Chapter Text
Location: Krakoa – Blackbird, Common Room
Date: Saturday, January 14, 2006
Time: 06:12 a.m.
⸻
Dawn on Krakoa didn't arrive with light, but with humidity. The early hours were always a blend of warm mist and that smell of living jungle—a fog that soaked even into the Blackbird's fuselage and slipped through every seam, reminding everyone that they were on borrowed ground. Not even the ship's technology could fully isolate them from the island's breathing.
Scott Summers had already been awake for an hour. He'd spent the night organizing supplies with Hank; the list of provisions kept shrinking, and morale—though resilient—was beginning to show small cracks. Three days trapped on Krakoa. Three days since Thursday morning, when the excitement of the mission mixed with that youthful arrogance of "we can handle anything."
Now, the list was something else:
—Two packs of energy bars left.
—Four liters of purified water.
—Bobby's ice could help, but not enough.
—Krakoa's fruit… some edible, others frankly unsettling.
Scott held the tablet with the inventory, scanning the data with the steady gaze of someone who knows that failing at logistics can kill faster than any caped villain. Beside him, Hank McCoy—his best friend, his advisor, his grounding wire—checked the first-aid containers, reading labels and doing calculations under his breath.
"Did you know calorie consumption increases exponentially in humid climates?" Hank murmured without looking up. "And that 87% of the fruit here could kill us in ways so original that neither you, nor Doctor Octavius, nor Moira would want to write the report."
Scott sighed.
"No exotic breakfast today, then. I was going to ask if you were craving…" He glanced at a suspiciously luminous piece of fruit. "…this."
"I can analyze it, but if you don't want to spend the morning with convulsions and hallucinations, I suggest using it as decoration," Hank replied, with a tired smile.
They shared a brief silence, full of the quiet trust that only comes from surviving impossible things together.
Scott checked his communicator, though he already knew what he'd find.
"Red zero. Signals are still blocked. Not even a 'good morning' from Logan."
Hank adjusted his glasses on his nose, his blue fur collecting tiny droplets of dew.
"We'll have to survive the old-fashioned way. Ration, look for new water sources… and hope Peter doesn't wake up and try to hunt his own breakfast."
Scott let out a soft laugh, but it didn't last long. He turned the tablet in his fingers, and his voice—though low—carried an honest edge.
"I'm going out to explore. Me… and Bobby. We need to bring back something more than bad news when the rest wake up."
Hank nodded.
"Good idea. But before that…" He leaned down, picking up a pair of field gloves. "You should see this."
Scott frowned, but followed Hank toward the main room of the ship, where the team usually gathered, ate, and argued strategy.
There, what he saw gave him a slight jolt—not alarm, but the kind of surprise that knocks a leader off balance when he's too used to planning every step.
Jean Grey was asleep sitting in a chair, her head tilted to one side, hair spilled over the backrest, a poorly folded blanket covering her shoulders. Her hand—small but firm—gently held Peter's, who was sleeping too, half-reclined on the cot, his body wrapped in bandages and his breathing steady. They looked like two castaways clinging to each other in the middle of a storm, even in their dreams.
The scene was so intimate and genuine that Scott felt a stab of something—jealousy, perhaps, but above all… admiration. And a trace of insecurity.
Hank stopped a few steps away, respecting the distance.
"They haven't slept well," he whispered. "Jean was up all night, making sure Peter's fever didn't rise. She didn't want anyone else taking over."
Scott crossed his arms, watching.
Peter slept deeply, his face relaxed for the first time in days. He looked younger, more like a kid, the web of scars barely visible beneath the bandages. Jean, meanwhile, looked exhausted, yet still held on—as if she feared that letting go might mean losing him forever.
Hank tiptoed closer, checking the monitor beside Peter's cot. His movements were gentle, almost feline, and for a second Scott wondered if everyone on the team was really watching over the same kid, just in their own way.
"They're both stubborn," Scott murmured, more to himself than to Hank. "But together… they seem invincible."
Hank nodded.
"Love works miracles. And a few hormones too," he joked, though his voice was warm. "But look, Scott… you don't have to carry everything alone."
Scott smiled faintly, but the weight in his chest didn't lift.
"You know something? Sometimes I wonder why the Professor chose me as leader. Why he didn't choose Peter. He has that… something. People follow him naturally. He's stronger, faster, smarter. And when everything goes to hell, he's the one who gets the team to smile."
