Disclaimer: Characters herein belong to Marvel and Fox. No money is being made out of this story.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Author's Notes: The Erik-and-Jean dynamic in this fic was inspired by Artaxastra and Penknife. I think I stole Penknife's Erik's cigarettes, too. This is in the same continuity as Shattered, Rebuilding.
They were yelling again. Out loud, this time, but that was worse because it meant they were so angry that they forgot there were students who could hear them. Of course, Jean could hear them even when they shouted at one another mentally, but she was the only one. The others had no idea just how often it happened, which was probably why Scott was looking in the direction of the kitchen, where muffled voices could be heard, his mouth slack with shock. Hank had even glanced up from his book, and his brows were drawn down behind his glasses.
Jean resolutely kept her face towards the television, but she couldn't help sneaking glances to see how they were taking it. Not well, apparently. Hank still hadn't gone back to reading, and that was not good at all.
"Mind if I change the channel?" she asked brightly, just for something to say. "I think there's, uh, a show I wanted to see ..."
Scott jumped, the open bag of potato chips almost sliding off his lap. He caught them just in time and then shrugged. "Go ahead."
Jean nodded and went over to the television set. "Hank?"
He blinked, looking over at her like he was trying to remember what she'd asked. "I wouldn't object," he said, pushing his glasses up with a thick finger. "I wasn't watching."
She nodded again and turned it to the next channel. It seemed to be a documentary about dolphins, but that was good enough. "This okay?"
The boys mumbled something, so Jean settled back on the couch. She took a sip of her Diet Coke and pretended to be interested in the dolphins. The show was better than she'd thought it might be. Pretending to watch wasn't very difficult, actually, despite the fact that her hands were cold and shaking and she was expending a considerable amount of energy to control her telekinesis.
A few years ago, if she'd been this worried, the room would have been in shambles by now. But after she'd broken two lamps, an antique vase, and a radio during their arguments, she'd learned to keep a tighter hold on her power. Thankfully, neither of the boys had seemed to notice that the blinds on the farthest window kept opening and shutting, over and over again, in time with the tapping of her fingers on her thigh.
Jean let herself get so absorbed in the dolphin program that she almost missed it when the kitchen suddenly went silent. But because she was listening for it, she heard the garage door slam. And then she reached out tentatively and brushed the Professor's mind. Surprise and anger and hurt washed over her for an instant before he threw up a shield and shoved her out.
She dropped her soda, feeling as though she'd been slapped. The can was almost empty, and only a little bit spilled out onto the floor. She hastily bent over and swiped at the spot with her fingers, drying them on her jeans.
"You okay, Jean?" Scott asked.
She straightened, can in hand, and forced a smile. "Fine, thanks. I...I just think I'm tired. Dropping things, you know? Maybe a walk will wake me up..." Jean trailed off, realizing she was babbling. She stood abruptly and set the can down on the end table. "Anyway, I'll be back later."
Hands in her pockets, she strode from the room before he could ask if she wanted company. Once she was out of sight, she sprinted for the front door and then around the side of the mansion, skidding to a stop in the garage a moment later.
He'd just started the Porsche. The engine purred softly, and the headlights illuminated the workbench, glinting off the tools. Jean ran over, climbed in, and shut the door before daring to look at him.
"What are you doing, Jean?" Dr. Lensherr asked, turning to her with one hand upon the wheel and the other frozen on the gearshift. His face stood out, pale in the glow of the lights. He looked angry, though Jean couldn't tell whether that was directed at her or the Professor, or both.
"Going with you." She swallowed, wishing she still had her soda. Her mouth suddenly felt too dry to form words that didn't shake.
"You most certainly are not. Go back inside and fix Charles a cup of tea, if you must."
Jean frowned. The professor must have told him. But even the professor didn't know--Jean thought--that she felt guilty for always going to him afterwards. It felt too much like taking sides. "I want to go with you."
Dr. Lensherr sighed and lifted his hand from the wheel to rub his temple. He looked through the windshield at the bench, and a stray hammer floated up to hang in its proper place on the pegboard.
"Jean. I have a headache, it's getting late, and I am going to a bar. You may not come along." He put the car back into park and switched off the ignition, plunging them into near-darkness. "Now, will you go voluntarily, or will I have to take you back inside?"
