The One-Eyed King: Off Switch (Scott, Jean, Moira)

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Sometime after Moira takes Jean off to get something to eat, one of the nurses arrives to change Scott's bandages. She makes a small mistake. The shocking thing is that Scott doesn't leave a hole in the ceiling - until he stops to think that he should be.


He was beginning to sympathize with Nathan's love-hate affair with self-administered morphine pumps. On one hand, Scott thought wearily, when he hit the button, the pain went away - mostly. But so did his capacity for coherent thought. On the other hand, if he didn't hit the button when he needed to, the pain eventually got to be a little excessive, and sayonara to coherent thought at that point, too. It was a no-win situation.

"Afternoon, Mr. Summers!" Helga could easily have been said to chirp as she poked her head in the room. She'd seen the redheaded witch-with-a-b leave to harass Dr. McDonnell earlier, which was good, because his bandages needed changing and she tended to breathe fire if Helga so much as breathed on Scott.

Scott twitched nervously in the bed at the caroling of his name. "... uh, afternoon, Helga." He wasn't sure what it was about the nurse, because she seemed perfectly nice, but if running away had been an option, there would be a part of him that would have been delighted to do it every time he heard her voice.

"And how are we feeling today? It's time to change your bandages," she told him, smiling widely, even though he couldn't see it. After all, bedside manner came across in tone of voice as well as look.

"... fine." He didn't like the bandage-changing, necessary as it was. She tended to tsk at him, sounding sorrowful, and that, to him, did not bode well.

"I'm glad to hear it!" She glanced over at the table where the remains of his lunch were and did, in fact, tsk. "You're just not a fan of jello, are you, Mr. Summers?" she said, sounding amused.

"Just wasn't hungry." The painkillers were unsettling his stomach, as per usual, and he wasn't sure that his appetite would have been particularly good even without that. "But no... not a fan of jello."

"Well, I guess we can't win them all, can we?" Despite her excessively bubbly personality, Helga was actually fairly good at her job. Jean would hardly have admitted it, but it was true that her hands were stead and her focus was good as she picked up the scissors and began cutting the bandages free.

Scott was silent as she worked, not really feeling like engaging her in conversation. After all, what was he going to say? 'How does it look?' He didn't really want to know. Not just now, at least. Maybe later.

"There we... oh, nope. One second." Shifting the scissors, Helga made one last snip before beginning to unwind the bandages, unaware that was one snip that Should Not be made. Jean had, of course, been quite insistent with the hospital staff that they must not undo the bandages on his undamaged eye without telling him but either Helga had misunderstood the importance of the order or had simply forgotten.

It was an accident. Entirely an accident, and if his head had been clearer, even just a little clearer, he never would have done it. But as the bandage pulled away from his undamaged eye, it opened, almost reflexively.

And nothing happened.

Scott saw Helga's arm, covered in pale green scrubs, and above that, the clean white of the ceiling.

It took Helga a moment to realize the difference from the last few times she'd changed his bandages, and when she did realize she was appropriately ashamed with herself. Silly goose! She'd known better than that. "Oh, dear, I'm sorry," she said, picking up the new bandages quickly. "We'll get you wrapped up again straight off."

He was not going to hyperventilate. Seriously not going to hyperventilate. And he needed to close his eye. Right now! But the white was so white, and...

Helga moved closer, into his line of sight, and Scott jerked away in reflexive fear. No glasses and a person in front of him! As he turned his head, there was a brief burning sensation behind his eyes.

The resulting optic blast left a noticeable, if thankfully small hole in the ceiling.

Helga shrieked, jerking back and dropping the bandages as something shot out of Scott's eyes. What the heck was that?

Scott squeezed his eye shut and a whimper of pain slipped out as the injured side of his face protested the sudden movement, loudly. #Jean?# he called out shakily. #Jean, help...#

The confusion in his mind had caught Jean's attention, but the cry for help had her moving, leaving the puzzled doctor to trail along in her wake as she raced back to his room. "What's wro..." The sight of him, good eye closed tight and That Damned Nurse not quite cowering back from the bed answered the question before she even got it out. "God... Are you all right?" She wasn't sure which one of them she was asking. No, yes she was. That Damned Nurse was still breathing, so she was fine.