Hank studied him, then sighed and sat beside the cot, letting the gloves fall onto the table.
"Peter has many virtues, Scott. But also many flaws. Like everyone.
He's brave, yes, but also impulsive. A genius, but with his head in the clouds. He never puts himself first, and because of that, sometimes he forgets the plan…
You, on the other hand… make up for where he falls short. You're the compass. You're the one who, even when you doubt, doesn't let fear decide for us."
Scott didn't answer right away. Hank's voice had the effect of medicine—bitter, but necessary.
"Sometimes I think I'm just the guy who yells the loudest," Scott admitted, his gaze fixed on Jean and Peter's intertwined hands. "The one who pushes everyone forward. But… what if one day I'm wrong? What if I lead them into disaster?"
Hank tilted his head, his blue eyes as clear as ever, filled with a tenderness few knew he possessed.
"Then you'll pick them back up. That's how this works. Peter is the heart, Scott. But you are the pulse.
The heart beats, yes—but without the right rhythm… the body is lost."
Scott let the metaphor steady him. It was a simple truth, but a powerful one.
The silence stretched on, broken only by the soft hum of the ship's systems and the shared breathing of the two sleeping young people.
Hank stood and stepped a little closer to the cot, gently adjusting the blanket over Peter's shoulders.
Scott watched in silence, wondering how many more times they would have to stitch, bandage, and protect each other like this… before the world finally changed.
Peter murmured something in his sleep, Jean's hand tightening a little more around his.
Jean replied, half-asleep, with a soft sigh, as if even in sleep she could hear what he needed to say.
Scott looked away, taking a deep breath.
He decided that today, more than ever, the team would need a leader who was awake.
He turned to Hank, his voice firmer now.
"Tell Bobby to pack an extra canteen.
And not to forget the ultraviolet flashlight.
Today we're going to look for something worth bringing home."
Hank nodded, a hint of a smile dancing on his lips.
"And if you get lost?" he asked, almost joking.
Scott met his friend's gaze.
"Then I'll follow the web.
There's always a web waiting for us, right?"
And with that, he headed for the ship's door, the morning air wrapping around him with that mix of promise and threat.
Behind him, in the warm dimness of the Blackbird, Jean and Peter remained joined by the hand, unaware of the world for one more moment.
And the leader, though tired, knew it was enough.
Because at the end of the day…
A team is only as strong as its bonds.
And that bond, Scott thought, was unbreakable.
⸻
Location: Krakoa – Northwestern Region
Date: Saturday, January 14, 2006
Time: 09:12 a.m.
⸻
Krakoa's sun didn't warm like New York's, not even like Africa's or Florida's. Here it was more diffuse, filtered through gigantic leaves and a perpetual mist that made your nerves sweat before your skin did. Scott Summers moved forward with controlled steps, alert to every crunch beneath his boots, backpack over his shoulder and one hand always close to his visor. Behind him, Bobby Drake didn't stop talking—comments as necessary as oxygen in that suffocating environment.
"Do you have any idea how many species exist in this place?" Bobby asked, dodging a thick, slippery root. "Look at that—it's straight out of a biology book… or a Spielberg nightmare."
Scott snorted, without losing focus.
"Careful, don't get distracted. Remember what Hank told us: if the flora is weird, the fauna is worse. And we don't have time to come back with venomous bites, or to play 'Jurassic Park.'"
Bobby smiled, though the tension was clear in his eyes.
"Do you think Magneto and his mutants are still near the temple?" he asked quietly, glancing up at the leafy canopy.
Scott shook his head, mentally reviewing the map Peter had drawn with such detail he could've used it with his eyes closed. He'd memorized it out of pure survival instinct—but also because he couldn't stand the idea of losing anyone under his command.
"I don't know," he whispered. "But if I were Magneto, I'd try to control the core. Everything on this island seems to revolve around that center… and I'm not letting them do it without us nearby."
"Not to mention we've got Peter half-broken back on the ship, Jean exhausted, and Hank fighting to keep us all in one piece," Bobby replied with a grimace. "What if the Professor could send reinforcements? Imagine Logan cutting his way through here, or Warren flying over the canopy… I mean, if he manages to dodge the giant birds."
