Traffic
Scott Summers tapped his fingers against the leather steering wheel, wishing his mutant power was the ability to make the state finish road construction on some kind of reasonable schedule. Forcibly resisting the urge to crank the air conditioning up as the car slowed to a crawl, he tugged irritably on his tie.
"I'm freezing," Emma protested, as if he'd actually turned the air down as he'd wanted. He had the irrational thought that she was convinced it was his fault the traffic was moving at a snail's pace, or there was construction on the interstate, or that the trucker next to them was leering at Emma—
You're the one who is practically naked.
"Darling, did you just mean for me to hear that? Because if not, you're doing a lousy job keeping your thoughts to yourself."
"Yes, I did."
"Ah." She leaned back in the seat and smiled at him, stretching her body in ways that didn't look entirely natural. "Is that because I'm cold or because the trucker is staring at my cleavage?"
Both. Scott's fingers tapped out a rhythm along with the song on the radio, but he could barely hear it over the sound of the idling motors and the occasional honk.
"It's not my fault we're in traffic, either," Emma pointed out, and there was something rather gleeful in her voice. "So you can't possibly blame this on me."
"I'm not," Scott said shortly. "We're going to be late, you know."
"Mmm. Yes, it does rather seem that way." Emma flipped down the shade and examined her features in the small mirror, tucking an errant strand of hair behind one ear. "Aha. It's my fault we're late, not because of the traffic, but because you think I took too long getting ready."
"You always take too long getting ready."
"Scott, darling, if you were smart, you would tell me we need to leave earlier than we actually do, so that I'll be ready on time. Millions of men have figured this out the world over." She returned the shade to its position with a decisive snap.
Jean didn't— The thought was there before he could stop it, so he merely sighed and slumped back in his seat, forcing himself to stop that train of thought before it continued. Obviously, though, that wasn't effective strategy; when Emma spoke, her voice was colder than the chilled air coming through the vents in the dashboard.
"Her name isn't the name of God, you know, and we mortals may speak it without divine retribution—even you."
"Emma—"
"Never mind," she said tightly.
"It's just that you don't need to spend so much time on your appearance," he said gruffly, turning his head to look at her there beside him. "I think you look the best when you just wake up."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "That's nice. So you're telling me all this time I'm spending on my appearance is wasted, as it just makes me look bad?"
Scott sighed, resisting the juvenile urge to bang his forehead on the steering wheel. "No. Never mind."
Silence descended once more as the car crept forward in minute increments. In the car beside them, there was a little girl in the backseat looking very bored, pressing her face up to the glass. Scott grinned at her. The little girl grinned back and waved.
"I know what you mean," Emma said quietly. She placed her hand on his thigh. "Let's not fight in traffic. We'll look ridiculous, like these people next to me are going to look if they actually get into it."
Scott turned to see to whom she was referring. Her amorous trucker had inched ahead of them, and a four-door sedan had taken its place, with a man and a woman engaged in an obviously serious conversation. "How do you know they're fighting? Maybe they're just tired."
Emma snorted inelegantly. "Scott, honestly. How do you think I know?"
"Emma, do you think it's a good idea to use your telepathy on people for no reason whatsoever?"
"Don't you want to know what they're fighting about?"
Scott paused for a second, the phrase of course not hovering on his lips. "Is it something stupid, like how long she takes to get ready in the morning?" he said instead.
Emma giggled, the sound surprisingly girlish, telling him he'd surprised her into honest laughter. "No. She thinks he's sleeping with his ex-girlfriend because she found some rather…inappropriate…emails."
"Is he?" He almost winced when he heard that come out of his mouth. This was so unethical it wasn't even funny.
Emma gave him a sly look. "No, but he wants to, even though he doesn't want to admit it."
Scott wasn't sure he wanted to go there. He cleared his throat and nodded towards the car on his side, the one with the little girl in the back. "What about them?"
"They're not arguing," Emma pointed out, leaning forward and peering over at the car speculatively.
