Unexpected Quarters
Jean Grey lay on her back in one of the med-lab's beds, looking at the ceiling and counting the tiles for the hundredth time that morning. She'd been in here ever since she'd miscarried her first pregnancy, losing both her babies before they'd even had the chance to live, and she knew that Hank was keeping her here, under constant telepathic and electronic surveillance, to make sure she didn't take a blade to her wrists. She wasn't going to do that – at least, she didn't think she would today. She couldn't say anything about tomorrow, though. Pushing herself up onto her elbows, she picked half-heartedly at the platter of fruit that Hank had left on her bedside table, putting a couple of orange segments into her mouth and chewing them without much enthusiasm. There was a book there, too: The Iron Man, by Ted Hughes. Hank had given it to her as a way of helping her deal with her loss – he'd told her that Hughes had written it for his children after the death of their mother, and it showed the story of an iron giant piecing itself together after a shattering tragedy. She'd had to smile at Hank's distinct lack of subtlety then, despite the fact that it was the last thing on earth she felt like doing. It hadn't been a particularly warm smile, nor had it been a very strong one, but Hank had acted as if it was the biggest grin her pale, tired face could have given him, and nodded gently to her, saying "If you need anything else, Jean, you know where I am."
Yes, I do – you're not here, Jean thought, bitterly. Hank had been absent for some time now, called away on some kind of mutant affairs exercise by the Professor. He'd promised her he would be back as soon as he could, but that had become a rather empty promise as time had passed. Obviously there were things keeping him away, and so she had been left here by herself. And Scott, regrettably, was still resting after one of his final few sessions of radiotherapy, so he couldn't be with her, either. And most of the other active X-Men were out on a mission – Jean had overheard something about Genosha through scattered fragments of telepathic communication – which meant that though they all wanted to stay, they couldn't. Looks like I drew the short straw again.
It was then that Jean felt the ripples of a telepathic presence she had hoped she'd never feel when she was this emotionally fragile. It flowed through and around her psychic defences like a river, its perfumed tendrils lapping at the edges of her mind like the petals of a rose. The psychic presence lasted on its own for a fraction of an instant before it was accompanied by a visual image – Emma Frost stood at the doorway of the med-lab, her right hand perched on her hip and a perfectly-sculpted eyebrow cocked slightly. "Hello, Jean," she said in her effortlessly confident tone. "Pleased to see me, I trust?"
Jean fell abruptly backwards onto her bed, looking at the ceiling again in the hope that it might make Emma go away. "Leave me alone, Emma. I've just lost my babies – I don't need you here to mock me, okay?" She erected a telekinetic force-bubble around her bed and readied a psychic javelin that she could hurl directly into the centre of Emma's cerebellum, just in case, when Emma shook her head.
"I'm not here to mock you, Jean," she said in a low voice, walking slowly towards Jean's bed and sitting in the chair next to it, hooking one long leg over the other and folding her arms. "I wanted to… I wanted to say how sorry I am that this had to happen to you. Believe it or not, I know how you feel."
That got Jean's attention. She sat bolt upright then, her shadow-ringed green eyes burning, and her telepathy grabbed hold of Emma's mind, its claws digging into the other woman's brain almost to its centre. "Don't you dare tell me you know how I feel. Just because you can read my mind doesn't make you an expert, all right?" Then, just as quickly as she had grabbed the other woman's consciousness, she let go, causing Emma to gasp with relief and then straighten her blouse a little.
"I'm not talking about using my telepathy," Emma said slowly, after taking a second or two to compose herself. "I know, Jean. That emptiness you're feeling right now? That sense of blaming yourself? I've felt that myself."
"What?" Jean said, confused. "How?"
