Title: The Busy Griefs

Characters: Storm-POV. Post-X2 ensemble gen. (Focus is on Storm and Scott, with a fair dose of Logan and Xavier + other cameos)

Description: Post-X2. A week in the death of Jean Grey. For me, the biggest failing about I>X3 /i> was that I wanted it to be a story about grief. . .and the filmmakers clearly didn't. So, this is my take on what might have happened, immediately post-X2. Works with X3 canon, or as AU; no X3 spoilers or knowledge needed.

Disclaimers: Characters and situations belong to a bunch of people who aren't me. Movieverse, though I've swiped some very little bits of comic canon. Danny/Flyboy and Silas/Bluenote are my OCs.

Credits: Title "The Busy Griefs" is from "In Memory of W.B. Yeats" by W.H. Auden.

1.

Someone has to fly the goddamn plane, and it takes about twenty seconds for Storm to realize that it's going to be her. Jean has just been buried under several tons of water; Scott is in no position to operate anything, Logan doesn't know how, the kids are just kids and, while the Professor is perfectly capable of running the Blackbird by himself, he has more urgent matters to attend to.

"I've got it," Storm says softly, putting a hand on Xavier's shoulder. "You go see about him." She doesn't have to say who she means, and it isn't because the Professor can read her mind. Most of the kids are bawling by now; Artie started it, when he understood, and the sound has rippled through them like a shockwave. The different pitches and frequencies of their cries mingle like birdsong or the tuning of a symphony. But the first note still sounds loudest, the shuddering animal sob that hurts because of the raw undisguised pain, and hurts again – hurts more – because it is Scott.

Storm settles in at the console and sets a course for Washington. Even in this jet that she loves like a favorite pet, that will take some time from the middle-of-nowhere Alberta. She double checks the flightplan against the FAA database, conjures up a favorable tailwind, and settles her chin on her hands, watching the clouds part before them.

The Blackbird, good old Blackbird.

Jean used to love it, too.

Storm would like to cry now, to stagger against the nearest warm body and grab it to her, only to feel pulse and blood and the warmth of tears.

She looks down and checks the readings again. Somebody has to fly the goddamn plane.

2

By Washington, Scott is better -- or rather, he's quiet. Presentable. He does his job. They all do.

When they get back to the jet, Storm takes the console again, and no one questions her right or duty. "Setting course back to Westchester?"

She's asking the Professor, but to her surprise it is Rogue who coughs a protest. "The only thing is. . .Mr. Sum -- , erm, Cyclops?" She sounds unsure whether she's talking to her history teacher or the leader of the X-men. He looks up at her and, faced with his visor, she quails and turns to Xavier. "His car's kind of still in Boston."

" Boston?" Scott repeats, in a low even voice. At this point, Storm can imagine him saying 'Mars'? with the same lack of expression. Then, just as calmly, " Logan, what the fu –" And, remembering the kids "--hell did you do?"

The accusation is both true and unfair. "He was saving our lives!" Rogue blurts, then immediately looks sorry for yelling at a man – her history teacher, the leader of the X-men – who has been sobbing for two hours straight.

He doesn't answer her, but looks at Storm. "Drop me in Boston. I'll drive down. The time alone might do me good."

"Scott –" Xavier begins, "making that drive by yourself at this point –".

Logan, who hasn't had 'Don't interrupt the Professor' imprinted since childhood, breaks in, "Look, if you want –"

Scott whirls on Logan. "What, you'll come with me? That's a great idea. We'll have a road trip. You could tell me stories about Jean."

For once, Logan backs off, spreading his hands. "I was just going to say, I'll drive it down for you."

Scott turns his back as though Logan isn't there. "I thought I'd stop in Middletown," he says to Xavier. "Talk to John and Elaine."

So much, Storm realizes, for being the one to think of everything while Scott falls apart. She has known the Greys for as long as Scott has; as students, she went down with Jean to meet them for weekends in the city, and spent scattered holidays at their Connecticut home.

They haven't crossed her mind once since Alkali Lake.

The Professor raises a hand to his forehead, and Storm realizes he has forgotten, too. "Of course, Scott. Of course, you are right. They need to be told. Although, in light of my history with Jean's family, I should accompany –"

"Professor," Scott interrupts – "With all due respect. Jean is part of your family." He stops and takes a breath before continuing, as though cutting off the Professor and contradicting him at once is too much. "Jean is. But you aren't part of hers. John and Elaine are the closest thing I have to parents, and I'm – I think it needs to just be me."

Rogue looks uneasily from Logan to Bobby. Kurt raises his wide trusting eyes to Storm, who he seems to have adopted as the authority on all things; even he, who has barely met the two men, seems to know that Scott Summers just doesn't talk to the Professor like that.