"Emma, it looks like you're staring," Scott admonished her, slightly embarrassed.
"Right, because that's the social more I'm breaking here."
"They don't know that you're psychic," Scott pointed out.
"The way your mind works sometimes confuses me." She laughed softly. The sound was warm and amused, and he had immediate thoughts of doing things to her that he really shouldn't be thinking about while stuck in traffic.
"What?"
"I know a secret," Emma sing-songed. Her expression was one of childlike glee. "Want to know what it is? You could guess, though I don't think you'd ever get it in a million years."
"A secret about what?" he asked suspiciously, sighing as their car came to a complete stop once more. He avoided looking at the little digital clock, the numbers creeping ominously closer to very, very late.
"About the people in the next car." Emma captured his hand with hers, tracing her nail over his palm, a slightly ticklish sensation that made him suck in a quick breath.
"Is it a bad secret? The kind where we're going to have to phone the police and leave an anonymous tip?" In his mind danced visions of child murderers and sociopaths, and the little girl's face on a milk carton, her childish games with the window a secret plea for help.
Emma rolled her eyes. "Good God, no. Not everything is life and death, Scott. And now you've made my naughty secret seem rather mundane and boring since there's no body buried in their backyard." She sounded thoroughly put-out. "What fun is this game now? I hate you," she said waspishly.
He laughed. "No you don't."
"How do you know? Maybe I secretly despise you, Scott Summers, and everything you think you know about me is a lie."
"Is that so?" Scott reached down and flipped off the radio, finding the DJ's constant prattle annoying.
"Perhaps I moonlight as a professional dominatrix."
"You certainly have the wardrobe for it," Scott agreed. He laughed at the shocked look on her face. "Emma, I may not know any bondage queens personally, but I'm not an idiot. I know what they wear. Logan leaves his copy of Maxim downstairs in the kitchen after he's done with it. It's very enlightening."
"I'll bet it is, but for your information, they wear black, not white," she pointed out, rather miffed. "Just ask the nice lady beside us. It's what she does for a living. Perhaps she's even been featured in Logan's magazine."
"Nah. I don't think those are really bondage queens. They just look like models. I bet you could give her a run for her money, though," Scott said, straight-faced. "You've got the attitude to go with the attire, after all."
She smiled dangerously at him. "Are you trying to tell me that you'd like me to whip you when we get home? And does everyone else know you have such a dirty mind, Summers?"
"Not especially, and I hope not. That would be totally inappropriate." Scott reached over and took her hand in his, bringing it to his mouth and lightly brushing his lips against her skin. "What do they think about us?" he asked, motioning towards the traffic around them. "Do they think we're fighting, or that you're a professional dominatrix?"
"Someone thinks we're disgustingly happy, someone else thinks-" she narrowed her eyes, then smirked. Suddenly, a car several cars in front of them inexplicably drove off of the highway and parked on the shoulder. "Oh, he wishes he could afford me."
"Emma! Tell me you didn't just do that."
"Do you want men thinking your girlfriend is a whore?"
"I don't care what other men think about you," he explained, then realized very quickly that was not the right answer. "I mean, of course I don't."
"You are hopeless," she informed him as she pulled her hand away, but there was the smallest of smiles on her face. "You should pay more attention to Logan's magazine. God knows, the advice on how to treat women will be completely lost on him."
He eyed her thoughtfully. "Are you trying to tell me you read the advice columns in Maxim?"
"Look, the traffic is moving," she said, ignoring him.
As they passed the roadside construction crew, Scott noticed they had moved some cones and were waving traffic into the lane that the sign a few miles back had said would be closed for roadwork. He turned to look at Emma accusingly. "Emma…"
"Did you want to sit here for another hour? If you say yes, I'm going to show you exactly what it's like to have all these annoyed psyches pressing so tightly against your brain." She was examining her nails.
"What if there were some other interesting secrets you could have divined to entertain us?"
"Trust me, Scott. I checked. They were all horribly, awfully normal people."
