The Art of Resistance

Summary: "Resistance is an art form because it requires discipline to master it. Unfortunately some things are resistant to resistance."

Disclaimer: I lay no claim to X-Men or anything affiliated with it.

The chair by the window is my favourite place in this old mansion yet there isn't even a single thing special about it. It's just a rather plain and rather ancient wooden chair that has been a part of this room longer than I have. It isn't the view that makes it special either although it provides a truly exquisite view of the gardens. It's a view that puts the one from Monet's windows to shame.

The reason is something much less tangible and much more sentimental. The chair is a symbol in a way. My days are filled with chaotic and attention requiring thoughts about my lessons, my medicine and particularly the children that may as well be ours in many cases. Ororo, Scott and I make an odd parental threesome but despite their little habits we try to give the children the love no-one else can. Charles holds them dear too of course, probably more than the rest of us put together. But in that chair in which I sit it's almost as if I'm free from those obligations. Free to think about other matters. Some of those thoughts are simply mundane ones I have little time to dwell on normally and others are far closer to my heart.

Today it's the latter of these two. Today that matter is compelling me to stay out of the chair. My thoughts have grown dark of late and they're beginning to claw at me, strain me and break me. Scott and I have begun to drift apart. Our bond isn't nearly as strong as it used to be. But it isn't his fault. Good god it isn't his fault. It all lies with me. It isn't the thought of how we're drifting apart that makes me fear my own thoughts though. Rather it's the cause of the fragmentation.

Scott knows something is wrong and I'm thankful that I'm the telepath in our relationship. He never asks me questions that scratch any further than the surface but the way he slips into contemplative silences makes it all too obvious that it's eating up his thoughts. Where is the trust that we once had in each other? Ah, but of course. It lies in someone else's hands now.

On my part I know why he doesn't trust me and he's right not to. Someone else has been invading my thoughts when my guard is dropped. Someone else has been tormenting me in my sleep. Their name almost trips off my tongue in those moments and it takes all my will to force it back down my throat.

I must resist.

Resistance is an art form because it requires discipline to master it. Unfortunately some things are resistant to resistance, a lesson I have learnt to my cost. That person who creeps among the shadows of my thoughts and waits to strike is one of those things. Even in thought my tormentor doesn't like to be denied and so thinking about them absorbs me. I want somewhere to think and despite my fears I can't help it. The chair is too compelling to refuse and before I know it I'm seated and looking over the grounds in their last hour of molten sunshine. I rarely think about how to sort out the mess that my emotions have got me into. Emotions… the blessing and bane of mankind and in my case it's certainly the latter. How did this all start? Stupid question, of course I know when it started.

It was four months ago in the medical centre on the lower levels. Logan had just awoken up after that wonderfully brave gesture he made on top of the Statue of Liberty. He had come and gone and I was labouring in the room of cold walls alone. Whatever it was I was working on at the time isn't important enough to bother remembering.

The door behind me opened with that strange sound it always makes to declare someone's entrance. It's one of the advantages of a door with 'squeaky hinges'. A swivel round in my desk chair revealed the sight of her. Yes, I know what you're thinking, she is a she but believe me that's not even half of it. Sordid enough though, wouldn't you agree? She wore one of the uniforms of the younger recruits as well as a few cuts and bruises. They were almost like badges of honour in their way. The scratches proved she wasn't a pushover especially if that little grin on her face was anything to go by. There was no look of pain on her face at all.

She didn't say a word so I was the one to initiate conversation.

"What happened to you?"

She continued to grin at me and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. The only answer she gave was, "Danger Room."

"You shouldn't go on such high levels by yourself. Don't pretend you don't," I said as she looked ready to defend herself. With a tap of my index finger against my temple I continued, "I don't need this to prove me right."

She shrugged and by my invitation sat herself down on the examination table. At first sight she didn't appear to be too badly beaten but then most of her body was covered by the uniform. At my bidding she negotiated her way out of the sweatshirt and lay down on the bed. There were more scratches along her arms that had left previously unnoticed marks upon the piece of shed apparel.

There was a particularly nasty looking cut running along one of her arms that, unlike the rest, looked in need of treatment. I don't even remember why but unconsciously I traced one of my fingers along the skin beside the cut. She was swift in her response, namely to move out of arms reach.