"When I was sixteen," Emma began, uncrossing her legs and leaning forwards in her seat, "I was living on the streets, using my telepathy whenever I could to help me get a bed for the night, or find my next meal. I wasn't doing it alone, though – I had a… a guardian angel, I suppose you could call him. His name was Stephen, and he would do his best to keep me safe when I was asleep, or when I couldn't use my telepathy to make things go my way. We would sleep together occasionally, too – I knew he was in love with me, so I threw him some quick sex now and again, because I enjoyed it, and because he thought it was the best thing in the world. One day I found myself vomiting in the mornings, and I realised that I was pregnant. After a few weeks of malnourishment and sleeping rough, though… my child died inside me. My smoking probably didn't help, either, I imagine." She shrugged, noting Jean's disapproving expression. "I smoked a lot more back then than I do now, Jean. When you're living rough, you have to take your pleasures where you can." Sighing, she rolled her eyes. "I'm sure you'll start to lecture me now on how awful a habit it is, won't you?"
"No, Emma, I…" Jean's voice died in her throat for a moment, before she found it once more. "I had no idea. Why didn't you ever say anything?"
"Honestly? You never asked me," Emma replied, tilting her head to one side briefly. "Besides, I really don't think it's relevant to anything I'm doing here, is it? I hardly think any of my students will benefit from hearing that kind of sob story – even Jubilee, who I'm starting to think will never graduate high school, let alone become a full X-Man. And Bobby doesn't need to know, either. I don't want you to tell him anything, all right? I don't want him to start suggesting I go to counselling sessions just because of something that happened to me decades ago."
"Maybe you should," Jean suggested quietly. "Talking helps a lot."
"Really, Jean?" Emma said. "How many people have you talked to about this? One – maybe two? I hardly think you're in a position to criticise me for my lifestyle choices." She sighed. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't have said that. But the fact remains – to talk about it this late would do nothing but rake up old graves, and that wouldn't help me at all. I'm happy the way I am." She smiled, her perfect teeth glinting in the light. "Besides, to try and upset Bobby's delicate mind would be too easy. I like a challenge, after all."
Jean pursed her lips. "So I've noticed." She grimaced then, as her stomach let out a twinge of pain that slithered up her spine like a snake. As quickly as it had arrived, though, it disappeared, and Jean rubbed the sore spot on her side to try to ease away the dull ache it had left behind, as if she could do the same with the lingering pain she had tried to suppress. "Oh, God," she muttered, feeling tears beading at the edges of her eyes. She drew her knees up under her sheets and rested her forehead against them, clutching her chest with both hands. "Go away, Emma," she whispered. "I need to be alone now."
"No," Emma said simply, before she got up and walked to the corner of the med-lab, bringing the wheelchair that had been folded up against the wall back with her. "You're coming for a walk with me, Jean. You need to get out of here for a while." She smiled at Jean's surprised, tear-streaked expression, and continued "If anything bad happens, I promise I'll fetch Henry. I'll even take the blame for taking you out of here." She held out her hand. "What do you say, Jean? Are you going to do what you're told all your life, or are you going to be a rebel for once?"
Jean ran through her options in her mind. On the one hand, she didn't want to risk leaving the med-lab, just in case something unpleasant happened, but on the other, she didn't think things could really get much worse than they were already. She clenched her fist resolutely and then swung her legs down over the side of the bed and down onto the cold floor. Sliding her feet into some slippers and pulling on a dressing gown, she shifted herself into the wheelchair, ignoring the stabs of pain she could feel telling her not to bother, to sit still and wait for something to come to her, and nodded towards the door. "Shall we go?"
Emma grinned. "I knew I'd find the rebel in you somewhere. Hold tight." She wheeled Jean out into the corridor, and pushed her into the elevator that would take them both to the ground floor of the mansion. Stroking the button that closed the elevator's doors, Emma glanced at her watch and then put a hand into her jacket's inside pocket, apparently checking for something. When she'd satisfied herself that it was there, she withdrew her hand and put it behind her back with the other, rocking backwards on her heels a little until the elevator came to a stop and opened its doors. Emma wheeled Jean out into the rear hall, pushing her past large paintings of the Professor's ancestors and priceless vases, and then smiled thinly. "You know," she began, "I've always wondered where he gets these from every time this house is destroyed. And then I want to find his financial adviser, because he's obviously got more money than God."
Jean considered the point for a moment, mentally weighing up the possibilities. "I've never really thought about it, but you might be right there."
"I'm always right, darling," Emma chuckled. "You might say it's a character flaw."
"You are a really vain woman, Emma, do you know that?" Jean sighed.