Scott stopped, raising a hand.
"Shh."
The silence that followed was unsettling. The jungle seemed to hold its breath, as if measuring the intruders' worth before deciding whether to devour them or tolerate them. Then came a dull roar, the crack of branches… and a tremor underfoot.
"That's not a bird," Bobby whispered.
Out of the mist emerged the colossal silhouette of a massive reptile, taller than a truck, with iridescent scales and a yellow eye that regarded them with the calm of a predator at the top of the food chain. The "dinosaur"—there was no other word—snorted, exhaling steam through its nostrils and shaking its head as if to make it clear the territory was his.
"Oh, perfect," Scott growled. "Bobby, don't provoke it."
Bobby raised his hands, backing away without taking his eyes off the creature.
"Too late for that, boss."
The animal advanced with heavy steps. And it wasn't alone. Behind it, another beast with narrower jaws and darker scales appeared on the left flank, sniffing the air as if searching for something specific… or someone.
Scott assessed the situation in a second. They couldn't retreat. They couldn't climb a tree in under five seconds either—especially not with those two stalking them.
"Quick plan: ice, Iceman."
"On it, Cyclops."
Bobby extended his hands and, with a fluid gesture, an icy mist spread across the ground in front of the creatures. The first dinosaur slipped, briefly losing its balance, and let out a furious roar. The second, less reckless, veered aside and cast a look full of reptilian intelligence at the mutants.
"Move," Scott urged. "Fast. The core is east, according to Peter's map."
They started running. Bobby created intermittent ice walls, alternating defense and distraction, while Scott watched the perimeter. With every step, the jungle changed: roots that moved like snakes, vines that vibrated like taut cables, carnivorous flowers opening and closing their petals in a disturbing rhythm.
"Scott, left side—we've got company!" Bobby shouted.
From the undergrowth burst a third animal, lower to the ground, with jaws full of curved teeth. Bobby didn't hesitate; he fired a blast of ice, forming a slippery incline just in time to keep the creature from reaching him.
"How many of these things are there?" Bobby panted.
"Too many," Scott replied, already firing a short-range optic blast, slicing through thick branches that fell and blocked one of the monsters. The red hum lit up the mist, creating dancing shadows and a curtain of hot vapor.
But the chaos only got worse.
The pursuit forced them to split at a fork formed by fallen trees. Bobby, drenched in sweat, turned one last time.
"Scott, I'll see you at the Blackbird! Use the map Peter made with his webs to orient yourself—and if you see anything with more than three eyes, don't talk to it!"
Scott only nodded, firing another energy beam before losing sight of his friend. Now he was alone. Completely alone.
The jungle swallowed Bobby as if he'd never been there. Silence returned, broken only by the distant echoes of roars and cracking wood. Scott, breathing hard, looked around. For a moment, panic brushed him like a cold sweat at the back of his neck.
"Think," he ordered himself. "The map. Remember Peter's map. The river should be to the north… the claw-shaped rock to the west. Follow the landmarks."
He moved forward cautiously, alert to any movement, knowing he had to conserve energy. He tried the communicator, pressing the button with more hope than faith.
"Blackbird, do you read me? This is Cyclops. Repeat, do you read me?"
Only the white crackle of static. The sound was lonelier than silence. Scott pocketed the device, resigned.
The reality was clear: he was lost.
But if there was one thing he'd learned, it was never to give in to fear. If Magneto found him, he'd have to fight; if one of those creatures came back, he'd have to think fast.
He kept moving, weaving past roots as thick as columns and low branches that scratched at his uniform. Every so often he stopped to listen, trying to tell whether danger came from the wildlife, from the island itself… or from other mutants.
He passed a lagoon where the water was so green it looked like liquid emerald. There, small frog-like creatures with spines watched him in silence, like judges waiting for him to make a mistake. Scott resisted the temptation to drink, remembering Hank's warning about local toxins.
In a shallow dip in the terrain he found a fallen tree covered in bluish fungi. He decided to collect some for Hank to analyze later. He filled a sample bag, mentally marking the location.
As he bent down to pick up a less threatening-looking piece of fruit, the crack of a branch put him on alert. He spun instantly, visor activating—but what he saw wasn't an animal or an enemy mutant… it was something that froze him in place for a second.
