DAWNING

By Raietta

CATEGORY: f/f, Storm/Phoenix, snippet

RATING: G

THE USUAL DRIVEL: Some day, I shall be the CEO of Marvel Comics, and when that blessed day arrives, I'll... I'll... Huh. I haven't gotten that far in the fantasy yet. Anyway, Storm and Phoenix belong to Marvel, and I bet they're not very happy about it. I certainly wouldn't be, if I was a four-color fictive. ;0)

NOTES: This is very quiet, no sex. Just Storm and Jean, and memories of Scott. Takes place after Cyclops' "death", and before his destined "resurrection".

They simply lay on the bed, just breathing, for a long while. They didn't need to do anything else. They didn't need to speak, they didn't need to explore, or even touch, or even look at one another. They were close enough as they were, they didn't need anything else. This was enough.

They lay on the bed, which had white sheets, softer than snow. Warm, butter stripes of sunlight, the dawn, coated the bed, their limp limbs, their mingling hair. Scarlet and silver unfurled like a cresting wave, a glory banner, across the pillow. The soft dawn's light bathed the still, silent bodies, threw golden shadows along the wall, the painting that Peter had given them.

The golden and white room, silent except for their gentle, calm, even breaths. Two chests rose and fell evenly, air like gossamer petals slipped from two mouths. They lay, not touching, not speaking, just letting the dawn wash over them.

Finally, the redheaded woman rolled over, curls and waves of hair spilling across one sleepy, emerald eye. She curled up next to the white-haired woman, with a smile more soft than the dawning, gentle and calm. She touched Ororo's hand, which lay open, palm down on the soft sheets.

"When I was little," Jean said, softly breaking the silence that had held the room in a quiet spell, "I loved the purple popsicles best."

Storm smiled.

"They were my favorite kind," Jean continued, and began to run one hand through Storm's long, winding tendrils of hair, combing the strands of white silk. "Grape. Summer was in those popsicles. I can still taste summer when I eat a grape popsicle, I can still taste my childhood when I bite into one. Those summers..."

The hand, which had been roping itself up with silver tresses, stilled.

"Summers..." Jean breathed quietly, her voice so low that it held no emotion in it, but Ororo turned anyway, turned to face her. She gazed at her with cornflower eyes.

"Jean," Storm said, the accent in her voice, still there after all this time, like velvet against Jean's mind. But Jean said nothing, just gazed silently at the white wall, which was splashed with gold. Outside, a bird called sleepily in the morning hush, and another bird answered it. The faintest teasing whiff of coffee drifted into their room; Hank was up, if he'd ever gone to bed in the first place, and was puttering about the kitchen.

"Jean," Storm said again, and wound coffee-colored arms, satin-skinned, around her friend. Jean buried her head in Storm's hair, curled against her breast. "It's all right, dear heart," Storm continued, stroking her back, "it's all right to be sad. To miss him."

"He can't be dead," Phoenix whispered, letting the sure hand upon her back calm her, "I would feel it, if he were. But I don't. But I don't."

Ororo said nothing. There was nothing to say. What did creatures with beginnings and endings know of that which is eternal, that which has no beginnings, no endings? They were all a part of it, that eternity, but sometimes they forgot. Sometimes, a loved one was embraced in the arms of the goddess, before the ones who loved him were ready to let go, or go themselves.

Sometimes, life was hard, that way.

Ororo, who knew that sometimes there were no words good enough, simply held her friend.

"Grape popsicles," Jean whispered. "Scott liked the green ones."

"Yes," Storm said. The golden shadow on the wall lengthened, grew.

"I miss him." Jean's jade eyes gazed inwardly.

"Yes," Ororo said, compassionate, sad.

Then, for a time, there was only silence.

"I love you, 'Ro," Jean murmured, pale arms wrapped around Storm, legs entwining.

"And I love you," Ororo replied.

"Do you think Scott would mind that I'm happy, again? Without him?" Jean's voice was small and afraid.

"Jean, of all that I know, all that I have learned, all that I believe to be true, this is the only thing I am certain of, without any doubt," Storm said softly, into her hair. "Scott would never, ever resent you your happiness. Never. Do not fear that. He would want only for you to be happy."

"I am," Jean said softly, her eyes closing slowly, sleepy again. Her bones became light. Comforted, she let her lids drift shut.

"Green popsicles."

"Yes."

"I miss him."

"Yes."

"But it's okay."

"Yes."

And then, there was only silence again, and they were content simply to lie in the early morning sunlight, bright and warm and new, enfolded, loving, loved.

And it was enough.

The End