Jean folded her arms tightly across her chest and pressed her trembling lips together, trying not to cry. It took more of an effort than she thought it would, but she managed to use her power to turn the key, bringing the car back to life. She tried to lock the doors, too, but the mechanism was too heavy and too complicated for her already-frayed concentration.
"I'm going," she said quietly, addressing the dashboard more than him. "Minors can be in bars if they're accompanied by a parent." Or legal guardian, but Jean thought that didn't really need to be said right now.
He was silent for a long moment, and Jean kept her eyes on the dash, wondering if she'd pushed too far.
"Put your seatbelt on," Dr. Lensherr said at last, in a very odd tone. "And you will telephone Charles when we get there and tell him what you've done."
"Fine."
They rode in uncomfortable silence for the first few minutes. Jean kept her arms hugging her chest, almost afraid of what would happen if she let herself go. She shivered despite the fact that it was early summer, and Dr. Lensherr took his eyes from the road long enough to look at her. Without a word, he reached out and flicked the heater on.
"Thanks," Jean murmured, nudging her feet closer to the floor vent. He nodded and looked back at the road.
"Please get a cigarette for me," he said after another moment. "They're in the glove box."
Jean frowned but did as she was told, fumbling a little to get the cigarette out of the packet. She noticed a lighter beside the car's owner's manual, picked it up, and then hesitated. "Want me to light it, too?"
Dr. Lensherr turned to her, obviously surprised. "You've never smoked in your life. Have you?"
She bit her lip, torn between wanting to prove that she wasn't a child and not wanting to get Warren in trouble by admitting that she'd tried a drag of one of his. "Not really. But I think I could use a cigarette."
He snorted softly. "If you start smoking, Charles will have my head. And yours."
"I'm sixteen. It's almost legal." She lit the cigarette for him, her eyes watering as she tried not to cough, and handed it over. Dr. Lensherr cracked the window and went silent for another long minute before he extended it to her.
"Here. If you're going to pretend to smoke, do it properly. Women hold cigarettes between their fingertips, not their knuckles. And don't inhale so much."
Jean smiled and tried it. It wasn't so bad, this time, but she still didn't see the appeal of doing it every day. It must just be peer pressure or something that started kids her age on it.
"When did you start smoking?" she asked as she handed it back.
"I don't recall." His tone told her all that she needed to know.
"Oh," she replied quietly, knowing it was time to shut up or change the subject. "Well, where are we going?"
"I've already told you. To a bar."
"Does Professor Xavier know?"
Dr. Lensherr sighed and flicked some ashes out the window. "He probably has a fairly good idea, yes."
Jean nodded, clasping her hands in her lap. "Do you think he'll worry?" she asked, careful not to look at him. "I mean, you're not supposed to drink and drive, and..." She couldn't bring herself to say what she was thinking, but she had a sick feeling in her stomach that she'd just projected the images in her mind. Of him, being cut out of the wreckage of the Porsche, and...well, everything that would follow.
He didn't say anything, but he pulled a U-turn at the next opportunity and then turned down a street Jean wasn't familiar with. She realized a few minutes later that they were going to the old part of town, and then Dr. Lensherr pulled up in front of a weird-looking old building with the door on the corner instead of the side.
"Change of plans," he said as he turned off the ignition. "Are you hungry?"
"I guess." Jean ran a hand over her hair before unfastening her seatbelt. "I missed dinner."
"Good. We're going to have the worst Italian food in town."
Despite herself, Jean smiled as she climbed out. "The worst? Why?"
Dr. Lensherr unfolded his long frame from the car a second later, ground out his cigarette on the pavement, and then turned to her with a strange little smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "That, my dear, is a very long story."
But Jean guessed, or she thought she did, when they went up the steps to the narrow green-painted door, with Dr. Lensherr thinking Charles so strongly she couldn't help hearing.
The inside of the restaurant was cramped and warm, with a shiny wood floor and red brick walls. There were candles on the tables and the specials written on a large blackboard just inside the door. A short, balding Italian guy with a thick accent asked if it was just the two of them before leading them to a little table in the corner and giving them menus.