On the trunk in front of him, suspended over a tangle of gleaming webbing, there was a handwritten message:
"IF YOU MAKE IT THIS FAR, FOLLOW THE SMELL OF SALT. – P"
The handwriting was Peter's. Small, a little shaky, but unmistakable. He figured Peter had done it yesterday during his patrol, before the fight with Electro.
Scott let out a quiet laugh. Parker never broke the habit of leaving clues. Smell of salt… the salt lake we saw during the aerial recon, he thought. He oriented himself by the wind, now carrying a faint briny, damp scent.
"Thanks, Parker," he murmured. "Sometimes you're unbearable—but other times… you're the best friend anyone could have."
He moved on with renewed energy, avoiding new natural traps, until the jungle sounds shifted in tone: shrieks of enormous birds, splashing water, the buzz of insects. Pushing through a tangle of giant ferns, Scott stepped into the clearing of a small inland lake, the water so clear he could see mutant fish swimming among iridescent corals.
Suddenly, a shadow passed overhead. Scott ducked instinctively, aiming his visor at the sky… but it was only a flock of giant birds, nothing more.
Stay focused, he reminded himself.
He began searching for fallen fruit, filtered water between rocks—any resource that might help the team. He gathered some moss, examined it (remembering Logan's survival lessons), and filled another bag with strange seeds.
At last, he sat down on a rock, catching his breath. Sweat ran down his neck, sticking the uniform to his body. For the first time that morning, he allowed himself to look at the horizon—the sky carpeted with leaves and filtered light—and thought of Jean, of Peter, of Bobby running who knew where.
"What does it mean to be a leader?" he asked quietly. "To survive? To keep count of who comes back and who doesn't? Or simply… to make sure your friends have a trail that leads them home?"
⸻
The humidity followed him like a breath. Every step was a small challenge, not just physical, but mental. Krakoa was a jungle—but more than that, it was a labyrinth. Scott knew it. From the moment he set foot in the dense, damp foliage, the island had been watching him.
Not like an animal.
Not like an enemy.
But like a patient judge.
Sweat ran down his forehead as he moved, soaking his temples, forcing him to blink. The visor was heavy, the backpack was heavy—everything was heavy. The air was thick, aromatic, with that salty undertone Peter had left as a clue, now mixed with something sour, mineral, almost electric.
And then, among the branches, he felt it.
It wasn't pain.
It wasn't fear.
It was a whisper. Not of wind, but of thought.
"Don't continue."
"Don't go forward."
"This is not your destiny."
Scott stopped. He looked around, expecting to see someone—a silhouette, a Brotherhood mutant, a natural trap. Nothing. Just fog, giant leaves, the echoes of distant creatures.
But the sensation intensified.
It wasn't paranoia.
It wasn't exhaustion.
It was the island.
It was Krakoa.
Communicating.
Testing him.
He closed his eyes, trying to steady the tremor in his hands, the sudden chill prickling the back of his neck.
No. He wasn't going to give in.
He took two more steps.
The inner voices grew clearer, almost like an echo of his own memories.
"Turn back. This is not your path. Others will come. You must guide, not descend."
Scott swallowed. His boots crunched against the damp leaf litter, and for the first time, he felt the temptation to surrender—to return to the Blackbird, to accept the warning. But the moment the thought crossed his mind, the fog seemed to swirl around him.
The jungle vanished.
The world spun.
And suddenly, he was sitting.
A seat.
Rough fibers.
A belt.
Vibration beneath his feet.
The roar of an engine.
A familiar, ancient hum, full of fear.
It wasn't Krakoa.
It was an airplane.
"No, no, please!" —the child's scream beside him cut through his chest like a scalpel.
Scott turned, his throat tightening instantly. To his left, a small blond boy with huge eyes sobbed, pressed against the airplane window, his knuckles white from gripping the seat.
Alex.
Scott tried to speak, but no sound came out. He felt the pressure in his ears, the shudder of the aircraft. Outside—only darkness. Then, suddenly, the sound of an explosion. A brutal jolt.
The cabin shook, overhead compartments burst open, luggage fell, an oxygen mask dropped in front of his face. The boy screamed louder.
Scott tried to shield him, but he couldn't move. His arms wouldn't respond.
Darkness flooded the cabin.
And beneath the chaos, a familiar voice.
His mother.