Scott knew he was breathing too fast, but he couldn't make himself calm down. #Cover it up... something's wrong, cover it up!#

#Shh, shh.# The fallen bandages flew into Jean's hands as she crossed to his side, and at Helga's faint squeak Jean muttered a terse, "Get. Out." McDonnell, who did understand why the regulation regarding Scott's eyes had been put in place nodded in agreement and the woman fled as Jean started rewrapping Scott's eyes, hands steady.

#Nothing happened,# Scott thought at her disjointedly, still shaking. #I opened my eyes and nothing happened.# Until the nurse had moved towards him. But his optic blasts didn't just come on. They were never off. Never! #I could have killed her. I opened my eye, I didn't even think...#

#It's all right, Scott,# Jean tried to reassure him, his panic buffeting her. #It's all right.# The good eye securely wrapped, Jean began to wind the bandages around his ruined one, pulling the edges down farther past the edges of the first bandage to prevent this from happening again. #We can figure it out, I promise.# Once there was time to think about what he was saying.

The bandages were back on. Scott tried to slow his breathing down, finally managing somewhat, but he was still shivering in a combination of fear and guilt and incomprehension. #White. The ceiling was white,# he sent, somewhat incoherently.

What he was saying was mindboggling even without the confusion of emotions. Jean carefully tucked the edges of the bandage away, then carefully sat down on the edge of his bed, taking his hand in hers. #Can you tell me what happened?#

He was still having trouble forming sentences, even in his mind, but he could push the memory at her. #Don't understand,# he sent, the panic slowly subsiding, leaving him wrung out, even more exhausted. #Seconds... whole seconds... and nothing, no blast...#

But it had come, eventually. Jean wasn't sure why there would have been the delay, or what had triggered it. #I don't understand either, but we'll find out. I promise, we'll figure this out.#

Calm down, Scott told himself. They'd figure it out. Of course they'd figure it out. Whatever was going on... but with the panic dying away it was leaving something else in its place, and he clutched at her hand, trying to answer, but he couldn't find his voice, couldn't form a coherent thought. His good eye was burning and he squeezed it more tightly shut behind the bandage, a sob catching in his throat.

He should have known. He'd lost an eye, of course something would have happened to his powers, they were all about his eyes...

Jean's eyes welled up in response and her free hand moved to cradle his cheek. All she could do was be there for him and give him what reassurance she had. #It will be all right. It will.#

~*~


Several hours later, the medical types have decided that bandaging Scott's good eye is no longer necessary. Scott is not at all happy with this decision, and is refusing to open his eye, lack of bandages or not. It's Moira's turn to tackle him. (No, not literally.) Scott finds out that no, the incident that morning wasn't a fluke.


After a number of tests, they had taken the bandage off his other eye, saying that it wasn't necessary anymore. Scott had known that trying to convince them otherwise wouldn't help, and Jean had stepped out again, hopefully to get something to eat, or to sleep, but that meant there was no one he could tell to get his spare glasses and break them in half, whatever needed doing. Since he had to keep his good eye closed, he couldn't try to get out of bed and find them for himself, which left him with nothing to do but lie there, tense and frustrated. And scared.

Knocking on the door, Moira let herself in. He was awake, that was obvious from the look on his face. "'ow're ye doin', Scott?" she asked, tucking her hands into her pants pocket. Oh, how she missed her lab coat right now.

Moira! Moira could get the glasses. "I want my glasses. Please?"

Looking over, she spotted them on the small dresser that was located in the room across from the bed. "Aye, I can. Wha' do ye want to do wit' them?" Walking over, she picked up them, weighing them thoughtfully in her hands.

"Isn't there some way I could put them on?" He sounded like he was pleading with her. Well, that was hard on the pride. And yet... "I know they won't fit over the bandages, but you can break them in half or something? Maybe?"

"Scott, I doubt verra 'ighly I could break them in 'alf," Moira pointed out, coming back to his side. "An' from everythin' tha' I've been told, ye dinnae seem ta need them. I was told wha' 'appened."

