With thanks, as always, to Hoodoo for beta reading; and to ProfXandPunky, Sheherazade's Fable, Nylda128, and Steve the Icecube for reviewing.
The following morning, Scott paused not far from a half-open door. Someone was in that room and instinct told him to back away before he was caught. That was the best thing: stay out of the way. Yet he realized after a moment that those were distinctly frustrated tones. He still wanted to run, but he wanted to help, too.
So he stood, frozen, not sure how to respond.
He had never heard someone who spoke like Mr. Xavier did. It wasn't that he seemed unshakably calm. No, that was strange, but even in Scott's spotty education there had been some kind teachers. It was his accent. At the police station, he had wondered if it might be some sort of joke.
Did a country truly exist where everybody spoke that way? Scott imagined they all spoke with the same measured calm, or would have an airy sort of tone on the first word of a sentence rather than laughing.
He had never imagined they might mutter obscenities so softly the words could not be made out, but the tone indicated perfectly what sort of words they were. Nearly as fascinating as hearing Mr. Xavier swear was the fact that his voice wasn't angry. He sounded frustrated, but not like he wanted to kick the nearest vulnerable creature.
Finally, Scott followed the noise. That led him to a room he had seen before, but not in daylight. He only really recognized it because of the piano. Besides that, it looked like the sort of sitting room where nobody would actually sit. Verbs had to be very careful around here. They felt so terribly out of place. 'Look' was okay, but everything from 'bump into things' to 'cough' seemed somehow wrong.
Scott might have avoided the room entirely from then on, were it not for Mr. Xavier attempting to gather scattered pieces of paper. The wheelchair made the task difficult at best. It looked like an uncomfortable attempt, too.
Without thinking, Scott went to help. He knelt and swept together a pile of what he now realized were photographs. The cuffs of his sweatshirt fell over his hands a few times and he pushed them back to get some use from his hands. For a long moment, he hesitated, looking at the snapshots of someone else's life. He knew it was rude. It was prying. But for that moment, Scott was too fascinated to care. Then he picked up the lot and offered them to Mr. Xavier.
"Sorry…"
Mr. Xavier took the pictures and slipped them into an envelope, which he tucked into a photo album. He then replaced the album on the shelf. Had the whole thing not been so smoothly done, it might have seemed like he was trying to hide something.
"Thank you." The man's tone held more than simple thanks, but Scott did not try to guess what. As luck had it, he didn't need to guess. "This stupid chair. It's an obstacle and such a… nuisance."
Scott did not know what to say to that. Being in a wheelchair did seem like a nuisance. Half the buildings in Omaha would be inaccessible just because of the stairs—of course, they were not in Omaha, but it was what Scott knew.
"What happened?" he blurted.
Mr. Xavier looked at him for a moment, long enough to make Scott shake his head. "Never mind. I'm sorry, I didn't… I wasn't thinking…"
It had been an unnecessarily personal question to ask. They were hardly friends.
Although Mr. Xavier was possibly the kindest person Scott had ever met, thinking of someone twice his age (at least!) as a friend seemed strange. Being friends with someone blue was one thing. Being friends with an adult…
"It was an accident," Mr. Xavier said, surprising Scott.
He waited a moment. When no more information was offered, he asked, "Like a car accident?"
He could not help flinching when he asked.
Since arriving here, he had not once been smacked or shouted at, but those few days were not enough to undo years of conditioning. Scott knew that good things happened. There was sunshine in the world, and luck on math tests, and Pete Seeger (of whom Scott was much fonder than he would publicly admit). His life had not been all misery. The misery remained, though, always waiting. Not one had hurt him here, but he expected it nonetheless.
"I was shot."
"Somebody shot you on accident?"
"I have a friend, another mutant," Mr. Xavier explained. "His mutation allows him to control metal, including bullets. He didn't mean to hit me and he certainly didn't mean to do this."
Did that matter? Scott considered it. He hadn't meant to break into the lab. That was the only defense he had, his only argument against prison was that he had no choice. Was it the same as Mr. Xavier's friend who bounced a bullet into his spine?
Something else distracted him, though, a question that had been bouncing around in Scott's mind since the police station. He gnawed at his sleeve, curious but finally in control enough to shut himself up.
"What is it?"
He shrugged. "What does 'mutant' mean? I mean, I know it's what you call people who can… who can do something… people like us, but…"
Mr. Xavier regarded him for a moment and Scott wondered if he would get an answer. The man never seemed to need prompting to discuss mutation.
At first, Scott had thought he understood that word. A mutant meant someone who was deformed, right? And 'deformed' could apply easily enough to his messed up eyes or Hank's size and blueness, but the only way in which Mr. Xavier was deformed was his legs. What did being in a wheelchair have to do with reading people's minds?
"You can't be comfortable there, and this may be a long conversation."
Scott glanced at the sofa, then sat on the floor. He saw the disapproval on Mr. Xavier's face and drew his knees against his chest. Don't, Scott urged, silently. It wasn't worth fighting over. He just didn't want to sit on that stupid sofa! It made him feel dirty, like just touching a piece of furniture would sully it.