Jean studied hers for a minute, and then she looked over the top of it at Dr. Lensherr, remembering what he'd said. "Is there anything not bad here?"
His lips twitched, but he set down his menu and regarded her seriously. "It wouldn't be fair if I told you. Consider this your punishment for coming along uninvited."
"Fine. I'll just get whatever you get."
"Oh, no. Ladies order first," he replied, arching an eyebrow.
Jean shook her head and sighed. "Whatever." It couldn't be that bad, right?
A moment later, the waiter came back to their table and asked if they wanted drinks, and were they ready to order? Dr. Lensherr gave Jean a swift look, but then he turned to the waiter and ordered a Coke.
"Diet Coke for me, please," Jean said. She glanced at Dr. Lensherr, wondering if he'd speak up if she chose something really awful. "And the spaghetti with meatballs."
Dr. Lensherr looked like he was trying not to laugh again, but he kept a straight face and ordered chicken Marsala.
"Very good," said the waiter, giving Jean a wink as he scooped up their menus.
"You could've got a glass of wine, you know," Jean murmured, once the waiter was out of earshot. "It's okay with dinner."
Dr. Lensherr lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I could have."
Jean bit the inside of her cheek and nodded, not really knowing what to say. She looked over his shoulder instead, at the framed photograph of a basket overflowing with peppers and tomatoes.
He turned, craning his neck to see. "That...is not art."
Jean nodded absently, wondering whether they thought getting the tomatoes wet made them look more appealing. "I know. It really sucks."
"Excuse me?"
Her face suddenly felt warm, but Jean blinked at him innocently. "What? It sucks. It's slang."
It was amazing how his lifted eyebrow could always make her feel like she was about six inches tall. "So I gathered. It is also highly inappropriate slang. Are you aware what it means?"
Jean could only stare at him as the waiter set their sodas down in front of them. She waited until after he had left before unwrapping her straw and taking a sip, still trying to figure out if Dr. Lensherr had just asked what she thought he had.
"Um. Yeah," she said at last. "It means...you know." She was blushing again, and she added more quietly, "Like, a blowjob, I guess."
Dr. Lensherr was looking at her across the table, his hands folded in front of him. "I see."
"But it doesn't really mean that. It's just something you say."
"I certainly don't."
Jean closed her eyes, really wishing she were somewhere else. "You're not sixteen."
He was quiet for a long moment, folding the paper from his straw into a little accordion. "Jean," he said abruptly, "You do know what...that...is, do you not?"
Oh, God. She took a deep drink, hoping the cold liquid would somehow make her face less red. She had to ask, hoping there was a tiny chance he didn't mean what she thought he did. "What what is?"
Dr. Lensherr didn't blush--he never did--but he looked decidedly uncomfortable and cleared his throat twice before speaking. "Fellatio." Jean must've looked as blank as she felt, because he cleared his throat again and added, "Oral sex. A...blowjob."
Oh, dear God. He did just say that. Jean looked down at the table to avoid looking at him and nodded quickly. "Yeah. And...everything else. Professor Xavier gave me a book. I get it."
He set the straw wrapper accordion beside his napkin, straightened it with his fingertips so that it was parallel to his fork. "Ah. Good. A book." Another long pause. "Do you, ah, have any questions?"
Jean bit the inside of her cheek again. She did have questions, and there really wasn't anyone else she could ask. She knew about Dr. Lensherr and Professor Xavier, of course. And, since they were a couple, they probably had had sex at some point, though she didn't really want to think about that. Jean wasn't sure how homosexual people did it, but she had a pretty good guess. But still. She didn't know--or want to know---if Professor Xavier still could, so she hadn't asked him for fear of bringing up a sensitive subject.
"Um," she said at last. "A few, I guess."
He nodded curtly, and Jean wondered if she was just supposed to start asking, or what. She was tempted to hug the waiter for coming by just then and dropping off appetizer plates and a basket of breadsticks on their table. They were the kind she didn't really like--hard and kind of like sticks made of crackers instead of actual bread--but she grabbed one and took a bite anyway, just to have something to do.
Dr. Lensherr snorted quietly, and Jean looked over at him, wondering if he was making fun of her. "What?"