"Don't touch me," she said, expression hidden by a mask of hair. "I'm poisonous, remember?"

I scolded her for insulting herself in such a way but even so the rest of the examination required the use of medical latex gloves. But there's something else I remember as well, something that shouldn't have been occurred at all. I remember the thrill of feeling the touch of her skin against mine. It was a dangerous thing to do but it was also different to anything I'd ever experienced before.

Whenever I sit in the chair that memory usually jumps to the forefront. It is tame, I suppose, especially considering the fact it was more professional than personal. Even so it all builds all up to that crescendo of thoughts that I'm unable to stop… or perhaps unwilling is the word. God alone knows. The next memory in the melody occurred about a month later in my biology classroom. The class was silent as they read for themselves about differences in the DNA of humans and us. She sat and visibly strained herself to understand. Oh but that's another part of the picture. She is a she and she is a student of mine. Sordid, wouldn't you agree?

The class ended and assignments of no relevance were set but she didn't make to leave like the rest. As all the other students filed out around her she sat alone surrounded by an island of confusion with the book still open in front of her. The way she sat suggested that she wasn't even aware of what was happening around her. When the door slammed shut her eyes lifted for the first time and locked onto mine. She was begging for help but to proud to ask for it.

We spent half an hour simplifying the differences enough so that she understood them. The look of enlightenment on her face when it clicked in her mind was such a rewarding one. It's the look all teachers hope to see.

She closed the book and tucked it under her arm and gave me that same grin she delivered in the medical facility. Neither of us said a word for quite a few moments. We stood stock still as if waiting for something. After clearing her throat she thanked me and left. I remember from that time wondering if I would've done the same for my other students. As a teacher I'm supposed to help but on that day I felt like I got something out of it as well as her.

…The view from the chair has shifted slightly. I haven't moved nor has the scene changed but Monet has painted in a new figure and I can't help but stare at her. Her hair whips around her in the wind as she valiantly struggles to keep her rogue white locks in place. It's funny how it's always the white ones that cause her trouble. Her brown locks are often windswept but she likes to keep the white ones tucked behind her ear in an orderly fashion. It's strange when you know all those little things about someone.

She makes the picture a masterpiece and the thought worries me. What if Ororo knew? What if Scott knew? What if Charles knew? They'd all react in conflicting ways but she wouldn't care about any of them. She'd just stand in front of me and take the hail of words that rain down like bullets until they ran out of ammunition to fire at me. I think… I think she'd take on the world if I asked her to. Sometimes she really lives up to the name she gave herself. The name I can't say for fear if I say it she will win. She'll become everything to me if I extend an invitation. I want that like she does but there are some things in life you simply can't afford.

I can resist.

But my trip down Reflection Way isn't over yet. This memory is a favourite of mine even as alien as it sounds to me. There's nothing about this I like… except that that is a lie that fails to sink in no matter how many times I repeat the mantra. This next one happened about a month ago. I sat in the very chair I'm in now. By this time my relationship with Scott was clearly deteriorating but neither of us would even address it indirectly. The cracks were on public viewing but even they seemed to be afraid of talking about the problem as if it would make it gospel. It was late, the stars were out and I was alone with only the steady ticking of the clock for company. Scott had gone into town to fetch something but on some level I knew he just didn't want to see me. He was probably sleeping in one of the rooms no-one else uses.

That night I brooded in my lonely world until a rough knock sounded at my door. She stood on the other side but unlike in the other memories, gone was that confident little smirk she always held. At first she seemed underdressed in the nightgown she wore but the clock on the wall disagreed. I was overdressed considering the lateness of the hour.

She entered without me giving the invitation that wasn't required. The bed was her choice of seat and even after she made herself comfortable she still didn't say anything. She wasn't uncomfortable. That was just the way she was. I almost always started our conversations.

"What's wrong Marie?" I asked. Back then I hadn't feared to speak her name. "Did you have a nightmare?"

"Yeah, but that ain't why I'm here," she replied, slipping a little of her accent into her tone. She didn't elaborate any further. She just seemed to stare off into space.

"Then why are you here?"

She blinked in a fashion that suggested she'd just woken up to something and answered.

"It's just, you know, I used to talk to Logan about these things. He understands me but he ain't here."