Xavier looks long and hard at Scott, who folds his hands behind his back, military parade-rest style, and returns the gaze. If she didn't know better, Storm would think they are trying to read each other's eyes. "Yes," Xavier says, at last, "I think that would be best."

"In other words," Scott answers flatly, "I pass the brainscan. You're convinced I'm not going to do anything crazy."

"Scott –"

"Don't worry, I'll come straight home like a good boy. Anyway –" Before going off to sit by himself, Scott presses a finger to his temple. " – It's not like you're going to lose track of me."

3

Storm is sitting on her bed, staring at a poster from the 1997 Newport Jazz Festival, when she hears Scott's car in the driveway. It's going on two AM, ten hours since they left him in Boston, and she has assumed he decided to stay with Jean's family. She's been refusing to worry about him; there's enough to worry about, and if anything is wrong with Scott, she's convinced herself that the professor will know.

Now she rebuttons her blouse – she sat down to undress an hour ago; she has no idea what happened to the time – and stumbles around the room for slippers before making her way groggily downstairs. She finds Scott in the foyer, looking around at the shattered glass and damaged furniture.

"What the hell happened here?"

"We got invaded."

"Hmmm." Scott kneels to look at an unmistakable blood stain on the carpet. He has changed out of his uniform at some point, into deck shoes and jeans a size too big, with a T-shirt that says " United States Air Force Academy." Storm bristles for a moment, thinking of the military pilots who almost shot the Blackbird down. Then she remembers Scott wasn't there, and probably hasn't been told. The shirt must belong to Jean's younger brother, who is currently stationed somewhere in South Carolina. Scott has called Danny Grey "Flyboy" since the kid was ten years old, and he was probably the only kid in America to be devastated at going through adolescence without manifesting a mutation. Jean always said that he joined the services to deal with the heartbreak of not being a potential X-man.

Storm decides that Scott doesn't need to know about the fighter planes. At least, not this week.

As he gets to his feet, she says, "If you think this is bad, you don't want to look in the kitchen. There's leftover pizza in the rec room, if you want something." You come home from the big battle with a plane full of grief-stunned teenagers, and it turns out they still need to eat.

Scott makes a face. "I'll pass. Elaine started baking as soon as --" He kicks an automatic shell-casing, and it rolls across the floor. "I'm not very hungry."

Storm swallows. "How was Connecticut?"

"I got a ticket. I-84 coming into Danbury." He stuffs hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. "I wasn't even going very fast. That damn car is some kind of cop magnet. I ought to --" He stoops to look at a broken lamp, and whatever he ought to do is lost.

"Sorry," Storm says, and then, stupidly, "Will it mess up your insurance?"

"No. That is –" he corrects, "I didn't get a ticket. I got pulled. I got pulled, and I'm looking up at this cop and he starts on, 'It's nighttime, what's with the shades?'"

"God, you didn't –"

"No. It's not that kind of story. I'm looking up at him, and I say – I don't think about it, the words go straight from my head to my mouth, and I say, 'My wife just died.'"

Storm knows Scott and Jean have talked about marriage – talked about it over and over, been stalled out for the last eight years at least. I love you. . . Does it matter? . . .But your family. . .are we buying into a corrupt sociopolitical order?. . .Isn't it a positive message of faith in the future?. . .Maybe we should before they pass that law and they won't let us. . .But the expense. . .But my family. . . Not that Storm has actually heard the argument for a while, because she has taken to covering her hands with her ears and shouting "Vegas!" before walking out of the room, if either of them dare to bring it up. She has never met two people who can complicate a simple situation as much as Scott Summers and Jean Grey.

Storm looks at Scott now and says, "He just let you go?"

"Yeah. He breathalyzed me first, but I hadn't had anything. He didn't mention the glasses again, and then he just let me go. Not even a warning. Because – " Scott swallows, "well, who would lie about something like that?"

He starts to turn away, and Storm puts a hand on his shoulder. "You didn't lie."

"She wasn't my wife. That's not something you just slip up and say."

"You loved her, Scott. What difference does it make?

"Obviously, something, or I wouldn't have said it." Storm wonders is this is what he's been thinking about, all the way down from Connecticut. Finally, he shrugs, "Maybe I just didn't feel like explaining me and Jean to some moron state trooper who couldn't get off the night shift."

"Scott –" Storm pulls him into a hug. For some reason, she expects him to wriggle away, like an embarrassed child might, but instead he pulls her closer, letting her feel the tight, controlled muscles in his arms and chest. He doesn't make a sound. She remembers the way he staggered into Logan, and the keening sobs; she realizes that she still hasn't cried, not really, and wonders whether it's finally her turn.

But it's too late, or it's too early. She has to think about getting this wreck cleaned up, putting the kids back into some kind of routine, finding a way to have a funeral when they don't even have a body. And doing it all without the one person she instinctively wants to call on for help.

Storm hopes that Scott doesn't hate her because she isn't ready to cry.