He took a drink of his Coke, still looking like he was trying not to chuckle. "Nothing. It's just..." he gestured at the bitten breadstick in her hand. "Well. Doing that would be a very bad idea indeed."
"Oh, God." Her cheeks were absolutely burning, and she hastily set the breadstick down on her plate and buried her face in her hands. There was no way she would ever be able to look him in the eye again. "No, I get how to do it," she said, her voice muffled by her fingers.
"Jean, I was joking."
She nodded. It would've been funny, too, if he wasn't her teacher and wasn't a man and she didn't know that he, like, had one.
Dr. Lensherr sighed and selected a breadstick. "What would you like to know?"
"Um." Jean dared to look at him and found him regarding her seriously, like she really was an adult and he was okay with this. That gave her a little more courage. "Well, it's more science than actual sex stuff, so I guess I should ask you anyway."
"Yes?"
She pulled her soda closer and took a drink. "Are the rules different for us?" He frowned, so she hastened to explain, trying to figure out how to talk about this in a public place. "I mean, like, genetics. How would we know what...gifts...a baby would have?"
Dr. Lensherr shook his head and gestured with his breadstick. "Most don't become apparent until the child is older. You know that."
"Most, sure, but not all. What if, like, Scott got married and had a baby? And the baby was...like him. In its mother. Wouldn't that be bad?"
He shook his head again, his eyebrows pulling together. "Jean, I don't think--"
"Or," she said, leaning forward, "What if somebody had a kid with Hank? Or Warren? A regular, small woman. What if she couldn't have it? What if it was too big or...um...just wouldn't fit?"
"Excuse me," said the waiter, appearing at her side. He placed a plate heaped with pasta in front of Jean and then gave Dr. Lensherr his chicken. "Is there anything else you require?"
Jean shook her head, reaching for the Parmesan shaker, but Dr. Lensherr surprised her. "Actually, yes. An order of fettuccine Alfredo to go, please."
Jean smiled into her Diet Coke.
"Don't smirk," said Dr. Lensherr when the waiter had left. "We weren't really very angry."
"You sounded like it."
He shook his head, glaring a little bit at his chicken as he cut it. "If we must, we'll discuss that later. But Jean...why are you asking these things?"
She'd just taken a bite of spaghetti, but she hoped the look she gave him made it obvious. "Do you see any other girls at the school?" she muttered when she'd swallowed.
"I hope you're not planning on having children with all of them," he said lightly.
"I'm serious." She sighed and stabbed a meatball. "I don't want to. I don't like any of them...like that. Not really."
He nodded with his mouth full and then frowned at her. "Why are you worried, then?"
"I guess I feel like I should be with one of them someday. With somebody...like us...at least. But what do I do if I can't have kids with them?"
Dr. Lensherr gave her an odd, tight smile, and Jean suddenly realized that it wasn't like two guys could have kids together even if they weren't mutants.
"Oh," she whispered, almost to herself. Then she looked at his face as something else occurred to her. "Is that why you and Professor Xavier started the school?"
She took a long drink and pretended to be interested in the contents of her glass, wondering if she'd crossed a line she shouldn't have. She knew they were homosexual, and Hank knew, and both teachers knew they knew. But nobody ever really talked about it. She was very, very grateful Dr. Lensherr didn't ask her to clarify what she meant.
Instead, he swallowed his food and took a drink of Coke, not really looking at anything, like he was really thinking about it. "I think it was on Charles' part," he said at last, slowly. "Perhaps not consciously, at first, but...yes."
Jean nodded and decided to push her luck a little. "You didn't want children?"
He shrugged and gave her that half-smile again. "It...wasn't something I'd considered." He looked at her shrewdly and added, "But if you're asking if I regret having all of you running about at the mansion, the answer is no."
She smiled, mostly because she had actually been fishing for something like that. Dr. Lensherr wasn't as openly affectionate as Professor Xavier, but he was still more of a parent to her than her own father. And as almost-dads went, he was pretty cool.
Jean knew he'd get all sarcastic if she said something mushy, like she that loved him--or even if she said 'thanks,' for that matter--so she took a bite of her spaghetti instead. "You're right," she said after a minute. "This really is awful."
