It is a whispered word forged from the tears and tongues of man, woman and child alike.
It is a shouted word cried by preachers and convicts, sinners and saints.
It is passed from person to person with hardly a thought or a breath.
Everyone understands its meaning, but to everyone its meaning is not the same. It changes and morphs with time, the only other constant, warping into other definitions, other meanings. It stands out stark in garish reds and violets on a black and white canvas, encompassing all other words within it. Calling to every being with its siren song, it lives and refuses to be understood. Many strive to keep it close, huddling and strangling it as it thrashes breathlessly against their chests, others give it, speak it, whisper it, shout it, breathe it, but the one who is without it is only drowning themselves. It is thrown around carelessly, beaten to death with the stick of repetitiveness, cherished, whispered, shouted, spoken, written, felt, abused.
You still feel it in your memories sometimes, refusing to be washed out. It sticks to your thoughts like flecks of gold in a pool of oil, lighter, brighter, beautiful. A day ago, perhaps a year, maybe more, it is impossible to discern but its glow it still there, inexorable. Once upon a time you had it grasped between your fingers, flooding through the creases, dancing across your face, washing down to the ground in a golden pool around you.
You can't even remember the dance anymore. The steps are lost on you and no music moves it. Your face is blank now as far as people can see. The only dance now is in your eyes, disjointed, unconnected, soundless, sightless, conducted under ruby veils, where no one can see. Sometimes you aren't even sure wether it is hiding or you are. Would you even want it if it returned?
Tentatively you reach out a finger to touch the flecks of gold, but the oil ripples and washes the gold out of your reach. You can't remember, a day ago, perhaps a year, maybe more, you had it. Frustrated you stir and push the golden memories to the bottom, wishing to drown them. Maybe one day you will follow them, drown yourself, in search of the whispered word, that may have never been yours in the first place, but you will never know if you can't remember.
You won't open your eyes anymore. You are too afraid of the visions behind their lids to open them. Invisible black fingers hold them shut. Fear has you by the throat, with its thumbs jabbed over your eyes. To open your eyes now would require a will, a will that you don't have anymore. It is so much easier to live in a world of black and wish to die. Not even the gold can touch you in a place such as that.
So you sit on your bed, hugging knobby frog-like knees with callused sandpaper hands. The hands –yours– had once been the hands of a child, and still would be if perhaps you had lived another life, if you could remember. But the mind has a will of it's own, and it shuts the doors to the past and bolts them tight. Sound is muffled behind these doors, like fingers drumming on the inside of a desk, muffled but still discernable. Like you blind, alone, but still living. Barely.
Ratty sheets crunch between clenching fists, the silence is suffocating, but you don't notice, you've been suffocating as long as you could remember. Nobody wants to share a room with you. You don't see. You don't talk. You don't eat. You don't sleep. You don't. They won't make you. They can't make you. They don't.
The whispered word has no meaning to you, and thus your definition is correct.
For generations the Xavier estate had been a quiet one, filled with well-to-do people with more to do than be making appearances around their home. Everyone simply assumed that people lived there even though they rarely saw them, and the Xaviers conducted their business outside in the rest of the world. The whole estate faded from importance in most people's minds because nothing important ever happened there. Then a certain heir by the name of Charles Francis Xavier, the last of the American branch of Xaviers, came into possession of the vast estate. Charles was considered a very peculiar man from the start with some very peculiar ideas. He was confined to a wheelchair for the better part of his life and never married, but had anyone bothered to stop by the estate now, they would have heard the laughter of children ringing through the air around that house and the sounds of small feet tripping up and down the antique corridors of the mansion. They would have seen an age-old estate being made young again with the presence of young ones, possibly even laughing to itself somewhere deep inside the timbers of its foundation.
It was a beautiful Spring in Winchester New York, riding the fence between seasons, seemingly about to tumble into the arms of summer at any moment. The air was comfortably warm and still that particular morning, and thick as cream with the pleasant smells of new life. The land surrounding the estate was bursting at the seems with all of the splendor it had saved up over the winter. A few frantic gardeners were busily trying to tame the outburst, mostly clipping wayward hedges and training roses around the mansion itself, but beyond the outer wall the man who took care of the orchard was busiest of all. He was a greying, waxen faced man with calloused skin, who had already lost his looks to the devil of old age, and now his joy was in pampering the baby pink apple blossoms and making sure no pests could harm his precious trees.
