"So, do you think you can move it?"
Kevin looked blankly at the book in front of him. Jean bit her lip, wishing for the millionth time that Charles would come down and help her. However, he was making a phone call. She could only guess what it was about.
Like everyone else in their small group, she was worried about Kevin. He wasn't sleeping properly, not so that he was fully rested. Every now and then she'd see the pictures on the wall rattle when he went past. She doubted that he knew what he was doing. She hadn't.
It was at times like this when she began to see just how badly his mother's absence was affecting him. Jean was sure Charles was concerned too, and she had no doubt Kevin spoke to him much more than he spoke to her.
"It's easy Kevin," she urged him, "You just need to concentrate."
He blinked slowly at the book, and it wiggled vaguely.
"I know you can do better Kevin," she said.
"Where's Kurt and Miss Raven?" he asked, "Does it have to do with my mother?"
Jean sighed.
"Kevin, you know they went to an academic conference," she said.
"Where are they really?"
She sighed again, once again wishing for the Professor. Kevin simply slouched more.
"Okay. Don't tell me. Okay," he said, "Can I go do my homework now?"
She sighed, sitting down next to him. Jean wished she was better at this, that she had the ability to talk easily to others. She wanted to be a teacher after all, and teachers should be good at talking to children.
"Kevin, please try," she murmured, "I know it's difficult, but you need to learn how to control your gift, to use it consistently. This is important."
"Is it?" he said.
"It's why you were brought here," said Jean, "It's why we were all brought here."
He gave her a side look.
"Who brought you here?" he asked.
Jean hesitated and looked down.
"My father," she said.
Kevin frowned at her, and she knew her voice had shaken. Then again, as she'd learned, it was difficult to hide anything from a telepath.
"He...thought it might help," she said carefully.
"Was he scared of you?" asked Kevin.
There was no point in lying.
"He still is," Jean said, "I thought, if I could get better, I could go home."
Kevin laid his head down on his knees, his hands resting on his ankles. It looked like he was about to go to sleep. She sighed and, gently, put a hand on his shoulder. He just turned his eyes to her hand, blinking slightly.
"This is home for me now, I think," he said, "Close to it anyway."
"Me too," Jean said, "It's why you have to try."
He looked at the book, and he narrowed his eyes. It flew from the table back into the shelf, just missing its place. It slammed into the bookcase and Jean winced as she saw the spine break.
Kevin closed his eyes.
"I didn't sleep well last night," he said.
It sounded somewhat apologetic. She leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder.
"Did you call the Professor?" she asked.
"I...I..." Kevin mumbled.
Jean sighed and put an arm around his shoulder.
"He wants to be there for you Kevin," she said, "Let him."
Kevin closed his eyes.
"I just...I don't want..."
"Hey, it's total downer in here. What's up?"
Jean glared at Peter as he zipped into the room, taking up a position on the table. Kevin looked up at him, and Peter was suddenly closer, his eyes level with Kevin, giving him a searching look.
"Yep," said Peter, "I can tell what's going on here."
Kevin furrowed his brow, and Peter put his hands on Kevin's shoulders.
"You need to be tossed," he said, "I'll set up a trampoline."
"Huh?" asked Kevin.
"Don't believe me?" asked Peter, "I've done it before. You weren't here for that, but, like, it was awesome! I had this curtain set up, and I tossed a bunch of people. So, not a trampoline exactly, but really close."
"Peter, I don't think-" Jean began.
"One, two, three!" sang Peter.
Suddenly, they were both gone, as were the curtains. The window was open and Jean stood up. She ran over and saw Kevin sliding down one of the curtains, which was attached to the tree, and Peter crouched by him. The boy looked shell-shocked.
Of all the idiotic things. She wanted to use her gifts to slam Peter into a tree, and she had to take a deep breath in order not to. She'd been taught better. Besides, it would set a bad example for Kevin.
Another breeze went by her, rattling the window and stirring her hair. Kevin was sliding down the curtain again. Jean wanted to shout out, to tell Peter to quit it, but she saw a whisper of a smile on Kevin's face.
A third breeze. This time, Kevin was laughing when he slid down, and she saw Peter grinning. But she could also feel the relief pouring off him. Jean leaned against the wall, smiling fondly. Perhaps Peter wasn't a complete idiot after all.
"How's it coming on your end?"
"It's a shit show," Levine said, "And, after all my years, I don't use that term lightly. Next time I see Stryker, I'm gonna slug him."
"I don't think he's behind this, as difficult as it is to believe," Charles said.
"Me neither," admitted Levine, "But I need to hit someone, and I hate his face. And we all know he was involved somehow. Maybe not directly, but somehow."
He heard Levine shift his phone from one side to the other. The two only contacted each other every three days, or if something came up. Levine was working with the CIA again, and whoever it was who'd taken Moira probably knew he'd been there that night.
There was a very real risk that he'd been bugged somehow, something Levine had informed Charles from a pay phone thirty miles away from his home. Levine didn't fully trust the CIA. Charles didn't either frankly. There was something distinctly strange about this. Moira made the decision to seal her work and then she was taken. There was a leak somewhere and, now that they'd ruled out Stryker as the only one involved, it meant there were other, unpleasant possibilities.
