Disclaimer: Not mine. Rating: PG?
Set: a year or two ago. Before the trainwreck that is Morrisson's crap took over the book and Scott was fucking Emma Frost.
Notes: Was thinking about Scott and Jean this morning while refusing to get out of bed before 11 (I was up until 5, for cryin' out loud). And, well, Scott's an idiot.

Persistence of Memory by ALC Punk!

Who do you see?

Most people have no trouble answering this question when they look in the mirror. They don't remember other people, other times, other minds.

She remembers flying among the stars, kissing comets and trailing fingers through galactic meteor storms. She remembers laughing as she consumed the energy of a star, basking in the glory as it exploded, the fuel spilling outwards. She remembers feeling the deaths of ten billion people as their planet was boiled.

There are other memories that are as disconcerting.

Watching the man she loved disappear. Turning to his brother -- seducing Alex had been so terribly easy, and he warmed her bed almost as well as Scott had.

I was just an experiment. The thought is hollow as she remembers making deals she didn't want to, following through on them to the letter. Nathan Christopher cried, his golden voice tangling in her head, he couldn't understand what drove her.

He still doesn't.

None of them remember.

Who do you see?

The Phoenix. Madeline Pryor. Somewhere, somehow, Jean Grey.

It's something she doesn't like being desperate about, but she needs to be herself, even with the memories that she rejected (and gained).

The air glitters as she looks away towards the bedroom.

He sees someone else when he looks into the mirror. Perhaps he understands.

They don't talk about this sort of thing, she knows. He sits and broods and pushes her away. And she lets him, because she is simply grateful to have him back.

A question of identity never occurred to her before.

Barely a complete thought before she's moving to stand in the doorway. "Scott?" Her voice is too tentative, but she feels like there are eggshells under her feet and needles in her veins.

No acknowledgement, and she knows this is going to be like walking through concrete. Pity she isn't Kitty Pryde, she thinks wryly. "We need to talk."