He chuckled. "Let me guess. The pasta is sticky, the sauce is thin, and the meatballs aren't warm in the center?"
"Oh, so you've ordered this before."
"Unfortunately." Jean poked at the pile with her fork, wishing they hadn't given her such a big portion. Dr. Lensherr saw this and added, "You don't have to finish it."
Jean blinked at him. Normally he made a big deal out of not wasting food and scolded all of them if they took more than they could eat at dinner. She knew it bothered him no matter what he'd said, though, so she shrugged and took another bite.
They ate in silence for a few moments. Dr. Lensherr finished his chicken and nudged his plate aside; Jean decided she'd had enough, despite the fact that there was still a small heap of spaghetti on her plate. She thought she might puke if she ate one more lukewarm meatball.
The waiter must have been watching them like a hawk, or it could've been because it was late and the restaurant nearly empty, but he popped up by Jean's elbow again as soon as she set down her fork. "Is there anything else I can bring you? Perhaps some dessert?" he asked, looking from Jean to Dr. Lensherr after he'd scooped up their plates.
"Two coffees, please," said Dr. Lensherr. "And an ashtray." Jean had been expecting him to ask for the check. She must have looked surprised, because he raised an eyebrow at her once the waiter had left. "You wanted to talk, did you not?"
"Yeah..."
He spread his hands on the table and looked down at them. "Well, then. Talk."
Jean sighed, almost wishing that he were a telepath. It was easier to talk to Professor Xavier; she didn't have to say the hard stuff out loud. She was still deciding what to say when the waiter came back. Dr. Lensherr seemed as relieved as Jean felt, and they both busied themselves for a moment. Jean stirred three packets of sugar into her coffee because she really didn't like it as much as she pretended to. Dr. Lensherr reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his packet of cigarettes and lighter. He lit one and then looked at Jean for a long moment before sliding the pack across the table with a fingertip.
"Pretend if you must," he said dryly, "but if you start smoking in earnest I will not hesitate to fail you in every class I teach."
Jean bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from smiling. She drew out a cigarette and lit up, careful to hold it between the tips of her fingers. Then she tilted her head back and exhaled--not that she'd really inhaled, much--like the way those gorgeous women did in the black and white movies the teachers loved. She really needed to start wearing dark eyeliner.
Dr. Lensherr was watching her over the rim of his coffee cup. He set it down and flicked his cigarette at the ashtray, waiting.
"Scott and Hank were really worried," Jean blurted out. It wasn't how she'd meant to start, and those elegant movie stars would've never been so abrupt, but it was something. "They hadn't heard you fight before."
"Well, I'm sorry Scott and Henry were disturbed, but we were disagreeing. Not fighting."
"Whatever," Jean said, frowning at her coffee. "You were disagreeing really loudly."
He sighed. "Shouting telepathically--and listening to me--was giving Charles a headache. And he in turn was giving his headache to me."
Jean paused with her cigarette halfway to her lips and gave him a look. "So, what, you thought yelling out loud would be better?"
A small shrug, but he looked amused as he replied. "We were angry, Jean."
She nodded, taking a sip of coffee. "Yeah, I know. But..."
"What?"
Jean sighed and stabbed the cigarette out in the ashtray, breaking it, suddenly not feeling grown up at all. She met his eyes and tried to smile. "Nothing. I just hate seeing you mad at each other."
"Jean..." Dr. Lensherr shook his head and took a drink of coffee. "It happens sometimes. Everything will be all right."
She looked down at the table and nodded, trying to believe him. Trying to forget that her parents used to fight like that, behind closed doors and when they thought she was asleep, in the year before they got divorced. "What were you fighting about?" she asked, addressing her cup, not quite brave enough to ask if he would ever really leave.
"How much has Charles told you?" he asked, sounding like he was raising an eyebrow again.
Jean shrugged and looked up at him. "Not much. I know you fight about politics, mostly. Like, bills and senators and stuff. And about us, sometimes. What we should be taught."
Dr. Lensherr nodded over his cup. "Then you already know what we were disagreeing about."
"I guess. Do you want to talk about it?"
He snorted. "Isn't that what we're doing?"
"Yeah, but...you know. I'll listen. If you want."