"We don't know that!" He was breathing too fast again, and Scott told himself to calm down. "They came on. My optic blasts. They might do it again."

"But ye dinnae know tha', either." Voice was calm and warm at the same time. She and Jean had been pouring over Scott's records since the accident, focusing on previous medical records that had talked for the reason for his inability to turn off his power.

Scott swallowed past the tightness in his throat. "Do you assume that the malfunctioning gun's not going to go off?" he asked a bit wildly. "No. You assume that it will, because it is malfunctioning, and that's the only safe thing to assume."

"Then we may be stuck for a while. I cannae break yer glasses an' we cannae put them over th' bandages." Moira paused and gave it some thought. Leaning over him, not telling him what she was doing, she held the above him, directly in his line of sight. "Open yer eyes, Scott."

"What? No! One hole in the ceiling is enough - I could have killed someone."

"Could 'ave, but ye dinnae. 'oles in th' ceiling can be repaired easily enough, we now this from 'ow often Cain 'as ta do it." Bracing herself on the edge of the bed, she sighed. "Open yer eyes."

"Don't you mean eye, singular?" She was going to hit him. Well, maybe not, since he was in a hospital bed, but he knew as soon as the words were out of his mouth that if he hadn't been injured a sharp whack upside the head would have been in the offing. She'd certainly done it before.

The glare she bestowed upon him was a thing of beauty. Too bad he couldn't actually see it. "Scott Summers," she snapped, "open your bloody eye right this verra minute!"

"I can't!" His voice broke.

"Ye can," Moira shot back. "I'm all o' our years o' knowin' each other, do ye really think I would do somethin' tha' would 'arm ye? Trust me ta do this right an' trust me when I tell ye ta open yer eye."

His breathing was ragged, and he was shaking, his hands clenching on the sheets almost desperately. "Moira..." But she made a warning noise, and he swallowed. She wouldn't be standing in the way, he told himself. Even if she was experimenting, she wouldn't be leaning over him or anything...

One reddened brown eye opened, very slowly, and focused on Moira.

She smiled at him, a brilliant, tired smile and nodded to the glasses that were poised above his face. "See?"

He still couldn't quite slow his breathing down. "I don't understand." It came out sounding too desperate, again. "They're off, but they came back on... I don't get it, Moira. How do I know when it's safe?" Ten years of learned behavior, of extreme caution and ingrained terror about what could happen if he slipped, even for a moment, were impossible to discard in the space of a few hours.

"I could go on 'bout medical theories an' such but I'd rather ye be more awake for tha'," Moira said, slipping her other hand inside his. "But ye'll learn, ye'll adapt. As 'orrible as th' accident was, Scott, I think ye'll be able ta control th' optic blasts.

Control.

Control?

"But..." he started to protest, weakly, and then stopped, swallowing. Strange, he thought almost feverishly, drinking in the sheer variety of colors he could see like this. Moira's hair was red, but more red-gold, not like the red he saw with the glasses on, and her sweater was a deep, rich green...

"Nay buts. Jus' rest, now, enjoy this." There was a hint of an impish smile somewhere. "Because I'll be workin' ye verra 'ard once yer able, aye? Like th' old days when I scared th' daylights out o' ye." She let him take the colors she took for granted in and knew that the colors Jean sported would be even sweeter to him. "Ye've got a lot o' work but a lot o' good times ahead."

"This hardly... seems real." His voice cracked again, but the corner of his mouth tugged upwards in a tiny, shaky, incredulous smile. "I... I've got my eyes open. Eye." The laugh was more than half-sob.

Moira squeezed his hand gently. "I know," she responded, maybe more than a little choked up herself. "'ard ta believe but...ye do. Yer seein' things ye 'avenae seen in so lon'."

He still felt like he wanted to jump out of his skin. The lack of the familiar weight of the glasses on his face unsettled him on a very basic level, but... the colors. Scott tried to slow down his breathing, remembering all too well his own words, over and over, to his class for energy-projectors. Emotions had an impact on your control. A big impact on your control.

"You'll figure out why...?"

"O' course I will," Moira promised, firmly. "I'll 'ave ye a reason fast enough ta spin yer 'ead around, ye'll see."