AN: I do not own Marvel's X-men, its comics or characters, or films based on them, and I do not make any profit off of this story or its content and characters.

Chapter 1

"Scott, I may be more than a few moments; can you wait for me out here?"

"I will," Scott replied, identifying a bench nearby, and angled his head toward the door of the bakery. "Just come get me when you're done, and I'll be waiting."

Charles Xavier made a gracious inclination in return, then silently wheeled himself inside, where the bakery's warmth and fresh smells surrounded him. A little bell above the doorsill had pinged upon his entrance, and a soft, melodious voice called out from the space behind the counter: "I'll be right with you."

Xavier smiled to himself upon hearing this intonation, resting his hands in his lap while he waited for her appearance.

"What can I get for you?" The smile was imbedded already in her speech, but her lips curved up kindly as she wiped her floury hands on her white apron. "The Friday special is . . . Professor!"

Delighted at her surprise, Xavier beamed at his former student.

"Professor Xavier, what brings you here?"

"There's more than one reason for my presence, my dear, but can I first say congratulations?" Xavier produced a folded piece of newsprint from his inner suit pocket.

She recognized the recent edition of the campus newspaper, which had published a list of the upcoming weekend's graduates, her own name included with the rest of the successful PhD candidates.

"Oh," she blushed, "I didn't know they'd send you that."

"I'm a subscriber, of course!" he insisted, reaching for her hands resting next to the cash register to press upon her his admiration. She flinched almost imperceptibly before he could make contact, then fluttered her hands busily over to a stack of menus, patting and aligning them into 90-degree perfection. He pretended not to notice, continuing proudly, "When one of my former students is earning a doctoral degree from M.I.T., I naturally want to stay informed of her Commencement date."

Her hands stilled atop the smooth surface of the menu card stock, her fingertips pressing down and blanching slightly white as her cheeks pinked up at his recognition. "Thank you so much; I think you're the only familiar face I'll have in the audience."

They smiled at one another for a brief moment before Charles broke in to the silence. "Actually, I have someone accompanying me. Do you remember Scott Summers? He was a few years ahead of you at the school, and is an instructor there now." He indicated out the huge front picture window, where Cyclops was just visible on a bench across the street, motionless but clearly alert to his surroundings, despite the innocuous green lawn at his feet.

"Of course, yes," she hastened to add, "I suppose you wouldn't travel alone. I'm glad to have you both here - maybe we could all have lunch together after the ceremony tomorr-"

"The ceremony is not the only reason for my visit, I'm afraid," Xavier interrupted, "though I want you to know I could not be prouder of you. But the other matter I'm alluding to is an unfortunate one: we recently lost our chief school physician and instructor, Jean Grey."

"Ohh," she breathed. Certainly she remembered Jean, and Scott, for that matter; over-achievers a handful of years her senior who had blazed a trail of impeccable accomplishments through their years at Xavier's school before earning their advanced degrees, becoming advocates for mutant rights, and generally collecting accolades across the nation that they swept back with them to Westchester in their positions at Charles's right and left hands. Jean's resume had been enviable, particularly her ease in public speaking in front of both television cameras and Senate hearings alike, and the news of her death was a huge blow - to the mutant population as well as to a fellow Alumna. "I'm so sorry."

"Thank you, it's been hard on all of us, and on Scott, her fiancé, in particular." Charles glanced again at the stoic figure behind the shiny red sunglasses on the bench outside. "To get right to the point, I'm offering you a job. Dr. Henry McCoy is poised to take over duties for the school's health care needs," he reassured her, "but I'm looking for someone who can step in on the Biology and Chemistry classes, at least temporarily." He tapped the newspaper on the counter in front of him. "I know your post-doctoral fellowship doesn't begin until next year, or I wouldn't be asking you; obviously you're overqualified to teach high school introductory science." He gave a small, sad smile. "But you can see we are in a bind."

Her eyes had been widening at everything he said, and now she found herself dumbstruck. "I . . . I, um . . . ."

"Please understand I do not need an answer this instant," Xavier hastened to add. "We will be in town until tomorrow, and would be glad to speak with you as much as you want about the position, and answer any questions you might have. For starters, I assume you know that all of our instructors have live-in accommodations: room and board are in addition to a teaching salary."

She consciously stopped gaping, and swallowed before nodding her head in comprehension.

Charles nodded back, "I'm sorry for the abruptness with which I must present this offer, but time is of the essence. The school runs year-round for our secondary students, as you recall, and we've already been some months without an instructor."

She took a breath and started pacing behind the bakery case, walking back and forth behind assorted muffins and cookies with her head bent in thought and her hands rubbing firmly on the outsides of her crossed arms. After a moment, she returned and stood behind the countertop across from where Xavier was waiting in his wheelchair. She caught his eye, blinked twice in rapid succession, then looked straight down at the floor.

I see, thought Xavier. This action had long been a sort of shorthand, or secret code, with the students at the school. Whenever one of his young mutants was feeling too shy, threatened, private, or what-have-you for verbal speech, this series of eye movements would let him know that he was being given permission to read their thoughts instead.

I need you to know something, she thought. At the same time he asked in her head, What do you want to say?

She exhaled, allowing her eyes to water as she communicated telepathically with her former headmaster, keeping her gaze down on the floor so as not to notice the sympathy and worry that filled his eyes at hearing her story. When she finished, he asked simply, What can I do to help you?

She made eye contact and answered aloud, her voice appealing him: "Please keep me safe."