"Of course I do." Emma said, examining her perfectly-manicured nails for a moment casually before she opened the back door and pushed Jean out into the sunshine. There were some chairs already set out on the stone patio, along with a bucket filled with ice and a bottle of champagne, which was set out on the table around which the chairs were positioned.
Jean glanced up at Emma with a look of disbelief. "You had this planned from the start, didn't you?"
"What can I say, it was a good plan in my head," Emma said, shrugging. "Now come on – if you don't sit down, your champagne will get warm. And warm champagne is never a good thing, believe me." She skirted Jean's chair and poured generous measures of the golden, sparkling liquid into two tall glasses, before handing one of them to Jean. "Please, Jean, just humour me on this."
"Okay, Emma, but just this once," Jean said, taking the glass and sipping from it gingerly. It really was good champagne, she decided – but then again, she should have realised that Emma would settle for nothing but the best. When she looked back at Emma, she'd taken a gold cigarette case out of her jacket pocket and was lighting one, blowing out a small trickle of smoke that was quickly caught by the breeze and carried away. Jean wrinkled her nose in disgust.
"Do you have to do that, Emma?" she asked. Emma shrugged again, sipping from her glass.
"No, Jean, I don't have to, but I choose to. And that's what I'm trying to tell you – you don't have to get on with your life, but you can choose to. It was a tragedy what happened to you, I know that, but if you let it get to you for too long, you'll end up not living your life. And that's the real tragedy, I promise you. You have a husband and a family, and they're there for you. I suggest you use them if you need to. Crying in the med-lab by yourself will solve nothing, believe me." She picked up her cigarette case and held it out to Jean. "In the meantime… how about you keep being a rebel? Would you share a smoke with me – just this once?"
Jean raised an eyebrow. "Are you serious?"
"Deadly," Emma replied with a shark-like grin, removing a cigarette from the case and offering it to her. "One won't do you any harm – who knows, you might even like it! Stranger things have happened, after all… so how about it, Jean?"
Jean glanced at the ground for a second. I'm really going to regret this… she thought. "All right, Emma. Just this once."
"Good girl," Emma chuckled, and handed the cigarette to Jean, who put it between her lips and leaned forward as Emma clicked her lighter to life. The end of the cigarette glowed red as it ignited, and Jean inhaled with something approaching apprehension niggling at the back of her mind – and immediately coughed violently, tiny wisps of smoke escaping from her nose and mouth.
"Oh, God," Jean said, her eyes watering. "How can anybody get addicted to that?"
Emma laughed. "You're going too fast," she said. "You have to get used to it first. Try it again, but remember – do it gently. You're not supposed to fight it. Just let it happen, and you'll be a smoker in no time. Here – watch me." She took a slow draw on her own cigarette, and then motioned for Jean to follow suit. Jean raised the cigarette to her lips once more, and this time felt the smoke entering her lungs with far less protest. "Good," Emma said, nodding appreciatively as if she were teaching a class full of students. "Now hold it for a few seconds, and then blow it out again." Jean did as she was told, watching a stream of smoke issue forth from her lips with a sense of mild disbelief that she was actually doing this. Emma watched her, a slow smile spreading across her face, and she crushed her own cigarette out under her boot just before Jean finished hers. "Enjoy it?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest. Jean paused for a moment, and then nodded sheepishly.
"Actually, I did – in the end, anyway," she said. "It wasn't as bad as I was expecting, that's for sure."
"I'll refrain from saying 'I told you so', then," Emma said, sipping from her glass again, before reaching into her pocket from some mints. "You may want to have one of those before you go back up to the med-lab. I don't think Henry would react too well if he knew his perfect patient had been smoking in the back garden with me, do you?"
"I guess not," Jean laughed, and took a mint out of the packet for later. She didn't particularly want to ruin the taste of her champagne, so she decided a breath-freshener could wait. "I don't think I'm going to be telling Scott about this, though."
"Why not?" Emma said, seeming genuinely curious. "It's not like he could do anything to change the fact that you were out here for a while – and frankly, I don't think it's any of his business what you do with your free time. He's your husband, not your keeper. And if you're worried that he might go ballistic because you left the med-lab, then I'll tell him it was my idea, and he can be angry with me instead. Do we have a deal?" She held out her right hand, and Jean hesitated a moment before shaking it.