Talking using Charles's gift was problematic too, since Levine seemed to be constantly bouncing around locations. Levine said he wasn't going to waste Charles's time finding him on Cerebro, not when he could be following up other leads.
As such, he made his calls frequent, but not so frequent as to be noticed. Not that there ever seemed much to report, on either end.
"No leads though, none at all," Levine said, "People don't just vanish though, not even when mutants are involved. There's always something, always a paper trail."
"I know," said Charles, "It's little comfort when we can't find anything."
"Right there with you."
Charles pinched the bridge of his nose, and he imagined Levine was doing something similar, shared frustration brewing between them. While the two of them weren't friends, he knew Levine's thoughts on what Charles had done to Moira after Cuba, he found it easy to work with him. Levine was determined, a man who loved Moira too, although in a different way. She was his friend, partner, family.
And he wanted her to be safe and happy. He had the feeling Levine didn't really care how that happened.
"How are things on your end?" asked Levine.
Ah, yes. This. Charles looked over his papers. They'd logged every message Raven had sent them, but it was still precious little. They were only a few days into the voyage now and, so far, the information had been mostly focused around how many people were on the ship, how many weapons.
Those hadn't been comforting messages.
"We're following something up," said Charles, "Which brings me to something I need to discuss with you."
"I'm all ears."
Charles swallowed, holding the phone a little closer to his head.
"Where are you?"
Levine hesitated, and Charles hoped that the man understood what it was he was trying to do, why he was trying to do it. He needed to make sure they were very secure before he told him what he wanted.
"I'm in the middle of nowhere on a secure line."
"How secure?" asked Charles.
"Ironclad," Levine said, "And I haven't been followed. I may be a little rusty, but not that rusty."
"Good," said Charles, "Because we think there's a group in Scotland that's connected to Moira's disappearance."
"Really?"
"Yes," Charles said, "I have people following them, but they're going to need some more information. I believe Moira was investigating them. She mentioned them in passing."
There was a pause on the other end. Charles had no doubt Levine was chewing over his words thoughtfully.
"You need more intel," said Levine.
"Yes," Charles said, "Her intel."
On the other end, Levine sighed.
"You're asking me to break into the CIA to get this for you, aren't you?" he asked.
"I don't know if we need to go quite that far," said Charles.
"The files are sealed Xavier. Do you have nay idea what that means?" asked Levine, "It means no one gets into them. It means they're in a vault. Now, you're right in thinking I can get in. Again, retired, but I've been more or less drafted. I know my way around. But do you know what happens if I get caught?"
"Bad things," said Charles, "I know what I'm asking. I would have one of my people do it but-"
"With the current political climate, a mutant caught breaking into the CIA might cause World War III," sighed Levine, "Yeah, I get it. Better for me to be branded a traitor than a mutant."
His words made Charles wince. Another silence, and a sigh.
"In three days, I'll get a chance," Levine said, "I need you to be in my head around 3 p.m. that day."
"Why?" asked Charles.
"Because if I'm caught, I want you to see what I'm seeing, get the intel," said Levine, "If I get locked up for treason, I at least want to make sure it helps her."
Without another word, he hung up.
"Aunt Jenovefa?"
Mystique sighed. She hated the name she'd picked for her undercover identity, but it had matched, had made sense. It just had a strange ring to it, clanging against her ears in a way that made her shiver. Aunt.
"What?" she asked, giving him a side look.
Her son was laying on his back, his blanket drawn up to his chin, staring at the ceiling. She could just see his fingers peeping over the top of his blanket. He wasn't looking at her, his blood-red eyes fixed at another point.
It was night, and he should be sleeping. Everyone else was sleeping. She should be sleeping too.
"Why do places like this exist?"
She frowned.
"Sorry?" she asked.
He shrugged, looking somewhat sheepish.
"All of this...it shouldn't be this hard," he said, looking around him, "I just...I mean, I saw someone in the crew hit someone for no reason at all today."
"Which one?" asked Mystique.
"The fat one," he said dismissively.
"Stay away from him," she said, "He's bad news."
"That's not my point," Kurt said, "I just mean, even if there is illegal immigration, do all these people have to be so cruel? Do they have to care so little? And everyone here, they're so suspicious."
"They're terrible people," said Mystique, "And everyone else is scared. That's an end to it."
"No one is just a terrible person," Kurt said, "People can be good. Sometimes they just need to be reminded of who they truly are."
There was so much Charles in his voice that, perhaps, her next words were inevitable.
"Did you learn that at the circus? Where they sold you and made you fight like an animal?" hissed Mystique.
He flinched, still looking at the ceiling.
"God taught me that," he said.
"Again, the people who sold you teach you that?" she said.
Her son closed his eyes.
"I think I found Him myself."
Mystique sighed and rolled over, her back to him. She wondered if she'd ever been as innocent, as trusting as Kurt. Maybe once, when she'd been six years old, and Charles had offered her a home.
A home she'd walked away from.
"Go to sleep," she said, "Leave philosophy for another day."