Screaming his name.
"Scott!"
His father.
"Hold on!"
And then… nothing.
Darkness.
A cold that froze him in place.
Then the ceiling tore open—blinding light, rough hands pulling him from the seat, tearing him away from his brother. Alex screaming.
Two children.
Separated.
Again.
The scene shifted.
It was no longer the plane.
It was a long hallway, gray, worn.
An orphanage.
The monotone buzz of white lights.
The smell of disinfectant and loneliness.
"They can't stay together, you understand that, right?" —a woman in uniform, tired eyes—. "It's for their own good."
Scott—small, thin, a bandage on his forehead and fear lodged deep in his stomach—watched as they took Alex away, led him out of the room, farther and farther.
Again.
Separation.
Loneliness.
An abyss opening, never ending.
"Scott!"
A shout shattered the memory.
A real shout.
A familiar one?
The gray hallway dissolved.
Krakoa returned.
The dense air. The sweat. The pain.
Scott dropped to his knees, gasping, his chest on the verge of bursting. He'd collapsed in the middle of a clearing covered in moss and twisted roots.
"Breathe, Summers. Breathe…" he whispered to himself, pressing his temples, feeling tears run—hot, unexpected.
He didn't want to cry.
He couldn't.
He was the leader.
The one who never broke.
But the island—now he understood—didn't want to kill him.
It wanted to show him something.
And then, through the trembling haze of the vision, another memory surfaced. One from more than four years ago.
⸻
The sky was cold, open. Scott stepped out of the car, backpack over his shoulder, his entire life compressed into a bag and a box of books. Xavier got out with him. The first thing Scott noticed at the entrance was a red-haired girl with her arms crossed, watching him with curiosity and a sly smile. And a boy—thin, and… spider legs—holding a sign that read:
WELCOME, SCOTT!
The letters were crooked, but the gesture was so ridiculous and genuine that Scott couldn't help but freeze at the sheer energy of it.
The boy lowered the sign and held out his hand.
"Scott!" he repeated, cheerful, unfazed by Scott's silence. "Welcome to… well, this. The mansion. The classes. The cafeteria. Doctor Moira's infamous cookies when she goes full scientist. Infamous in a good way. I'm Peter. Peter Parker."
Scott looked at the boy—not at the sign, not at the mansion, not at Xavier. At Peter. Specifically at the arachnid arms peeking out, nervous, like jet-lagged antennae. There was no disgust. Only curiosity. And a strange relief, as if, for the first time in a long while, the world had stopped screaming.
"Hi," he said, his voice low, rough from disuse. "Scott. Scott Summers."
He extended his hand.
Peter shook it with friendly strength. The other two arms folded back politely.
"If they bother you, I can hide them," Peter murmured.
Scott shook his head slightly.
"I just… didn't know it could look like that.
It's fine."
"Okay." Peter smiled wider. "Spoiler: they're also good for holding signs. And reaching very high cookie jars. Essential academic skill."
Jean approached shyly and offered him an apple.
He took it, confused, but accepted it.
In that place, Scott felt… welcome.
⸻
The memory wrapped around him.
It was warmth, light, safety.
Peter. Jean. Then Hank, Bobby, Warren.
His friends.
His family.
The island's voice returned, softer now.
"You cannot lead if you run from your pain."
Scott took a deep breath, his throat still tight, but his mind clearer.
"You cannot protect them if you don't accept that you also need to be protected."
He closed his eyes.
He saw Alex as a child, laughing.
He saw his parents, distant but warm.
He saw Xavier, Moira, Otto.
And at the center, he saw them all:
Peter, with a crooked smile and a joke ready.
Jean, hair loose, gaze open and honest.
Hank, hunched over a book.
Bobby, shaping ice figures on the table.
Warren, wings folded, attentive.
And himself—Scott—at the center, surrounded, held.
His new family.
Scott stood up, shaking but steady. He lifted his gaze. The foliage parted, as if Krakoa itself granted him passage—and there, in the distance, he saw it.
A hole.
Dark, deep, alive.
The heart of the island.
Exactly as Peter's map had shown.
The promise fulfilled.
Scott smiled, soaked in sweat and dried tears.
"Thank you," he whispered, unsure whether he was speaking to Krakoa, to his brother, to his parents, or to his friends.
