i did my best. || @rictorscales
It took a lot to get Rictor to open up – at least without screaming and hurling insults at each other that would sting far more in retrospect than they did in the moment. Privately (because only a telepath of her calibre could avail of such a thing) Jean wondered if that was why Rictor spent so much time with her; if the potential of something hurting in the long run made it far more worth his time than something that would provide any benefit, even if she did try to aim for the latter as much as possible. It was always easier to damage than it was to build, at least when you were Jean Grey.
She’d worked out something of a system, though, to get him to have only a few words of honesty before he built those walls up again. Burning off excess energy and helping Genosha at the same time was a surefire way to do it, and they’d spent the afternoon with Jean constructing buildings while Rictor created an ecosystem around it – a living city even before its inhabitants had arrived. “I think you’ve done very well,” Jean said, looking around at the buildings. “I like the azaleas.” A moment passed, the wind blowing lightly through her hair, and Jean turned back to look at him. “Are we talking about the flowers, Rictor?”
There were flowers crawling up the sides of the buildings, vines weaving their way through the cracks between the bricks. Rictor was getting better at controlling their growth now, better at making them grow how he wanted and when he wanted instead of just sprouting up at random in all directions. He was still getting used to it, because it was different. Ever since he was a teenager, when the Right snatched him off the street and started torturing him for their own private purposes, all Ric had really been good at was destruction. He tore apart the ground, the buildings, the people the relied on them both. He tore apart his friends when they dared disagree with him, cutting them down with sharp words to push them away. Sometimes, he did it even when they didn’t disagree, when they told him with low tones and sad eyes that they were worried about him.
Jean, he thought, knew this better than anyone.
She’d been on the receiving end of his anger more than most, had learned the best response was to be angry right back because if she weren’t, he’d tear her into pieces before it was over. He could feel her behind him now, watching the flowers and the trees push their way out of the dirt, and when he spoke, it was quieter than their usual fare. (But it always started quietly, didn’t it?) He nodded when she spoke, letting himself focus on the azaleas in question. “My mom likes them,” he said, looking down at his feet in the dirt. His stepmother loved azaleas. Rictor wasn’t sure she loved him, these days. He tensed at Jean’s question, hands suddenly clenching into fists. “What else would we be talking about?”