"We do," she said. "I'd feel safer if I had a lawyer here, though."
Emma flicked her eyebrows up for a second. "I see my reputation precedes me, then," she replied, grinning. "Don't worry, this time I'll keep my promises. Here – let me prove it." She took a pen from the outer breast pocket of her jacket, and removed a small notebook from the inner pocket. Writing a small message onto it, she tore the page out and handed it to her. "That should solve any problems about who was responsible, I think?"
Jean glanced at the paper. On it was written the message I took Jean out of the med-lab, I got her to smoke the cigarette, and I got her to drink the champagne. She's entirely blameless – Emma. Jean folded the paper up and slipped it into a pocket of her robe. "Thanks, Emma," she said. "For everything."
"Don't mention it," Emma replied, shrugging in a noncommittal fashion. "It's the least I could do – but don't think this makes us best friends, all right?"
"Oh, the thought never crossed my mind," Jean said with a smile. "I don't think the universe would hold together very long if we started having slumber parties and braiding each other's hair, do you?"
Emma did her best to suppress a snort of laughter, and then raised her glass in a toast. "Here's hoping. To the preservation of the universe."
"The preservation of the universe," Jean echoed, before draining the last of her champagne in one go. It rocketed to her head, and she blinked its effects back as much as she could before she had to put a thumb and fingertip to the bridge of her nose. "I don't think having any more of this is a good idea," she said, redundantly.
"I don't, either," Emma agreed. "Come on. Let's get you back indoors." She offered Jean her hand and then helped her get into her wheelchair, pushing her back indoors and into the elevator as quickly as she could. When they reached the med-lab, Emma pushed back the covers on Jean's bed and eased her under them, flipping them back over her legs and lower body before tucking her in and squeezing her hand. "There. Henry will never know you've gone missing. Don't forget to eat that mint, though, or all our hard work will have been for nothing."
"It's right here, Emma," Jean said, holding up the mint she'd taken from the packet before popping it into her mouth and beginning to suck on it, feeling the intense flavour envelop her taste-buds. "We'll get away with it, I think."
"I hope so," Emma said. "Then it'll just be our little secret, won't it?" She began walking away from Jean's bedside, before Jean called her back. Turning on her heel, she asked "Yes, Jean? Have I forgotten something?"
"I just thought I should say thank you," Jean began. "This was a good thing you did, and I'm very grateful."
Emma looked surprised for a moment then, and after a few seconds said "It… was nothing, Jean. Call it my good deed for the day – and now that I've got it out of my system, I can be a complete bitch to anybody I want. So really, everybody wins." She paused for a second, and then walked back towards Jean's bed. "But now that you mention it, I am curious about one thing: would you do this again if you had the chance?"
"I…" Jean began, uncertainly. "Yes, I would."
"Even the smoking?" Emma said, with a small smile.
"Even that," Jean replied. "I don't think I'd want to take it up as a habit, though. Maybe I could smoke one of Logan's cigars now and again?"
"I wouldn't recommend you do that," Emma told her, wagging a finger at her disapprovingly. "Not until you're more comfortable with cigarettes, anyway. Cigars are a whole different animal, and they'll eat you alive if you don't treat them with respect. Trust me on that one." She leaned forwards, lacing her fingers together and resting her hands on Jean's sheets, her face taking on a more serious expression. "Please think about what I said earlier, though. When I was sixteen, I'd have given anything to have the amount of support you have. Don't waste it." She reached out and patted one of Jean's pale hands awkwardly. "It gets better, I promise." For an instant, Jean felt Emma's carefully-constructed mental defences crack a little, before they cemented themselves firmly back into place. She stood, smoothing down her jacket and blouse, and then nodded towards the door. "I'd better go. I'll see you later, Jean." She turned and marched resolutely out of the med-lab, her fists clenched and her gaze set firmly ahead. When she had gone, Jean cleared her throat and glanced up at the ceiling.
"Thank you, Emma," she whispered again.