He had been with the estate since before the previous occupant passed on, but he carried a special fondness for the familiarity. The trees satisfied his need to take care of something beautiful, something worth having, and he had all but devoted his life to this particular clan of them. Charles was a peculiar sort of man, but he was a good man compared to the Xaviers he had known in the past. Charles was the only owner of the estate to ever spare his gardeners any words that weren't strictly necessary, and only Charles looked at him like he was a significant being. Charles had always appreciated his orchard and the work he put into it. It was during this tedious work that he was startled by a scream.
He whirled around just in time to see the culprit skitter past at top speed. It was a young girl, no older than fifteen with long red hair that billowed out behind her as she ran like some better phoenix of a bitter memory. She set the Eden of apple trees on fire with her laughter, reminding him of his own mortality and bringing the ashes of his youth to the forefront. Spring will always be the season of life, and she had risen to preside as queen over the gardens of Xavier's estate, his first student, the wild powerhouse that would eventually shatter the bonds of his control. It was dangerous, but then again, Xavier never could walk away from a challenge. She was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, but had completely forgotten to put on shoes. She still retained half the mentality of a child, and with this innocence came the knowledge that shoes are not essential to having fun, and are in fact, more cumbersome than helpful. She flew through the orchard on wings of spitfire and gold, and every once in a while she would glance over her shoulder.
Her pursuer was a boy, about the same age as herself, who had also forgone the idea of footwear. Self-control would always come easy to him, after months of voluntary blindness and the knowledge of a broken, destructive power, that was always turned on. Memories of abuse, of lose, of death were always buzzing around in the background of his mind. He shrouded himself in cold, and moved like the water, silent, purposeful, contained, putting out the fires his companion struck up. Charles Xavier had introduced the two of them with practiced patience, as if he knew what the results would be. For every queen there is a king, and this boy was the only one who could touch her without being burned. She would lend her wings and he could fly, but by himself he was always the water, youth gone to fast, sucked into a straw. He had regular brown hair, an unseen eyes that left it to the imagination to see the color in his red glasses, barring the windows to his soul, dousing everyone around him in coolness. In times like this though, with the girl, he was readable. The orchard waited in silent interest, and their caretaker stopped his work to watch their progress down the row of trees.
They scampered barefoot down the lush green carpet of new grass, without even the time to admire the beauty of the blossoming trees. He saw the boy finally catch up to her, and she gave another little yelp as he tagged her shoulder. Then they were both off again, like bullets fired from a gun, with the girl after the boy now, moving like water, like fire, like spring. He watched them with amusement until they only appeared as little blurs, and then disappeared from sight. The trees whispered in the breeze. The birds around the orchard chanted. The children shouted distantly. He turned back to his work, muttering things about children, waking up too early, disturbing the peace, and other things that contradicted the smile on his face.
The boy and the girl this man had observed. were indeed engaged in an all out game of tag with no clear winner as of yet. They came out on the other side of the orchard and made a sharp turn to the left. Somewhere during all this the girl tagged the boy and speed up, flexing wings, boxing the air. They ran like they were treading on hot coals, down a trail past a crowd of hedges and gardens in disrepair with flowers and weeds peeping from their beds to observe the pyretic chase and finally, they came to the edge of a forest of trees. These woods in turn, were at the edge of a lake, and one familiar tree in particular caught the girl's eye. It was a good sized oak tree with branches dipping into the water, bending towards the water like some carved wooden effigy of the damned, forced to have a thirst that could not be quenched for all of eternity.
The girl ran up to it on lightened feet, slapped a hand on its trunk and cried, "Base!" quivering triumph in her eyes and untidy red curls tangling in the breeze.
The boy, by the name of Scott Summers, caught up to her grinning in spite of his loss, as if he half expected her to jump away again so he could tag her, "I'd say you've won Marvel Girl. For now."
Jean Grey simply smirked at him, swept the errant strands of red from her face, and lifted herself onto one of the branches. Scott followed suite, scaled up the tree until he reached 'his' branch, the highest that would support his weight, and sat looking down at his companion, who was inching out along the branch she had selected, until she was positioned over the water. Both of them inspected their feet and found them green as the grass they had carelessly trampled.
"So Jean," He said crossing his arms behind his head and leaning back easily against the rough trunk, "Did you bring us anything to eat?"
"Just this," She pulled out a smashed wad of bread crusts in a plastic bag from her pocket, "I was going to feed them to the fish, but you're welcome to have some too."
