave in a whirlwind of activity. Bobby was the first to go; his parents pulling up to the school and honking the horn until he emerged. His suitcase bumping painfully against his knees with every small step and dragging against the driveway with his efforts to avoid bruising himself. The trunk pops open and he's gone.
Hank's parents come in. As do Jean's. But the end result is the same. Scott is left, his arms wrapped around his legs, eyes never moving from the action around him, until, by noon, he's completely alone. The vast estates that make up Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters spread before him and all of it's empty. After making himself a sandwich, he grabs a Coke and chokes it down, his eyes never leaving the lights of the Christmas tree. The colours reflect off his glasses, but they all look the same to his mutated eyes.
***
Warren Worthington tosses his cell phone to the floor with a stifled cry of frustration. The front door slams against the antique frame behind him. His footsteps, heavy with anger, echo through the room. He's about to yell, see if the Professor has already left, when the cry dies on his lips. In front of the tree, head resting near an empty plate, Scott sleeps. The noise may have caused the boy to stir, but not to wake. Warren moves silently, picking up the plate and depositing it in the kitchen sink.
"What are you doing here?"
The voice from the doorway gives him a shock and Warren wipes his fingers on the dishrag before answering, "Holiday plans didn't pan out. What are you doing here?"
Scott laughs, the noise joyless and cynical, "Where else would I be?"
***
The day passes quickly and, although it is Christmas Day, both boys rarely see each other. Warren spends his time on the phone, tears of disappointment pricking his baby blue eyes even as his voice, harsh and controlled, wishes his mother a happy holiday season. Scott sends his time in his room, a book, opened to an unread page. Every time he attempts to absorb the content, a controlled outburst from another room claims his attention. Giving up, he shoves the book from his lap; it falls to the carpeted floor with a hollow thud and he leaves the room.
***
The evening, with It's a Wonderful Life playing quietly on Global, Scott lies under the tree. From his vantage point he can see through the branches, gaining an inside view of the lights, red fading slowly to blue, reflecting off the twirling decorations. Inside his mind, he sees another time, a time when holidays actually meant the scent of freshly baked cookies and when lights had a colour other than the ruby quartz variety.
"Scott?" Warren's laugh is soft, born of genuine amusement, "What are you doing under the tree?"
Scott shuffles, moves from his spot. He scoots until he's clear of the branches, "Just looking at the lights."
"Slim, you are pathetic." Behind the heavy glasses, Scott shoots Warren a glare,
"Thanks Warren. I'll treasure that thought forever. You are an asshole."
Scott storms up the stairs, throwing himself into the safety of his bedroom. He lies across his bed, hugging his pillow to his chest. Tears burn his eyes, but he doesn't let them fall. After awhile emotional exhaustion brings him to the edge of sleep. Teetering, he falls into it.
***
The bed moves, shifting under the body weight of another. Scott groans, moves to avoid the obstacle and finds that he can't. Opening his eyes, he finds himself staring into Warren's face. Staring stupidly, the remnants of sleep dulling understanding, he blinks hard. A bottle is shoved into his face, clicking against his sleep goggles.
"Huh?"
Warren shrugs, "Come on, Slim, you're slipping. It's Christmas. We're alone. And the key to the liquor cabinet is in the Prof's study."
A smirk lights up Scott's face and he reaches for the bottle. Gulping down a mouthful, he stutters and gasps. Tears pool under the goggles' seals. He coughs hard and Warren pounds his back. He's grinning. As soon as Scott catches his breath, they both are.
***
The Christmas tree lights reflect off the half empty bottles. The chess board ignored between them. They gossip instead. Talk of Jean, of the Professor, of the Dream they're all being taught to believe in. Some time during their conversation, Warren leans over. Scott's bottle falls from his lips as the two boys touch. As Scott's tongue timidly runs over the length of Warren's bottom lip, the other boy begins pulling at their clothes.
***
They fall to the sofa in a tangle of limbs. A mouth meeting his, Scott moans into it. Warren leans over him; wings spread behind him, looking more than ever like a heavenly creation. Their lips meet over and over.
When they eventually join, there is pain. A deep pain that causes Scott to cry out. Warren ceases all movement, concern written all over his handsome features.
"Do you want me to stop."
A laugh rises at the back of Scott's throat and he swallows it; his breath hitching around the sound, "No...Please."
***
They are woken up by the housekeeping staff; moving in through the servant's entrance, rustling around in the kitchen, pretending not to know anything about the two teenagers pulling their clothes on in hurried jerks. Pretending not to see the last kiss, also hurried and barely a press. A whispered "Happy Holidays" before parting.
***
"I'm sorry that I couldn't spend Christmas with you." The Professor sat, chair behind his antique oak desk, hands neatly folded over a stack of papers, "Warren not going home was a pleasant turn of events. At least neither of you were alone."
Scott sat, picking absently at a hole in his jeans. The glasses give nothing away and Xavier is too polite to use his psychic abilities to pry, "Yeah." A hint of a smile graces his mouth, "It turned out to be a pretty good Christmas."
Scott Summers extends the index finger of his right hand, pressing the fingertip against the glass. Under his careful administrations, the words "Merry Christmas" appear. Trailing from the "s," his finger falls to the ledge. When the front door opens, Scott makes a fist, wiping away the words. When he turns to face his mentor, there is only a clear porthole to the outside world.
Scott?"
The sound of his name makes him jump and he mentally berates himself for the involuntary action ("Scott? Where the fuck are you, you little shit?" Jack Diamond roars from his position on the roach-infested sofa, "You better be getting me another beer, boy"). If Xavier notices, he doesn't say anything. He sits, dignified even in his wheelchair, and adjusts the festive blanket on his lap. The blanket, a dark green decorated with tiny boughs of holly, is a contrast to his face.
