*** DISCLAIMER: The X-MEN are Copyright (C) 1997 Marvel Characters, Inc.
and are property of Marvel Comics Entertainment Group. They have been
used without permission. No profit has been made from this work. This
story is Copyright (C) 1997 by Jon Bartley.

*** NOTE: This story may contain adult content, adult language, and
violence. If such things disturb you, don't read this.

BLACK LOVE (7/12)
By Jon Bartley

PART SEVEN: "From The Best Intentions"

"You know something? It's getting harder and harder to write these
things out," said Jean, leaning over paper and pen on her side of the
Summers's bed. She folded her legs underneath her and stretched. Scott
wasn't paying attention. "I used to be able to write letters to my
friends all the time. I'd have *something* to say, right? But not now.
I'm just too happy. Nothing seems to go wrong..."--she lowered her voice
--"so I guess I don't really know how to tell if things are going
*right*"--Jean raised the volume of her voice again--"But it's like I
have nothing to write about. You know?" Jean turned to her husband.
     Scott twisted his neck toward Jean, his eyes still glued to his
novel. "I'm sorry--what?"
     Jean's head dropped. "Nevermind." Jean stood up and walked to the
large window on her side of the bed. She stared into the blackness of
night. "I've been thinking, Scott."
     'Uh-oh', thought Scott. 'She's been *thinking*'
     "Are all these good things really *good*?" said Jean.
     "Life is great. We don't have any problems. Why would that be bad?"
posed he.
     "I don't know. ... I remember reading Leigh Greenwood's 'Seven
Brides' book series. Or at least I think I do. They were great. Then I
tried to read the series again the other day. I felt empty after reading
the first one. There was nothing. It was like the words didn't mean
anything. Maybe all this good isn't good. Scott... I don't even remember
what a broken heart feels like."
     Scott crawled across the bed. "Jean, you're being too dramatic."
     "Am I? Why do I feel so bad, then?"
     "It was probably something you saw on television that upset you.
Let's just go to sleep. Everything will be all right in the morning.
You'll see."

Scott was woken late that night by an impatient pounding at his door.
Hesitantly, he aroused himself from bed and answered the call. On the
other side of the door was Betsy Braddock, robed and her hair pulled
back. There was an indescribable expression of shock plastered across
her face.
     "Scott, I need your help." said she.
     "What is it?" asked Scott, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
     "It's Warren."

Warren edged his feet closer to the edge of the roof. His face damp with
tears, he peered over the roof's edge. It was a long way down. His toes
were hanging off the edge when Betsy and Scott crept along a narrow
strip of stone to come and aid him.
     "Is he seriously thinking about jumping, Bets?" asked Scott, his
voice lowered.
     "Yes. I've tried everything except telepathy. I refuse to try that,
because you have no idea what kind of response you're going to get when
you enter someone's mind. I hope you can help."
     Scott nodded and crawled up the pyramidal edge Warren was standing
on. "Warren, what's going on, pal?" said he.
     "Nothing. Nothing."
     "It's got to be something. Unless you like standing on the roof in
the middle of the night."
     "It's been going on for far too long."
     "What?"
     "Nothing. I'm going to jump, Scott."
     Scott groaned. "Please, Warren. Come down. We can talk about this,
whatever it is. Just come down. It may seem bad now, but it'll get
better."
     "No. No, it won't. I'm... I'm such a weak person, Scott. I just
can't handle it all anymore. Maybe if things had been different..."
     "What? What can't you handle?"
     Warren bowed his head and looked down. "Goodbye, Scott. Tell Betsy
I love her." He leaned forward and fell from the roof. Scott dashed and
reached out to his friend, but it was too late. Despite falling three
stories up, Warren didn't fall far. There was another ledge below the
one Warren fell from. Atop it was a rusty, iron spire. When Warren fell,
the spire had pierced the base of his skull. His head was raised and
there was a look on Warren's face. It was NOTHING.

The next morning, Scott was walking the halls, trying to piece together
what had happened the night before. Betsy had told him that Warren
hadn't been acting any different than he usually had. There were no
warnings signs. Everyone else said the same thing. "NOTHING was wrong."
     Scott slowed his walk.
     That was all anyone could talk about anymore. NOTHING. They all had
something to say about the abundance of NOTHING in their lives. They had
money, lovers, food, complete control over their powers; there were no
villains to fight. In a sense, they were all in Heaven.
     Scott passed by Rogue.
     "Hey," said she. She folded the newspaper she was reading and took
a drag on her cigarette. "Ah heard ol' feathers went over the edge last
night."
     "That... that was uncalled for," said Scott.
     "It's a lie then?"
     "No... But a man's dead and you're being totally insensitive.
Aren't you going to miss him at all?"
     "He was sweet. Nice. Sure, it won't be the same not havin' him
'round. But Ah'm not gonna boo-hoo forever over it. Life's tough. Ya
gotta be tougher." Rogue said and took back to reading her newspaper.
     Scott shrugged it off and went to his bedroom. 'That wasn't Rogue,'
he thought. What was wrong with everyone? he wanted to know. NOTHING
seemed to be right. He sat down on the edge of his bed. He thought about
something Warren had said. 'Maybe if things had been different...' It
finally clicked in Scott's head.
     He put his head in his hands. "Oh, God. What have I done?"

To Be Continued...
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