He looked once more at the opening, then at the leaf-covered sky.
He took a deep breath.
"I won't fail you.
Not again."
He raised the communicator, knowing the signal probably wouldn't work—but without losing faith.
"This is Cyclops. I found the core. Repeat, I found the core. I'm heading back to the Blackbird.
We'll start planning how to proceed once I return."
And for an instant, he felt the island respond.
Now go. Move forward, leader.
⸻
As he walked back, the jungle was no longer an enemy.
It was a trial overcome.
A web of which he, too, was a part.
The heart beats, yes.
But the pulse…
The pulse sets the rhythm for everyone.
And, for the first time in a long while, Scott Summers truly smiled.
⸻
Location: Krakoa – Blackbird
Date: Saturday, January 14, 2006
Time: 12:11 p.m.
⸻
The inside of the Blackbird smelled of medicine, dried sweat, and that burnt plastic scent that never quite went away after a battle. But more than anything, it smelled of nerves. Of humanity. And of the long, heavy wait for answers.
Jean Grey leaned over Peter, holding his cheek with one hand and a spoonful of soup with the other—about as simple as Hank could improvise with what little supplies they had left. Steam curled through the warm air, and although Peter's wound was no longer oozing or burning like it had the day before, his left arm was still bandaged, his movements clumsy and tired, as if the fight with Electro had aged him ten years overnight.
Peter made a face, accepting the spoonful reluctantly.
"You know, Jean, we could call this passive-aggressive torture," he joked, swallowing the broth. "I'm pretty sure that somewhere in the Geneva Convention, feeding lukewarm soup to a recovering patient is a crime."
Jean raised an eyebrow, holding back a smile.
"I could ask Hank to turn it into purée," she said in a mock-scientific tone. "Or, if you prefer, I can ask Bobby to freeze it so you can chew it like ice."
Peter turned his head toward the blond young man sitting at the nearest table—Bobby Drake—who was still soaked, his cheeks flushed from the lingering cold of his own powers. Bobby winked at him, trying to bring a bit of normalcy back to a day that had been far too strange.
"Hey, I charge for catering services," Bobby joked with a shrug. "But next time we're chased by a dinosaur, you're the bait, Parker!"
Peter laughed, and the sound was a kind of collective relief inside the cabin. It wasn't just laughter at the joke—it was laughter at the simple fact that they were alive to make one. Jean felt the tension in her stomach ease just a little, as if Peter's laughter lightened the air itself.
Meanwhile, Hank was reviewing a small notebook filled with scientific scribbles that would've brought proud tears to any MIT biologist's eyes. His glasses were fogged from the steam rising from the pot in the makeshift kitchen, yet he still kept a hawk's eye on Peter, making sure every movement stayed within acceptable parameters.
"Please, gentlemen, let's keep the jokes to a reasonable minimum," Hank interjected, with the patience of a doctor who had seen too many heroes fall by pretending to be tougher than they were. "Peter, you need fluids, and the soup is the closest thing to food your body will tolerate today."
Peter raised his hands in a pantomime of surrender.
"Alright, alright, Doctor McCoy. I officially surrender to modern medicine and Krakoa's post-apocalyptic cuisine."
Jean offered a tired smile and brushed Peter's messy hair, letting his head rest back against the cot. For a moment, everything felt almost normal.
But the silence returned quickly, thick as the fog outside.
Bobby shifted in his seat, his leg bouncing nervously against the metal floor.
"Hey… should we be more worried about Scott?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Last time I saw him, he was running through trees looking like he'd just lost faith in humanity—and in GPS."
Hank looked up, but didn't answer right away. Jean squeezed Peter's hand a little tighter, aware that the concern was shared, even if no one wanted to say it out loud.
"Scott is resilient," Hank said at last. "But Krakoa… is something else."
"It's Scott," Peter murmured, trying to sound confident, though a shadow flickered in his eyes. "He'll come back. He always does."
The silence shattered suddenly, like glass under pressure.
The Blackbird's automatic doors slid open with a hum, and the outside air—humid, heavy with living earth—mixed with the ship's controlled atmosphere. Everyone turned at once.
There stood Scott Summers.
He looked taller, thinner, older than the last time they'd seen him. His jacket was torn at one side, his boots caked with mud up to the knees, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, a fresh scratch on his cheek—but his posture was the same as ever: straight, steady, chin lifted. Only this time, he was smiling.