The lines are solemn, almost worried, and it shows through every slight hand gesture, "Are you alright?"
The boy shifts his focus from the Professor to the window, behind the ruby quartz glasses his eyes squint, trying to see more than the smeared image of lights, "When's your plane leaving?"
Xavier sighs, "Tomorrow morning. The cook stocked the kitchen and the housekeeper will be here on Boxing Day."
"I'll be alright." One closed hand rises, clearing another patch on the frosty window. After a moment, the index finger makes another appearance and several dots appear above the blob, making a foot-like shape, "So you won't be here for Christmas."
***
Hank, Jean and Bobby leave in a whirlwind of activity. Bobby was the first to go; his parents pulling up to the school and honking the horn until he emerged. His suitcase bumping painfully against his knees with every small step and dragging against the driveway with his efforts to avoid bruising himself. The trunk pops open and he's gone.
Hank's parents come in. As do Jean's. But the end result is the same. Scott is left, his arms wrapped around his legs, eyes never moving from the action around him, until, by noon, he's completely alone. The vast estates that make up Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters spread before him and all of it's empty. After making himself a sandwich, he grabs a Coke and chokes it down, his eyes never leaving the lights of the Christmas tree. The colours reflect off his glasses, but they all look the same to his mutated eyes.
***
Warren Worthington tosses his cell phone to the floor with a stifled cry of frustration. The front door slams against the antique frame behind him. His footsteps, heavy with anger, echo through the room. He's about to yell, see if the Professor has already left, when the cry dies on his lips. In front of the tree, head resting near an empty plate, Scott sleeps. The noise may have caused the boy to stir, but not to wake. Warren moves silently, picking up the plate and depositing it in the kitchen sink.
"What are you doing here?"
The voice from the doorway gives him a shock and Warren wipes his fingers on the dishrag before answering, "Holiday plans didn't pan out. What are you doing here?"
Scott laughs, the noise joyless and cynical, "Where else would I be?"
***
The day passes quickly and, although it is Christmas Day, both boys rarely see each other. Warren spends his time on the phone, tears of disappointment pricking his baby blue eyes even as his voice, harsh and controlled, wishes his mother a happy holiday season. Scott sends his time in his room, a book, opened to an unread page. Every time he attempts to absorb the content, a controlled outburst from another room claims his attention. Giving up, he shoves the book from his lap; it falls to the carpeted floor with a hollow thud and he leaves the room.
***
The evening, with It's a Wonderful Life playing quietly on Global, Scott lies under the tree. From his vantage point he can see through the branches, gaining an inside view of the lights, red fading slowly to blue, reflecting off the twirling decorations. Inside his mind, he sees another time, a time when holidays actually meant the scent of freshly baked cookies and when lights had a colour other than the ruby quartz variety.
"Scott?" Warren's laugh is soft, born of genuine amusement, "What are you doing under the tree?"
Scott shuffles, moves from his spot. He scoots until he's clear of the branches, "Just looking at the lights."
"Slim, you are pathetic." Behind the heavy glasses, Scott shoots Warren a glare,
"Thanks Warren. I'll treasure that thought forever. You are an asshole."
Scott storms up the stairs, throwing himself into the safety of his bedroom. He lies across his bed, hugging his pillow to his chest. Tears burn his eyes, but he doesn't let them fall. After awhile emotional exhaustion brings him to the edge of sleep. Teetering, he falls into it.
***
The bed moves, shifting under the body weight of another. Scott groans, moves to avoid the obstacle and finds that he can't. Opening his eyes, he finds himself staring into Warren's face. Staring stupidly, the remnants of sleep dulling understanding, he blinks hard. A bottle is shoved into his face, clicking against his sleep goggles.
"Huh?"
Warren shrugs, "Come on, Slim, you're slipping. It's Christmas. We're alone. And the key to the liquor cabinet is in the Prof's study."
A smirk lights up Scott's face and he reaches for the bottle. Gulping down a mouthful, he stutters and gasps. Tears pool under the goggles' seals. He coughs hard and Warren pounds his back. He's grinning. As soon as Scott catches his breath, they both are.
***
The Christmas tree lights reflect off the half empty bottles. The chess board ignored between them. They gossip instead. Talk of Jean, of the Professor, of the Dream they're all being taught to believe in. Some time during their conversation, Warren leans over. Scott's bottle falls from his lips as the two boys touch. As Scott's tongue timidly runs over the length of Warren's bottom lip, the other boy begins pulling at their clothes.
***
They fall to the sofa in a tangle of limbs. A mouth meeting his, Scott moans into it. Warren leans over him; wings spread behind him, looking more than ever like a heavenly creation. Their lips meet over and over.
When they eventually join, there is pain. A deep pain that causes Scott to cry out. Warren ceases all movement, concern written all over his handsome features.
"Do you want me to stop."
A laugh rises at the back of Scott's throat and he swallows it; his breath hitching around the sound, "No...Please."
***
They are woken up by the housekeeping staff; moving in through the servant's entrance, rustling around in the kitchen, pretending not to know anything about the two teenagers pulling their clothes on in hurried jerks. Pretending not to see the last kiss, also hurried and barely a press. A whispered "Happy Holidays" before parting.
***
"I'm sorry that I couldn't spend Christmas with you." The Professor sat, chair behind his antique oak desk, hands neatly folded over a stack of papers, "Warren not going home was a pleasant turn of events. At least neither of you were alone."
Scott sat, picking absently at a hole in his jeans. The glasses give nothing away and Xavier is too polite to use his psychic abilities to pry, "Yeah." A hint of a smile graces his mouth, "It turned out to be a pretty good Christmas."