Scott wrinkled his nose and shook his head. He assumed the guise indifference, but he did lean forward to watch as she covered the final distance and lay forward on the branch, dangling precariously over the water. He had to wonder at her sense of balance, as she clung easily to the branch with her knees and opened the plastic bag. Only Jean would save her bread crusts and find something useful to do with them. The thought brought a grin to his face, and he watched her quietly go about her task.
She looked like a normal girl. He noticed this most of all because it was the one thing that set her apart from him. Anger is like a drug, a white hot stimulant that rushes through the veins, allowing one to escape everything, dulling other emotions so it is all one can feel. It only acts as a cheep drug store lipstick, covering up the rest with bright, blinding rage, in hot pink and blood red, but it is quick to smudge, wash away, leaving bare imperfect sentiments behind. Jealousy is something far worse, it is a disease that is almost impossible to exorcize. It sits in the heart and broods if left undelt with, only growing bigger and more spiteful. Scott didn't usually get jealous when it came to Jean Grey, but the years have a way of changing things against all better intent.
There was no way anyone could tell she was a mutant simply by looking at her. People tended to see mutants as ugly creatures with hideous physical mutations. She was anything but that. In fact, she was beautiful, all red hair, green eyes and little hints of freckles that stood out on her face when she turned pale, like mini constellations, but perhaps that was actually a side effect of her mutantation, a ploy to attract the opposite sex. In any case, he wasn't quite sure who he was jealous of anymore. Of her, or because of her? That was the question.
Then, as if on cue, the plastic bag slipped out of her fingers, but before it hit the water it froze in midair and levitated back into her grasp like a trained animal rather than an inanimate object. He allowed a bitter laugh to escape him like dark chocolate, the only kind of laugh he had back at the orphanage.
"What's so funny?" She asked without even looking up.
"I was just thinking how much you don't look like a mutant," He said to her back.
"Really," She busied herself dropping little crumbles of bread into the lake causing a pattern of ripples, that condensed, dilated, wove through the stratosphere of the water, that looked clear enough to be white wine in the suns reflection, "Why's that?"
A million answers rushed to his mind and none of them sounded very good to him, especially the ones that began with, 'You're beautiful'. He shrugged even though she wasn't looking anyway and mumbled something along the lines of, "You just don't look like one."
A curtain of red hair kept falling past her shoulders and in front of her face. She had been pawing furiously at it for the last few minutes, trying to get it to stay tucked behind her ear, but seeing that it was a hopeless task, she finally let it be. He heard the splash of a fish in the water below as she added another bread crumb. By then she had a small army of blue gills and one prowling carp looking for small ones to pick off. An even bigger armada of small bread crumbs still resisted on the top of the water, lighter than glass, disintegrating across the surface until they became unidentifiable. She said nothing for a long time, making him think she hadn't heard him, but then she spoke.
"That's because it's all in my head," She said softly, "I can hide it from the rest of the world, but it's always in my mind, my own personal hell in a box, unless I keep up my shields."
The shroud of upper canopy leaves cast the shade in modeled shadows over them. He glanced up absently and was able to pick out a few pieces of the wet blue sky shining through the cracks. At least to everyone else it was blue. The sky turned parched red after his mutation manifested, and had been bleeding ever since. He hadn't even thought about the sky before his mutation, true to the old cliche 'You don't know what you got til' it's gone'. Now, it was a dying smattering of deep orange red, that people would associate with the end of the world. In that sense, the world was ending every day.
"Why don't you just read my mind?" The question bubbled from Scott's lips before he could stop it, "I mean, I wouldn't know the difference."
"Because you don't want me to," Piercing words that scattered around the air around him likes mines, daring him to wade deeper into the subject and risk setting one off.
He was startled more than a little bit by her admission. He supposed what she said was true, but that left the question still floating in the air. How did she know? She still wasn't looking at him, so he couldn't see her face, "When did I ever say that?"
"Scott, I'm a telepath," She replied in a matter-of-fact tone, "I've known since I first met you, that you don't want me in your head, so I stayed out."
He was awed. He couldn't say with absolute certainty that if he was a telepath he would be able to stay out of the head of his best friend, no matter how moral he was. It had been almost three years since they first met, and they were finally having this conversation. It occurred to him that she was always willing to tell him this, but never once had he thought to ask, until now. They had never even approached the subject before, choosing to view each other through tinted glass, and leaving the things that no one wanted to talk about unsaid, like background music until it played into silence.
"Isn't it ironic then," He said out loud, "That if I really am such a closed off ass, that my best friend is a telepath?"
