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draculasfavoritewife · 10 months ago

Text

Sleepless

Summary: Even the most intimate couples had to have a first late-night conversation.

Pairing: Emma Frost x Scott Summers

Warnings: Scott Summers is synonymous with angst. Innuendos and suggestive humor. Strained relationships, a bit of the absolute fluffiness that is two sad people commiserating.

Here it is, the last of my Emma/Scott fics (for now) that has been languishing in my drafts! There are few things I love writing more than first meetings and impressions, and Scott's PoV, as I've mentioned before, is personally delicious. Plus, as an insomniac myself, insomnia-coded characters always hold a special little spot in my heart 🖤

“Scott. A word?”

Scott Summers sighs as the Professor beckons him into his office. “Of course. Do you need something from me?”

The older man studies him from behind tented fingers, expression unreadable as always. “I merely wanted to remind you that Ms. Frost will be arriving soon.”

“I hadn’t forgotten.” New faculty didn’t come to the Xavier Institute often, did the Professor really think such a detail had slipped his mind?

“My choice to hire her may be…controversial. And the others, they look to you as an example. I hope you will keep an open mind and welcome her with open arms, so that the transition goes a little smoother.”

Scott nods briskly. He’s nothing if not professional. “Anything else?”

“That is all. Thank you, Scott. I always rest easier, knowing I have you to depend upon.”

He leaves the Professor, only to find Jean waiting for him barely outside the door. “Hey,” she greets him softly. “What did the Professor want?”

“Nothing. We were just talking about Ms. Frost’s arrival this afternoon.” Scott lengthens his stride, his mind already working through his meticulously arranged schedule for the rest of the day.

She’s not convinced. “You know you can talk to me if something’s bothering you.”

“I do know. Everything’s fine, Jean. I just have a busy day ahead of me.”

Her eyes narrow. “I’m worried about you! You don’t have to be so brusque.”

And you don’t have to mother me all the time! I'm more than capable of taking care of myself. He tries to stuff down the ungrateful thought as soon as it takes shape, but it’s too late.

Her scowl tells him better than words that she heard it, loud and clear.

“Jean, wait!” he calls after her retreating back, but she’s vanished into a nearby doorway already. He knows from many past experiences that it’s better if he lets her cool off for now. Talking to her and trying to iron things out right away will do more harm than good.

Cursing under his breath — too softly for any passers-by to pick up — he continues on his way.

The day is off to a great start already.

He knows Ms. Frost has arrived when he sees the crowd of students and fellow instructors gathered around the front windows. And he understands why they’re all staring when he sees her car parked in the driveway, long and sleek and pale and probably some European brand half of them have never heard of.

And then Ms. Frost herself steps out of the car and struts up the front steps to ring the bell, and the excited whispers immediately die off. She looks like she stepped off the cover of a magazine, and one that is likely “not suited for younger readers”.

He seems to be the only one with ears all of a sudden, and takes it upon himself to answer the door. That’s when he at last sees her face, and for a moment, even stoic Scott Summers is off his game. Slyly tilted eyebrows, heavily lashed eyes that couldn’t possibly be any color but a frosty blue — he can tell even through his tinted glasses — and that smile, that lioness smile rimmed with curvy silver-painted lips.

Scott knows this woman. Not in the awkward I-was-drunk-we-hooked-up-once kind of way, that’s never been his style.

No, they’ve crossed metaphorical swords on the battlefield many times before.

The last time he saw that smile, she was trying to turn his mind into so much scrambled egg.

Really, Professor? You hired the White Queen and didn’t think I needed ANY warning?

She, for her part, is utterly cool and collected, and he gets the feeling she saw him through the window long before he saw her. Momentary lapse of focus gone, he sizes her up like the threat he knows she is.

By personal experience, he knows that underestimating Emma Frost is a deadly gamble.

Her hair -- long, straight, and so blond it hovers near white -- runs down her back, disappearing into the fluff of her extravagant white fur coat. Aside from the coat, she leaves nothing to the imagination. Snug white pants are tucked into over-the-knee boots with five- or six-inch stiletto heels. He’s not sure how she didn’t die on the brief walk to the door.

And she’s wearing a top that can barely even be classified as such.

How do her clothes even stay on?

Double-sided tape is a woman’s best friend, Darling. But they don’t have to stay on….

He’ll have to be much more careful.

“Ms. Frost. Welcome to the Xavier Institute. Won’t you come in?”

The fur coat chooses that particular moment to slip, baring slender shoulders and quite a few inches of what’s between them and the gravity-defying contraption that only just prevents indecent exposure.

“Why thank you, Mr. Summers. I’m ever so pleased be here. I have a feeling you and I, at least, should get along just fine.”

She stalks past him, and he watches her go, the crowd of intimidated students and hostile instructors parting like the Red Sea for Moses.

What has the Professor gotten us into?

He’s left alone in his room tonight. Jean holds grudges, and he hasn’t seen her again aside from dinner, when neither of them felt like talking to the other. Insomnia is his partner in bed instead — he can honestly say that relationship has been lifelong — so he finally gives up trying at one in the morning and heads down to the Danger Room, in the hopes he can either work himself to exhaustion or at least be productive with his time, instead of letting his anxiety run wild in the dark.

The latter seems far more probable.

It’s not until he’s done, changed into sweatpants and left the locker room, still drying his hair with a towel, that he realizes he had an audience.

“Bravo, Mr. Summers, that was quite the show you put on.” The White Queen is leaning against a console in the control booth, a glass of red wine in hand and her goddess figure quite prominent in a lacy white slip.

He shouldn’t be surprised that even her nightwear is as revealing as possible.

“Glad you enjoyed it,” he says curtly, pulling a jacket on to cover up his bare torso. Just because she’s so comfortable flaunting everything doesn’t mean he has to join her.

