Last one, thought Scott Summers, rubbing his eyes.
The assignment had been a poetry assignment. Some were almost brutal in their frankness, some lyrical, others were barely lists. But no-one had recived a failing mark, and he was feeling an almost paternal pride in that fact as he finished.
The last one had no name on it, and was clearly ripped from a composition book, ragged-edged and not meeting the critera for an assignment. Turning it over in puzzlement, he found the distinctive script and started reading.
They see me as they must you know
Only as I dare to go
Far down a hallway not I dared
To show them how often I am scared
That something isn't right with me
I fight the harder, perfect be
Please only that they see I ask
Such a small and simple task
Don't let them know what lurks down deep
And haunts me when I should sleep
The sounds, the sight, the almost-words
That fly and peck like shattered birds
I'm so afraid, how do I say?
Please don't turn me away
I'll be the very best, you see
Just don't look too close at me.
The rest of it was smeared ink...
The door thumped open and a small figure bounded in, regarded Scott a moment, then struck a nonchalant pose and started toward the back of the classroom, beginning to riffle through the desk.
"What's wrong, Cayanne?" he asked, glancing up with a smile.
"Somethin' go missin'." she replied, popping up from the chair, a rumpled lump of paper in one hand. The teen-ager had turned in a very good, if extremely dry, sonnet, modelled along Shakespearean lines. Her expression was irritated - clearly, she was not in the habit of "losing" things.
Scott abruptly added two and two together and got the right answer. "Like this?" he held up the sheet, and Cayanne froze, her expression flickering with - what? Anger? Fear? Shame? All three? Yes. All three.
"Where you get dat?" she demanded, advancing on her instructor, hands balled into fists.
"Cayanne, I..."
"Where?!" It was just short of a snarl. Totally out of character for the teen-ager. So was the hint of terror that held her skinny frame rigid.
Scott Summers was an experianced field commander. He was also a damn good one. And he knew when he saw fight or flight battling for control. And he saw it now. He phrased his words gently, carefully. Right now he was aware he held her fragile pride in his grasp, and he felt no superiority from it. Instead, he felt like a man holding a wary falcon on his wrist.
"This isn't what you turned in, was it?" Half a question, more a statement.
"Non." Her eyes were on his. A fragile trust teetered dangerously, in desperate peril of shattering beyond repair.
The little poem was clearly private, deeply felt, and now someone not her father, not her sensei, not even a telepath, had seen it.
"It was in my pile of assignments." He did not in any way let his voice show accusation. She would not have turned it in accidentily - or would she have? Was Cayanne trying to reach out, finding every means blocked by her own fears? Was this her subconcious crying out to those around her?
Or was it - a prank? Althea sat next to Cayanne, and their rivalry was no secret.
It really didn't matter at the moment.
"I not turn it in." Cayanne sounded positive.
"It was excellent, sweetheart." He kicked himself. Too fast, he warned himself.
She held out her hand, fingerless gloves in place, as always.
Reluctantly, Scott handed the sheet of paper over.
"Cayanne?" he suddenly asked, throwing caution to the wind.
"Yeah?"
"Could I...keep it?"
Cayanne's eyes bored into him. She was not wearing her glasses, so the silver points seemed to glow against the light. Then she grumbled, "Why? You gonna hang on yer 'fridge?"
Scott grinned up at her. "Yeah." he replied, in his warmest tone.
Cayanne shifted from foot to foot, then shrugged. "Keep it. Cadeau à un ami - from me to you." Then she grinned impishly. "Only. Oui?"
So, she didn't want anyone else to see it.
"Deal."
Cayanne headed for the door, then paused. "One more t'ing." she said, looking over her shoulder.
He cocked an eyebrow at her.
"You tell anyone an' I tell de class dat you been makin' smores inna teachers' lounge durin' breaks." she threatened, a glint of humor back in her eyes as she made her escape.
Scott burst out laughing. Well, he couldn't let the students find out he was a sucker for smores.
He picked up the sheet of paper and finally saw what had been drawn there, almost unawares.
An X.
X ?
Scott closed his eyes, feeling a press of tears there. Remembering his own first, terrifying days at the Institute. As a mutant.
He held the fragile offering against his chest, feeling the touch of his wife's mind and letting her know that Cayanne's impregnable shield of mystery had cracked - just a bit.
Leaning back in his chair, Scott stared out the window, down into the darkened courtyard where Cayanne lay sprawled on her stomach, chin resting on her folded hands, reading a massive tome on genetics loaned to her by Hank.
It was a beginning.
Remembering, he smiled.