"My Mr. Summers, what strange friends you keep," She deadpanned, dropping in the last of the breadcrumbs and putting the bag in her pocket, "And I wouldn't say you are an ass. Most of the time."
She sat up and brushed her hands off on her shorts, before turning to grin wickedly at him, lips curling slyly around her words, "And now, if you don't mind, I'm going to have a bite to eat."
She climbed to a better spot on the tree, sat down and pulled out something packaged in a shiny wrapper from her other pocket. She unwrapped a chocolate chip granola bar and began to make a great show of smelling and holding it up for him to see. Scott scowled in her general direction, and her eyes danced with laughter, the backwards tango in five inch heels kind.
"You said you didn't have any food!" He exclaimed.
"I said that I didn't bring anything for us to eat. This is for me," Sometimes Scott could swear on all things holy that her purpose in life was to bait and torment him mercilessly, and the way she seemed to be enjoying herself immensely solidified the theory.
"Marvel Girl, you've joined the side of evil!" Scott feigned a horrified gasp, settling into his familiar role, so they could exchange banter until one of them gave in.
Jean just took a bite with great ceremony and pretended to be enjoying it like it was the best granola bar on earth. Scott had to admit she was a very convincing actress. That tiny sugar-filled bar of grain was looking more and more tasty and more and more tempting by the second, most especially when it was in her hands. Finally, he cracked.
"Okay Jean, give me some," He demanded flatly.
"What have you done for me lately?" She teased trying to keep the smile off her face.
Scott searched around for an idea, but as it is with most times when one tries to prove a point, thinking of examples suddenly becomes difficult for some odd reason. Teasing Jean had mischievous, glittering eyes, hypnotic, he couldn't think straight for a moment. Someone had picked up an eraser and wiped his mind clean of coherent thought. Then the tree beside the oak they sat on caught his eye. It was gorgeous lotus tree standing there innocently enough, with flower laden branches stretched out invitingly. If he just inched out a little more and stretched out his arm a bit, he could probably snag one of the silver spattered pink flowers, and nobody would ever notice it was missing. The tree was so full of them surely no one would mind. Jean had made him do much worse things without even uttering a word. For every leaf there seemed to be a flower, and most perfect flowers at that.
Jean watched him with thinly veiled interest leaping around in her emerald jewelry eyes as he snatched up one of the flowers on the neighboring tree. She barely suppressed a snicker as he put the flower behind his back, knowing full well she had already seen it. Then he climbed over to where she sat, sidled up beside her, and presented the single lotus blossom to her with an exaggerated flourish, and a flash of pearly whites.
"Now you can't say I never do anything for you," She took the flower from him, hopelessly failing to contain her smile, and he was rewarded.
"No, I suppose not," She was still smiling as she passed him half of the granola bar, and she couldn't exactly explain why.
She carefully palmed the delicate flower, and they both ate in silence for a moment. The half bar of granola wasn't really as satisfying as he had hoped, but he was tremendously pleased with himself for finding a way to move next to her without being too obvious. He could quite construe why he felt that he needed to impress her. It was like trying to figure out the limits of the universe. It just was. He must show off. The universe goes on forever. Jean is beautiful. The grass is green. The sky is red. On earth as it is in heaven. Amen. He wondered vaguely if it was dark chocolate chips in this granola bar.
"Does it ever bother you?" Scott finally asked, jumping from his speeding train of thought that was crashing before his eyes.
"What?"
"That I don't want you to read my mind," A little sarcastic voice inside him told him that this was indeed an even better topic of discussion.
"A little," She admitted with a guilty grimace, if they were going to pull back the curtains of lies and find out everything underneath, she was going to have to tell the selfish truth, "Sometimes you are so distant, and it doesn't help that I can't see your eyes. But everyone's got a right to keep their private thoughts to themselves Scott."
"But in theory, if you were allowed free access into someone's mind you wouldn't have to keep up your shields around them?" Scott continued, ignoring the voice and disregarding half of his brain while he was at it.
"Yes, in theory. What are you getting at Summers?" Jean was always one to know that there is more to every story than what is being said. Now, if only she wasn't fixing him with a look that could make jelly stand perfectly still. She was yanking all his stepping stones out from under him.
"Why don't you try reading my mind? Just once," He was tripping over his words now, and he decided he better say it before he lost his nerve and stumbled into a creek of uncertainty.
She turned toward him in surprise and stared into the shades he wore, wishing she could see his eyes for sincerity instead of the ever impassive wall of red, "Are you sure that's what you want?"