Not the mechanical "everything's under control" smile.
A real one. Tired, but bright.
"So," he said lightly, leaning against the doorway, his breath visible from the temperature difference between his body and the ship's air, "are you going to let me in, or do I have to sleep in the jungle one more night?"
Bobby was the first to react, jumping up from his chair.
"Scott!" he shouted, far more emotional than he would ever admit. "I was about to put your face on a milk carton, man."
Scott clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, grateful for the joke and the concern all at once. He stopped in front of Hank, who already had a medkit in hand, his scientist's eyes assessing the damage.
"Don't worry, Hank," Scott said, anticipating the inspection. "Just a few scratches and a free mutant survival lesson, courtesy of Krakoa."
Hank grumbled in disapproval, though relief was evident.
"If you develop rashes, additional mutations, or a third eye, let me know before you start having leadership ideas," he replied, half-joking, half-serious.
Scott laughed, then looked for Peter.
The boy was reclined on the cot, head tilted, his expression caught somewhere between relief and surprise. Jean, at his side, hadn't let go of his hand, but she smiled too—that warm glow in her eyes she reserved for honest moments.
Scott stepped closer, stopping beside the cot. For a moment, no one spoke. All that could be heard was the steady beep of the monitor, Peter's slow breathing, and the low vibration of the ship anchored to the earth.
"So…" Scott said, raising an eyebrow, his smile small, gentle, vulnerable. "You feeling better?"
The question was simple. But for Peter, it was like being thrown a lifeline in the middle of a shipwreck. He blinked, surprised, unable to remember the last time Scott Summers—the leader, the pulse, the man of plans and rules—had stopped to ask him that. Him. Without masks, without jokes, without mission urgency.
Peter tried not to show the emotion, but his smile betrayed him.
"Well, honestly," he said, with a weak but genuine laugh, "Logan's training has left me worse than this. At least Electro doesn't yell at you for not cleaning your boots after a mission."
Scott let out a short, real laugh. Bobby laughed too, and even Hank smiled, lowering his gaze to the medkit as if pretending to look for something.
Jean squeezed Peter's hand and, without taking her eyes off Scott, spoke softly—the tone of someone tending to a wound that was finally beginning to heal.
"Scott, did you find anything?" she asked, knowing the mission was never far from her friend's heart.
Scott nodded, the light in his eyes stronger now.
"I found the island's core," he said slowly, making sure everyone heard him. "The center—just like Peter marked on the map with his webs. It wasn't easy. But I made it."
Hank stepped closer, setting the kit down on the table.
"Alone?" he asked, surprised.
Scott nodded.
"Krakoa… isn't just hostile terrain. It's a mind. A test. I wasn't the first to try—but I was the first to accept that… I can't do everything alone."
The silence that followed was different now. More solemn. Filled with respect.
Peter, still pale, smiled to one side.
"The heart beats, but the pulse sets the rhythm, right?" he quoted, echoing Hank's words from that morning.
Scott allowed himself a proud smile.
"Exactly."
Bobby, who had been listening quietly, broke the moment with his usual humor.
"So you survived a dinosaur, the jungle, and your own existential crisis? Brave stuff, Summers. I survived Peter snoring after anesthesia. Call it a tie."
Everyone laughed. Even Jean, who for a moment let go of Peter's hand to cover her mouth. Hank grunted in approval.
"We're together," he said, his voice rough but firm. "And that's what matters."
Scott looked at each of them, one by one. He saw the fatigue in their eyes, the fear—but also the hope. He saw Jean, tireless. Hank, protective. Bobby, the team's light soul. Peter, the heart—wounded, but unbreakable.
He sat down beside them, saying nothing more. Just being there. Together.
For the first time in days, there was no rush. No plans. Just the pulse of the ship, the shared rhythm of breathing, and the quiet, unshakable certainty that the worst could only be overcome together.
Peter closed his eyes, letting his head rest against Jean's shoulder. She held him with a soft sigh.
Scott watched them in silence, knowing it was his turn to learn how to rest.
And as the ship vibrated gently beneath the weight of the jungle, at last, the X-Men rested.
Even if only for an instant, in that borrowed corner of a world that still didn't fully accept them, the team was family.
And family was enough.