"Actually," he said quietly, giving her a smile, "I'd intended to have a drink and stew about it. You've already helped." He paused and gestured for the waiter to bring their check. "And I ought to get you home. It has to be late."
Jean checked her watch. "It's nearly ten." And then she gasped as she realized something. "Oh, God. I didn't call Professor Xavier!"
Dr. Lensherr shook his head and put out his cigarette. "I'm sure he's guessed that you're with me."
"Still." She bit her lip worriedly, and Dr. Lensherr chuckled.
"You give him the fettuccini, then. An unusual olive branch, but it will do."
The waiter brought both the check and the Styrofoam box, and Dr. Lensherr went to pay while Jean finished her coffee. They left a moment later, and he went around to open Jean's car door for her. She grinned over at him as she fastened her seatbelt and settled Professor Xavier's takeout box on her lap. "What was that for?"
He shrugged, looking through the windshield instead of at her, but Jean saw his lips twitch. "The waiter said...he said my daughter was a lovely young lady. I thought I ought to treat her like one."
They didn't talk much on the way home, but that was fine with Jean. She didn't think she could stop smiling long enough to speak, anyway.
Lights were on upstairs when they pulled into the driveway, which told Jean that Scott and Hank had already gone up to their rooms. She and Dr. Lensherr went in through the garage door and found Professor Xavier sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for them. He'd been staring down at his clasped hands on the tabletop, but he looked up when they entered, his face stern.
"Jean--"
"I'm sorry!" she said quickly. "I was going to call you, but I forgot. And Dr. Lensherr forgot, too. But we brought food," she added, lifting the Styrofoam box.
"It wasn't her fault, Charles," said Dr. Lensherr, shrugging off his jacket. He hung it on the back of a chair and then stood leaning with his hands on the shoulders. "I let her come."
Professor Xavier didn't say anything, just looked at Dr. Lensherr for a long moment, and Jean bit her bottom lip. "Are you really mad?"
He turned to her with surprise, like she'd interrupted something--which she probably had--and gave her a small smile. "No, Jean. I was just worried." He nodded at the box. "You're forgiven, anyway, if you brought dinner. Scott and Henry ordered a pizza, but I declined. What is it?"
Jean smiled back and went over to the counter. "Fettuccini," she replied over her shoulder, getting out a plate to warm up the pasta in the microwave. "But it's probably not very good."
Professor Xavier chuckled. "You took her to Luigi's, Erik?"
"I thought it a suitable punishment." He came over to the counter, too, and began to rummage through the cupboards.
"It wasn't that bad," said Jean.
"Then I must inflict something else upon you." Dr. Lensherr smiled and held up a pack of Oreos as he went to sit at the table. "Dessert?"
The microwave beeped, and Jean brought the plate over, thinking that waiting on Professor Xavier was the least she could do for making him worry. She felt a little guilty, too, that she and Dr. Lensherr had been out, and Scott and Hank had got a pizza, but the professor had been by himself. Dr. Lensherr must've felt the same way, because the silverware drawer opened with a wave of his finger, and a fork drifted over to Professor Xavier.
She looked from one of them to the other after she'd set the pasta down. It would be really nice to sit up in the kitchen and eat cookies and just be with the two of them. But they still had to make up, and Jean had a feeling they probably wouldn't want her around for that. And they were looking at each other again, ignoring the fettuccini and the cookies and her, so Jean decided she'd better go.
"I think I'll pass on dessert," she announced. "I'm getting kind of tired."
She squeezed Professor Xavier's shoulder gently and headed for the door, but Dr. Lensherr caught her elbow as she passed. Jean looked at him in surprise, and he gave her a quick, awkward hug of one arm around her waist. Then he smiled.
"Goodnight, Jean."
"Yes, goodnight," said Professor Xavier. "And thank you for bringing dinner."
"You're welcome. 'Night," replied Jean on her way out. And now that I'm not watching anymore, you'd better kiss and make up, already.
She grinned to herself when she heard a startled cough and a dropped fork behind her, almost hoping he'd tell Dr. Lensherr what she'd said. Before tonight, she never would have dared. But now...well. It'd serve him right for that joke about the breadstick.
The End