In truth, Scott wasn't quite sure of anything. There were a thousand things inside his mind that he didn't want her to know, but for some reason it didn't seem all that daunting when he was sitting so close to her. Something about her made him want to please her in any way he could, even if that meant baring his innermost thoughts. This sitting next to her thing had to be bad for him. It was frying his brain faster than an egg on a skillet. He had only changed his mind about a second ago, and didn't want to think about it for too long, incase he changed it back again.
"Yes," He lied.
He noticed a slight curl of her toes when she heard that word, the only outward sign of emotion. It sometimes irked him that she could channel all her feelings through her body like a lightning rod, so all she did was curl her toes. She was deliberately calm and stoic as she turned to face him, gathering her legs under her and gripping the branch with her ankles. She could be very sober when she wanted to, and sometimes he thought it might be his fault. Scott attempted the same position, but found it slightly less easy to balance. He ended up teetering perilously until he gripped the branch with both hands. He finally looked up to see Jean biting back a fit of laughter. Her serious mood was shattered.
"Scott this is your last chance to back out," She said slowly, "I don't know how much I'll see, and how much I won't."
Scott nodded his head yes in spite of himself. She inched closer to him until their knees were brushing together, and their faces were a few inches apart. He knew that her eyes were green from what he had been told, but he had never actually seen the color, just a greyish shade that only set an undefined outline. His glasses did not completely impede his capacity to see some colors, but they lessened its effect and made individual colors hard to decipher after awhile. It was like viewing Mt. Rushmore through a straw. The whole picture was entirely invisible, and adding it up in one's head was complicated, so the effect was lost. Slowly the grey orbs slid shut, and he decided he had better do the same. He felt her hands go up around his head, and was acutely aware of every touch. The pads of her thumbs brushed against his cheekbones, and her splayed fingers grazed his hair. The ghosts of touch were enough to set every nerve on fire. He was as nervous as a spoked horse, but slowly he began to feel a calm descend upon him.
Then he felt what began as a tentative warm tingle in the back of his mind. She was being extremely careful as she waded in, and trying hard not to plunge in head first. First came one foot and then the other. This was different from the occasional telepathic command of the Professor in his brain. Jean was much more, delicate and personal. Her telepathy was almost sensual in the way she caressed the contours of his mind, gradually invading and finding no resistance. It was something unlike anything he had ever felt before, and Scott decided he rather liked the feeling, though he didn't really know if he was supposed to.
He was just getting used to it, when he felt her physically and mentally stiffen. The strange sensation was pulling back, but it seemed that she was almost struggling to disentangle herself. He felt he should try to help her, but he didn't know how. The two of them both fought to regain control, and suddenly in a flash, the warmth subsided, and everything stopped.
Scott finally opened his eyes to find himself staring straight into a pair of wide grey ones. He blinked slowly and realized that he was clutching her arms rather tightly. She made no move to pull away, and when he released her, she slowly dropped her hands. Her arms still bore the bruises of his touch, screaming to him in the clear finger sized marks that dotted along her forearms. They both sat for a moment, trying to get their bearings, staring wide-eyed, and breathing unevenly.
Then it dawned on them both, at almost exactly the same moment, how close they were. Knees still brushed against knees, breath mingled with breath, and eyes never lost contact. There was only a couple inches and a fraction of a second between their lips. If one of them crossed the final distance . . . The thought managed to excite and petrify at the same time. Time stood still for a moment, but neither of them acted. When it became apparent that neither was going to risk it, awkwardness descended. They both turned away with flushed cheeks. Scott suddenly became busy with adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and Jean began to mess with her hair. It was an unspoken formality, the pluck of a violin chord, an invitation to a tango that would be quick to start and slow to end.
Finally Scott broke the silence, "What just happened?"
It took Jean a moment to figure out which event he was referring to, but after a pause she spoke, keeping her voice as even as possible, "It was a bit weirder than I expected. I've never actually focused on reading one person on purpose before, besides in my exercises with the professor. You started pulling me in, and I almost let you before I realized what was going on. I'm just glad I made it out, or we both could have been in a world of trouble."
"I did?" He recalled that he had succumbed to the sensation, but he hadn't realized he was actually pulling her closer to his mind, "Are you alright," the question seemed stupid once spoken, but he wanted to make sure he hadn't done something to hurt the telepath.
"Yes. I don't think you did it on purpose," A hint of a smile flirted with the lines of her face, "Do me a favor, and don't mention this to the professor."