Finally, Mr. Xavier decided on, "Do you understand what evolution is?"
Scott shook his head. His sweatshirt had fallen over his hands again. He bunched up the fabric and toyed with the ribbed cuff, stretching it and watching it bounce back.
"A species develops the traits it needs to survive in its environment . Charles Darwin first formulated his theory based on a group of finches. They were, all of them, finches, but each species had its own… role. Each adapted to its unique food source. From one common ancestor, a dozen subspecies of finch developed. One had a beak that allowed it to drill into cacti to reach to grubs, others would have beaks more suited to cracking seeds."
Scott listened and tried to understand, but it was hard. For one obstacle, he did not know the difference between a beak that drilled into cacti and a beak that cracked seed casings. For another, he did not see how these were the same animal. If they could all do different things, surely they were not the same. Were they the same or different? And if they were different, how?
He stared at the floor, brow furrowed in an attempt to make sense of any of this. Twice he thought he understood and started to ask a question, but could not quite phrase the difficulty.
Finally, he gave up. "Oh, okay."
"It's all right if you don't understand."
Scott nodded, not giving an answer either way.
"They developed traits they needed to survive. Or, rather, those who failed to develop necessary traits did not survive." When that sparked no glimmer of recognition he tried again, "Those whose traits are counter to survival do not pass on genetic material and the traits disappear. It usually takes thousands of years for what may begin as a variation to become a dominant, common trait."
He was still watching the floor, but the quality of the silence alerted Scott that a response was expected. He thought for a moment, because he wanted to show that he understood—but he didn't understand.
"And that's why there are different types of finches?"
"Well, that's why there are different types of animals at all. It's why giraffes have such long legs and necks, why fish breathe underwater—it's why humans walk on two legs, for that matter. And it allows individuals to develop abilities like Hank's strength or my telepathy or your…"
Mr. Xavier's inability to put a name to Scott's ability stung. He could argue science all he liked, but Scott understood language, and he understood that words existed for whatever needed them. Even the ability to read minds existed, as Scott guessed from the context.
There was no word for his ability.
"Blowing stuff up," Scott supplied.
"Blowing stuff up," Mr. Xavier agreed, the words sounding awkward and unnatural.
Scott thought for a moment. He might not understand how mutation and evolution happened or what they really were, but he could accept that because of these things, animals developed different traits. "What would humans look like otherwise?" he wondered.
The answer came surprisingly easily, "Chimpanzees."
"Chimpanzees?" Scott raised his head, surprised. Was that a joke? "Like monkeys?"
"Well, they're not the same as monkeys, but yes. Over millions of years, humans evolved from chimpanzees."
"Oh."
So from chimpanzees to humans to people like them?
"What is it?"
"Nothing."
"It's obviously something, you just don't want to tell me what."
Well, oughtn't that be enough to let the matter drop?
Scott realized he was chewing at his sleeve unnecessarily vengefully and lowered his wrist.
"It's just… that's not what they said at school."
"What did you learn at school?"
He shrugged. It felt like a trap and he did not want to tell the truth. He had learned too different a story, a very contradictory one. There was no point in lying, though, not to someone who could hear his thoughts.
"That God made us in His image," he mumbled.
Surprised, Mr. Xavier asked, "You were in a religious school?"
Scott shook his head.
"Oh. Well… that's… another viewpoint, and there's certainly nothing wrong with—"
"I don't believe God has anything to do with it," Scott interrupted.
Neither of them spoke for seven seconds. Scott knew because he heard the clock ticking. He twisted the harassed cuff of his sweatshirt, not comfortable with the fact that he had interrupted. It was rude—it was risky. Being rude was just one more step towards making someone angry.
After those seven seconds, Mr. Xavier offered, gently and carefully, "You're free to believe whatever you like. It's nobody's business but your own."
Scott was not sure what he believed. He hadn't been brought up with religion except occasionally in school, so while he knew the basics, it was not really a part of his life. The scientific explanation still had him muddled.
Finally, he just shrugged. "I was never very good at school," he admitted. "I forgot things."
That was one more reason he felt out of place in this house. Moira would be here soon. Everything cost more money than he had ever imagined existed. He did not know how long he would be here or what he was and was not allowed to do.
And he felt like an idiot. Both Hank and Mr. Xavier were educated men. No one had explicitly stated this, but no one needed to. Educated people had a way about them. Scott had limped through school. Even when he could remember the information, the headaches just kept getting worse and worse until he couldn't concentrate.
Both because he had no desire to discuss the subject further and because he did not know what else to say about his academic mediocrity, Scott asked, "This can really never go away?"
"No, you'll always be a mutant, but it won't always be like this. I can teach you to control your ability. Of course, if I'm going to train you, you'll have to be awake…" Mr. Xavier did not seem terribly upset about this, though.
Scott glanced up and, after gauging the man's expression, smiled.
It was a twisted, nervous sort of smile—but only somewhat apologetic.
to be continued