“You’ve always had a certain…flair…for battle, and I should know.” She smirks and hands him a second wine glass. “Here. When I got up and sensed I wasn’t the only one wandering these halls at this ungodly hour, I brought a spare.”

Normally, he would wonder what she’s done to it, but this is already a strange situation, so he just takes it from her with a nod of thanks.

“You know, from that very first time I got inside your head, I pegged you as the insomniac type.” Her eyes flash over the rim of her glass, sharp with satisfaction. “Looks like I haven’t lost my touch when it comes to woman's intuition.”

He can’t tell if she meant that comment as a double entendre or not. He’s certainly not rising to take the bait if she did. “I have a lot on my mind.” Taking a sip of his drink, he glances back at her. “And you?”

“Oh this isn’t a usual occurrence for me at all, Scott. Most nights I sleep like the dead and only rise in time for lunch.” She sniffs. “I have a very sensitive constitution. The first night in a new bed? I never sleep.”

Scott throws her another, this time incredulous, glance.

“I do have a sensitive constitution! I’m a purebred Boston Terrier Bitch, Darling.”

He snorts at her choice of words, and it could almost be called a chuckle.

Frost fake-gasps. “Ladies and Gentlemen, believe it or not, Scott Summers CAN laugh.” She draws closer to him, her face upturned towards his, and he realizes that her lips are a natural color without her lipstick, after all.

He imagines they must be pale pink.

“What’s my prize for making you laugh?” she purrs.

“What would you like?” he asks without thinking, and then mentally kicks himself for it. This is no ordinary woman he’s talking to, after all.

He has a suspicion there’s a reason she dresses like a dominatrix.

Wicked delight plays across her face. “Oh, there are so many things I would like from you, Scott. But let’s start off with a professional tone, shall we?” Her free hand comes up between them, plays with the zipper pull on his jacket. “So show me around. Where do you go when you DON’T want to focus on everything that’s going wrong in your life?”

He’s not really sure how to answer that one, but he ends up taking her outside, and somehow they end up standing on a footbridge in the garden, and the night is cool and the moon is beautiful tonight, and he HAS put all his problems out of his mind for the time being.

“Do you like New York?” he asks her, leaning back against the railing.

She shrugs. “Well enough. I do miss Boston, though.”

He didn’t think he’d ever hear such an admission leave her lips. “Why move, then?”

“Just because you love a place doesn’t mean you should stay.” Emma's face suddenly looks gentler, almost younger. “There’s far too much history knotted up in the places we grew up, I think.” Her star-filled eyes turn to him. “And I think you agree. You hardly ever go back to Alaska, much as you miss the wind and water and cold.”

She has a point. He can’t quite unravel this sensation rising in his chest.

“I wasn’t digging around in your head,” she is quick to reassure him. “The sky tonight is making your old longings positively radiate from you, like too much Dior.”

He sighs. Sometimes he fantasizes about going back, about starting over and running away from his problems with Jean, and everyone’s expectations and standards and pressures. Leave it to the new arrival to be the only one who picks up on his struggles, well as everyone else thinks they know him.

Sometimes he just feels so damn alone.

“You know,” she murmurs, swirling the last of her wine around in the glass. “You and I are so alike, Scott. No one else could ever truly appreciate what goes on beneath the surface.”

He stares at her, disbelieving. We couldn’t be more different if we tried….

“We handle it in different ways.” The wind ruffles through her silky hair. “I coped with the expectations, the lack of validation, and the depressing notion that I would never be good enough for anyone by stripping — excuse the wording — myself of everything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. I have no inhibitions, I buck social norms, and I take pleasure in subverting people’s image of me, because I know I can never fulfill their standards.”

She eyes him up and down. “You cope in the opposite way, covering up the goods, physically and emotionally, so you can pretend to be their perfect white knight. But if the cards had folded differently —” she finishes her drink, “— we could be standing here in each other’s shoes, instead.”

“I never did get the hang of walking in heels,” he deadpans, and this time it’s her turn to laugh. Although he doesn’t say so, she’s right.

And his chest tightens strangely, at the realization that he’s finally met someone that understands what he’s going through.

It takes his thoughts a bit to return to earth, but when they do, he notices that she’s definitely not dressed to be standing out here. He takes his jacket off and holds it out for her to take, and he’s not completely sure why, but he doesn’t feel quite so exposed without a shirt around her anymore.

Having someone dissect your soul can do wonders for your self-consciousness.

She smirks as she takes the offered garment and drapes it around her shoulders. “The cold and I are old friends,” she muses, tone slightly melancholy. “But I’ve always had a soft spot for old-fashioned chivalry.”

He can feel her eyes roaming over his now bare torso. “And I must say, even that navy spandex didn’t do you justice. You’re a fine-looking man, Scott Summers.”

What does one say to that?

He settles on nothing, for the moment. But they stay there on that bridge for a while, mostly enfolded in a silence that is surprisingly comfortable.

Finally, he nods back towards the mansion. “We should turn in, Ms. Frost.”

“Emma, Darling. You’ve earned it.”

They fall into step together, and as they are about to enter the quiet household once more, she smiles up at him. “I’ll see you at lunch then, Love.”

Scott can’t help smiling back. “No, you’ll be seeing me bright and early for breakfast, Emma. Most of us are up by seven around here. Personally, I prefer six.”

“Ugh. How inhumane.” She tosses her hair and walks away from him, still wearing his jacket. “Chances are I’ll still be dead. Come and drag me out of bed if you must, Darling, but for heaven’s sake do it with your own hands and don’t send that philistine Logan, or I’ll kill you both.”

He watches her disappear down the shadowed corridor, and for some reason, he doesn’t call after her for the jacket.

Sleep comes easily for him after that.