"You do realize that your trying to hide something from a telepath?" He chuckled to hide the fear for both of them. The professor wouldn't be very forgiving if he found out.
"Oh, it can be done," She said with another enigmatic smile, "No guarantees though."
Then before he had time to react she swung herself off the branch and was on the ground in the blink of an eye, "Your still 'it', Summers. Catch me if you can."
Scott rose to her challenge and leapt down to chase after her. The gauntlet had been thrown. The floor had been cleared. The dance had begun.
One of the things Charles Xavier had always disliked about the west side of the mansion, was that not enough sunlight reached his bedroom in the morning. The dark wooden paneling and navy blue color scheme made the whole room seem like one large foreboding dungeon where one wasn't allowed to touch anything, unless they wanted to suffer dire consequences. His maid had become accustomed to his request of have all the heavy blue curtains opened in the morning, and now did it without being asked. Then once he got up he would usually request to have his first cup of tea brought to him, and he would sit by one of the large floor length windows and watch as the day unfolded. Sometimes, when he got up early enough he would see the sun rising off to the east, but what he loved most of all was simply watching. Every day the apple trees would change just a bit and their cycle would continue until the fall. Different birds constantly quarreled, sang and prattled mindlessly, finding places to nest and raising families. Gardeners worked in the mornings, sprucing up the gardens, and then soundlessly left, making it easy to forget they were ever there, yet leaving lasting impressions on the greenery. Sometimes a dear or two would be grazing close to the mansion, and sometimes the morning brought him an entirely new surprise.
This morning brought him the sight of two of his students, tearing around the orchard in a game of tag. Jean Grey, his first student was weaving around the trees, following every turn of his second student, Scott Summers. It was a black and white fox hunt, sketchy and hard to follow. The dogs and the horses kept changing hands with each tag, but the methods of the fox were all the same. Scott kept trying to throw her off by turning tight corners and sharply changing direction, taking sharp bends with the agility of elastic, but the redhead was keeping up with him, like a legion of hounds tangling around one person. Both of them were bottomless pits of energy and neither of them appeared to be tiring. Charles sat up a little taller to see better, and apparently he wasn't the only one. The man tending the orchard was also watching with interest.
Scott and Jean had both led completely different, and equally troubling childhoods. Both of them had been labeled hopeless cases by people who didn't understand their mutations, until he had intervened. At the estate they flourished in each other's company and under Xavier's watchful eye. Since then he had taken in two more mutant students, one with a pair of wings, and another who they called Iceman with reason. Hank McCoy, his resident scientist was also a mutant, and the six of them, plus a small host of servants, were the sole occupants of the estate.
Charles's eyes widened when he saw the single lotus blossom Jean was holding by the steam. The petals were being buffeted around, but the flower managed to stay perfectly intact and beautiful. It had almost slipped past his radar and gone unnoticed, like a symphony in a room full of noise, the melody never changes, but to those who never hear it, it may as well have never even been there. He had no doubts as to whom she had received it from. He knew it was only a matter of time before Scott and Jean realized each other in another light that extended beyond platonic friendship. Perhaps he'd always known they would, but he wasn't entirely to blame. Some things just are, no matter what one tries to do. They would have met in a different time, at a different place, but the connection would have been the same. Fire and Ice. The outcome was uncertain, but for now, he only hoped that Scott had been nice to the tree he took the flower from.
He was startled abruptly from his thoughts when Jean took a nasty spill and fell to her knees in the grass. She clenched her teeth together and grabbed her ankle. Concern rippled across the older man's face. Scott also stopped immediately to see what was wrong, backtracking worriedly. He crept up to her, but she turned away, most likely insisting she was fine. Charles was about to wheel down and help her, when she swiftly tagged Scott and speed away in one fluid motion. Scott's jaw flipped open, and Charles could hear his shout from the window.
"JEAN!!!"
Charles laughed out loud. The redhead giggled and danced around on her toes for a moment, then made a mad dash towards the mansion, at a breakneck pace that seared the ground beneath her feet. Scott was not about to concede defeat. He scrambled after her. The professor shook his head knowingly and decided to meet the two downstairs when they arrived. Anger is a drug. Jealousy is a disease. Happiness just is.
On his way down he was stopped by Robert Drake. The eleven-year-old boy was already knee deep in trouble, and it wasn't even eight o'clock yet. When he spotted the professor wheeling quietly down the hallway, he rushed up and attempted to duck behind him. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed. His blonde hair was tousled and sticking straight up in some places, and he was still dressed in his pajama shorts and T-shirt. The wide-eyed look of fear on his face was far from sleepy though.