"We can't have that," he said, shrugging, wondering exactly what the ramifications of Emma's little 'interference' with the construction workers would be.
"Nothing. Everyone will get places on time and be much happier. See? I'm only spreading joy and happiness to the world, darling." She winked at him and turned her attention to the radio, looking for a station.
He wanted to tell her that she made him happy, but the words caught in his throat. So he thought them instead, and if she heard, she didn't respond. Perhaps the sincerity of the compliment was lost in his inability to give it voice.
"Was she really a professional dominatrix?" he asked instead, trying to reconcile that image with the very suburban soccer-mom image the aforementioned woman had projected.
"Appearances can be deceiving, Scott. People are rarely what they seem to be." Emma tilted her head and her hair fell over her features, obscuring her gaze. "You should know that better than anyone."
Between them, always between them, were the things they shouldn't ever say. Often, Emma said these things anyway. He wasn't sure if he loved her for that, or hated her for reminding him of things he'd rather forget.
"Do let me know if you figure that out," she said coolly, and sat up a little straighter in her seat. She smoothed her hair back and flipped the shade down again, checking for imperfections only she would see.
"Jean never would have done that," he said carefully. "About the traffic. She wouldn't have pried into other people's thoughts, either."
"Do you really want me to address that?" Her voice was frigid. "I don't think that you do. Or, rather, if you do—I don't want you to make me sleep on the sofa for doing so, so I'm going to pretend that you don't."
"You know very well you'd make me sleep on the sofa," he corrected her, then reached out and slid his fingers across the back of her neck. She was tense; her muscles beneath his fingers were tight and knotted. "Emma…I don't…you're not her. It's okay for me to say that, and to mention that you're so very different."
She stared straight ahead, her gaze on the road. "Is it me you're trying to convince, or yourself? And it's not hearing her name that bothers me, Scott. It's the implication that I am somehow less, because I have a slightly different definition of ethical behavior."
Scott dropped his hand and clenched the wheel, flexing and releasing his fingers. "You make me angry, did you know that?"
"Tough love, darling."
"Is that it?" He merged the car with a quick jerk, sliding into the right lane so that he could take the next exit off of the highway. "You just told me I could speak her name, and you're now angry at me because I just did."
She turned to look at him, and he winced. He'd forgotten how glacial her eyes could look when she was angry. "You are only saying it because I said that you could."
"Emma—"
"Not now. We're almost there. I need to relax, or I'll be useless in this meeting."
The houses in the neighborhood were very nice; large, custom-built homes with manicured lawns and gleaming windows. He found the house and parked on the curb, switching the car off. They both sat there for a moment, and finally, he placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently.
"I'm trying," he said quietly. "And you know it." He raked his hand through his hair. He was already tired and they hadn't even had the appointment yet.
Emma's features were inscrutable. "I know." Her eyes searched his, and she leaned forward quickly and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "You drive me crazy, Summers." She sounded annoyed. "We're so busy dealing with your issues, we haven't even gotten to mine yet."
"You have issues?"
There was something sinister in the curve of her mouth as she smiled in response to his words. After an instant, though, he thought maybe it was just the way the light from the setting sun was filtering in through the window, because her smile looked crooked instead of malevolent. "Oh, yes. I most certainly do. Don't worry, I suspect we'll get to those soon enough." With that, she opened the door. "Let's go do this. We need this student. Remember, one full-tuition paying student pays for three of those foundlings of which you are so fond."
Scott closed his eyes briefly as he pocketed his keys and climbed out of the car. "Emma."
"Yes, I know, I'm heartless." She waited for him to come around the car and join her for their walk up to the house. "Come along, Boy Scout Summers. Let's go show these people why they should spend their money sending their progeny to us." She linked her arm through his.
Sometimes, Scott wasn't sure if Emma was just being greedy or imminently practical. As they walked up towards the house and he ran through the Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters spiel in his head, he wondered if maybe that was root of all their problems.
She was either trying to save him, or drive him crazy. He had a feeling he wasn't going to know which until it was too late.