"But why come to me?"

She wasn't the sort to cry usually but whether it was the gravity of the situation or just a slip in her persona two little tears rolled down her face. Before either of us knew it I was on the bed beside her and she was clasping onto my like her life depended on it. In a way it probably did. So I secured her with my own arms and waited for the storm to stop that not even Ororo could handle.

By the time she stopped the crimson jacket I'd been wearing was soaked through the shoulder. I slipped it off myself when she released me. She mumbled an apology but I didn't have to say a word for her to know it wasn't necessary.

"I came because I trust you," she said once she'd finally calmed down. "I came because you understand me too. I came because I felt lonely."

There was hidden meaning behind her last sentiment. Of course she was lonely. She was the loneliest girl on earth even though she was surrounded by people. But what she needed was reassurance and I gave it to her in the form of an embrace. Even if it wasn't skin to skin from the look on her face when we separated it meant everything in the world to her.

But it was also the beginning of my guilty pleasure. That was when I began to feel for her in ways that had been buried far beneath the surface in the past. What was supposed to be helpful to her was selfishly satisfying for me. It began in earnest there. My longing, wanting, craving for her… and there's another part of it. She is a she and she is a student of mine and I'm an awful woman. I'm so sordid, wouldn't you agree? I remember from that memory an overwhelming sense of importance. That at that moment I was more important in that girl's world than anyone or anything else.

Monet's masterpiece has stopped in her place in the middle of the garden. She's just standing there and letting the wind ravage brown and white locks. She's no longer attempting to do anything and that's what draws my eyes to her more than anything else. But wait, she is doing something. She's turning.

To be more precise she's turning to face me. Whether it was her original intent or whether she just felt my eyes on her I can't tell. Perhaps she even heard me thoughts. Even the distance between us doesn't stop me noticing that little grin I've since figured out she wears for me and me alone. It takes all my effort to keep my face level and not blow her kisses but she doesn't notice. She's turned around again and is coming back inside. No… she's coming back to me.

I will resist.

I should run and hide from her but the chair won't allow it. Not until its last and favourite memory has played its tune.

This one is clearer than all the rest but then it did only happen yesterday. She came to visit me quite often in the night and every night I stayed up for her. We were both lonely. She had lost Logan and Scott was slipping out of my grasp insofar as we hardly ever slept in the same bed anymore. We were bound by common misfortune.

We'd talk about many things during our nightly discussions but we never discussed subjects that were too weighty. I hardly allowed myself to touch her again unless she gave her invitation. Some nights she did, some nights she didn't. That night was one of those nights she allowed me to touch her. The effect she had upon me was like that of a man dying of thirst seeing a fountain in the middle of a desert. I felt addicted all over again. I needed her. I craved her more than anything I've craved before.

I… I don't know how it happened. She had told me that night for only the second time that she was lonely and pressed against me with much more gusto than usual. Something in me just snapped at the feel of her body pressed up so roughly against mine. Before I knew it I'd broken free of her hold. She looked at me in a slight hurt way before I pushed her onto her back on the bed. By the time I climbed on top of her she knew what was happening. And she wore that grin. She… Marie knew what was going to happen, she may have even planned it that way, and she wanted me to take the plunge.

And that's the final piece of the puzzle. She is a she and she is a student of mine and I'm an awful woman who kissed her. It's beyond sordid this time. It's perverse, it's immoral… it's sick. It is also almost painful to admit. I kissed her. I kissed Marie. I've crossed a line I thought I'd never cross. What have I done?

I remember nothing this time, nothing, except anxiety and regret.

The chair has released me. It's had its pleasure torturing me but it finished its job too late. Before I can even rise I can hear footsteps in the hall, swift and pounding.

I have discipline. I can resist…

The footsteps have come to outside my door and stopped. And here comes the sound I'm dreading. A knock, two knocks, as rough as the door they bang on. There's barely a gentle thing about her.

…Just like I resisted last night, eh?

The squeaky hinges have made their call and here comes the last roll of the dice. I shouldn't look. If I do she'll entrance me whether she knows it or not.

"Jean." She's never called me by my first name before. This time she knows she needs an invitation.

She's just a child but…

I surrender…

"Marie." And that's all it takes.

…For now.