"Hide me!" He yelped, seeking to shield himself behind the metal wheelchair rather unsuccessfully.
"What did you do?" The professor sighed, bringing his fingers up to massage the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache coming on already.
"You mean, what did I do to Warren's toothbrush, or what did I do to Scott's bed sheets?" The blonde asked innocently hopping from foot to foot.
"Both," Charles decided he wasn't really in any hurry, and prepared himself for the boy's response.
"Well, I kinda took Scott's bed sheets and used them to make a twister board," He admitted.
"A twister board?" Charles raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
"Yes," In Xavier's presence the boy began to tell the exact details of his plan, unable to withhold the whole waterfall once he had let a drop free, "Well see, I was going to use my bed sheets, but they weren't white, so I used Scott's. Except, Scott hasn't found out yet because he left early this morning. What's really bad is what happened with Warren."
"What did you do to Warren?" Charles was almost afraid to ask.
"Well as you recall, I had to clean the shower, so I used Warren's toothbrush to clean it," Bobby Drake would make a terrible secret keeper. He always had to share the plans for one of his incredible pranks with someone to show off his mastery, and today Charles Xavier was the lucky soul.
"Does he know about this?" The lucky soul currently was wearing a disturbed look that suggested he wasn't feeling very lucky.
"He just found out," Bobby said, glancing around and trying to duck behind the wheelchair again, "I'm done for."
"Oh, I see," Charles said in a manner that suggested these occurrences happened every day, which in fact they did.
A door on the end of the hall swung open violently. Charles winced at the sound of the doorknob connecting with the wall with a crunch that wasn't unlike the sound of breaking bones, thanked the lord that he didn't break the door hinges this time and watched the livid face of Warren Worthington III himself emerge from behind it, "DRAKE!!!! I'm going to wrap you in duct tape that stays sticky even in sub-zero temperatures, and tie you to the backside of a horse in full gallop!"
"Oh, he sounds better than usual this morning," Bobby stated dryly, "Must be some of the cleaning fluid he swallowed."
Warren would have actually been a very attractive specimen of the male variety if he didn't have a terrible, murderous glare smeared across his pretty face. He stomped out of his room, toothbrush in hand, with wings spread wide. Bobby cowered.
"Move aside Charles, I must solve this like a civilized person and tear him limb from limb," Warren growled.
"What if I make Bobby buy you a new toothbrush?" Charles offered hopefully.
Bobby glared silently. He obviously hadn't planned for one of his pranks to end with him wasting money to reimburse people, but he was in no position to protest.
"An electric one?" Warren asked.
"Sure."
"With two different colors and far reaching bristle action?"
"Fine."
"Okay, I won't kill him."
"That's very kind of you," Charles sighed dryly.
Satisfied that he had settled the first conflict of the day in a nonviolent way, Charles once again set forth to go downstairs. Little did he know that the innocent smile Warren was giving him, had turned into a malicious snarl again. He rounded on the younger boy very quietly, still waving around the toothbrush like a terrible weapon of war. Bobby tried to scream, but soon found himself smothered by a very vengeful angel.
As he came out of the elevator, Charles heard the distinct sound of the front door closing. He was just in time to meet Jean and Scott. He entered the main hall, and stared around curiously. It was empty. That was rather odd. He wheeled in and looked around just to make sure, but still no one. There weren't many spaces where one could hide in the spotless hall, unless one could fit behind one of the potted plants. It seemed highly unlikely.
He wheeled up and opened the front door, after looking around to make sure no one was there, he turned back around with a puzzled expression still written on his continence. Then slowly, he looked up towards the ceiling. The two teens he had been looking for smiled down at him innocently.
"Hi professor," Jean said meekly, "What brings you down to the hall this fine morning?"
Both of them were levitated up to the ceiling, courtesy of the impish redhead telekinetic. She had Scott's hand clasped in her own, and she appeared to be able to lift them both easily. Only Scott would trust her enough to let her lift him high off the floor without flinching. She was still retaining an innocent look, but Scott's 'we're busted' look was visible even behind his ruby quartz glasses. Both of them looked considerably disheveled from their game of tag, and the grass stain on Jean's knee stood out even brighter inside the mansion.
"While you know I always appreciate you using your powers for practical situations and learning how to control them," Charles said to his two proteges, "In this instance I am getting the feeling that you are trying to hide something."
"Hide?" They looked at each other and then down at the professor again like the word was foreign, "Professor, why would we want to hide anything?"
"I don't know why would you?" Charles was a telepath, but he still had to admit these two students in particular could always beat him when it came to mind games.
They looked at each other again, and Charles noticed how they were still shuffling their feet nervously, and trying to hide the soles of them, "Lets see your feet," he commanded.
Jean sheepishly turned out one foot. It was stained a dark muddy green. He didn't have to see Scott's feet to know they were identical. They knew the game was up now. Slowly and carefully Jean first set Scott lightly on the ground, and then she descended herself. Except for the trip up at the end that caused her to fall on her butt and Scott to laugh, she preformed the feat perfectly. She smacked his leg, and with a less then gentle telekinetic shove she knocked him to the ground as well. She popped back up with as much grace as one can have after falling on their butt, and then the lotus blossom dropped into her palm from above.
Charles waited for Scott to stand before addressing them. He finally found his feet and stood up next to Jean. Charles was startled. There had been a time when Jean and Scott were the same height, but now Scott stood taller than she by at least six inches. Though he would always be on the slim side, he was considerably more healthy than the skimpy blind boy with spindly popsicle stick legs and masking tape over his eyes that Charles had first taken in. He had added more muscle to his upper body and his limbs no longer looked like they would snap in half with the slightest touch.
"May I ask exactly how many times the two of you have used the ceilings to sneak around?" Charles asked, fearing that he probably didn't want to know the answer.
They looked at each other. Jean eyed Scott expectantly, and judging by tap of his foot he was giving her an equally expectant look. They had an argument of sorts, composed mainly of glances and sometimes glares, until their warring expressions finally came to an agreement. Charles couldn't quite understand if Jean could indeed see Scott's eyes, or if she was just a very good reader of facial expression. Scott cleared his throat and began to do some counting in his head.
"You don't want to know professor," He said at last.
Jean elbowed him, "What he means is that we don't do it very often."
Scott adopted her answer and nodded his head furiously in agreement, "Yes, that's what I meant."
"Has anyone ever told you that you are both terrible liars?" Charles said pointedly.
"Yes, I believe I've heard that before," Jean's stance dropped and she began to stare at the floor like she had never encountered the wine red carpet before in her life.
Charles shook his head, "I'm going to just take Scott's word I think. As for running around with no shoes on, and then tramping all over the carpet with feet such as those, I would think that both of you know better by now," They both nodded in mute agreement, and he continued, "The first order of business now is for both of you to go get cleaned up. Then Scott, you have a sheet to retrieve from Mr. Drake."
"But sir," Scott looked confused, though his glasses masked a good portion of the look, "Aren't you going to punish us?"
"You say that like you want to be punished Mr. Summers. Would you like to be punished?" Charles enjoyed the looks of shock on the faces of his pupils after he said that.
"No!" Scott amended quickly.
"Good, so don't do it again, and I won't have to do something you wouldn't like," With that he left, throwing over his shoulder, "And don't let me find any foot prints on the ceiling either."
The boy and the girl exchanged a silent look of relief. Their most frequent hiding place had finally been discovered, but the professor couldn't keep an eye on them every second, especially at night when the kitchen was empty of people and full of snacks.
Almost immediately after the professor disappeared, Warren appeared, bounding down the staircase two stairs at a time with the aid of his wings, and his robe flying out behind him like a cape. Jean and Scott watched him take the last five steps with a glide and come to rest neatly on the ground with his wings folded behind him. His eyes traveled back up the staircase expectantly, and seeing that he was safe for the time being, he flashed them a grin and smoothed back his hair.
"Good morning," He said politely, as anyone of his family's standing would have been trained to do, addressing Scott casually with a nod, and giving Jean another dazzling white smile he saved just for the ladies that Scott would almost classify as a leer, "Blinkie, Ms Grey, I'd love to stay and chat, but unfortunately I must be going."
Then he was speeding past them and out the front door before either of them had time to process what was going on. Moments later Bobby hobbled down the stairs practically mummified by silver duct tape. A glance passed from between them, green to red and back again, summoning smiles to the lips of the boy and the girl. Happiness just is, as are many other things.
Quick Note: I do not claim to be an expert on X-Men by any means. I just recently got into the fandom so please forgive me for slightly remaking the timeline just a slight bit. I'm just an innocent little author doing what I love. Also, this fic has been complete for a very long time now, but I am posting parts on a monthly basis. I rarely start posting unless something is nearly complete. Look for the next part to come on the 12th.
Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men
SA7 IceDragon5788@hotmail.com