Chicken Soup for the Mutant Soul (X-Men First Class COMIC, Jean/Wanda)
Title: Chicken Soup for the Mutant Soul
Author: harmonyangel
Fandom: X-Men First Class (comic, not film)
Pairing: Jean/Wanda
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,400
Summary: Jean is sick. Wanda is her own private Little Red Riding Hood.
Author's Notes: Written for garrideb's birthday! Established-relationship fic, utter schmoop.
Wanda shifted her basket to her left hand and knocked on the door to the Xavier Institute. She could hear the vague sounds of shuffling feet and murmured speech, followed by a distinctive bounding gait that stopped just short of the door.
“Ah, my dear Ms. Maximoff!” Hank said, extending a hand in greeting. “How are you faring on this day of crystalline precipitation?”
Wanda smiled and stepped through the door, letting the melting snow fall off of her red cloak as she pushed back the hood. “I’m fine, Henry. It’s good to see you.”
Warren, standing in the mansion sitting room with Scott and Bobby, cocked his head to the side. “You look like Little Red Riding Hood,” he observed.
“Yeah, but I don’t think she plans on treating Jean like her granny, if you know what I’m saying.” Bobby nudged Warren in the side several times, making his feathers rustle.
“Bobby!” Scott exclaimed, turning almost as red as his glasses as Warren made a face of annoyance and nudged Bobby in return.
Wanda did not know what “Little Red Riding Hood” was, precisely, but the name sounded like a vague translation of a fairy tale she’d heard as a child. “I do come bearing gifts for the unwell,” she said, hoping her guess was correct, “and I hope Jean has not been changed into a wolf.”
Just then, a small crash came from upstairs. The boys winced. “You couldn’t have come at a better time,” Scott said. “Jean won’t let any of us near her, not even to bring her more tea. And I think she keeps dropping things.”
Wanda tried to ignore the pained look that came over Scott’s face whenever he talked about Jean. She knew of his feelings for his teammate, and she sympathized with his plight. But it had taken Wanda a long time to develop her own sense of right and wrong, independent of Magneto and her brother and everyone else who had wanted to control her. Caring about someone who cared about her in return was not something that weighed on her conscience.
“I’ll go see her at once,” Wanda said, and she made her way up the stairs, basket gripped tightly in hand.
Wanda did not knock on Jean’s door; she didn’t want to give her the chance to reject her comforts, as she had those of the boys. Instead she simply walked in, settling herself at Jean’s bedside and placing the basket on the floor.
The flu was clearly taking its toll. Jean lay on her pillow, eyes lidded and rimmed with red, looking too weak even to prop herself up to her elbows. Her gorgeous red hair was splayed out behind her haphazardly, full of tangles, and her skin, always pale, was so white that purple shone through where her veins came closest to the surface. On the floor next to the bed, a ceramic mug lay in pieces in a puddle of spilled tea.
“Oh, Jeannie,” Wanda said, leaning down to pick up the jagged pieces and depositing them in the wastebasket in the corner of Jean’s room.
“I tried to lift it telekinetically,” Jean explained, voice cracked and hoarse, “but this medicine mixes up my brain. I couldn’t concentrate.”
Wanda made a clucking sound with her tongue. “This is why you should let your friends help you.” Wanda was proud of how much better her English was getting, as she spent more and more time with Jean and the X-Men.
“I didn’t want them to get sick,” Jean countered, and punctuated her protest with a sneeze.
Wanda was glad that Jean was only telekinetic and not telepathic (at least not yet, as the professor was fond of saying), because it meant she could not hear the frustrated thoughts circling her head. Jean’s self-sufficiency was sure to be her downfall. Instead of lecturing her, Wanda reached out and handed Jean a tissue from the box at her bedside table before she had a chance to attempt to grab it telekinetically. “Well, I am here now. And I have brought you gifts to help you heal.”
Even bloodshot and bleary, Jean’s green eyes were the most beautiful Wanda had ever seen. They widened now, a sign of flu-addled interest.
“First, I have brought you soup,” Wanda said, flipping up one side of her basket and taking out a jar filled with broth and vegetables and tiny bits of chicken. “It is a recipe from my home. We would cook it in huge cauldrons over the fire.” As she talked she poured some soup into the bowl she’d packed and dipped in a spoon.
Jean reached out for the spoon, with her hand this time, but her arm drooped halfway to the table where Wanda had set it down. She looked up at Wanda pleadingly, and Wanda felt her heart skip a beat.
“I will help you eat it, of course. That’s why I’m here.” Gently she helped Jean sit up against her headboard, vertical enough that she wouldn’t choke. Settling down to a sitting position on the side of the bed, she smoothed back Jean’s hair, feeling the heat radiating from her forehead, and wished that she could kiss her without risking flu symptoms herself. Instead, she settled for bringing spoonfuls of soup to Jean’s mouth, letting her spoon and the soup she’d prepared touch the lips that she couldn’t touch herself.
When Jean had eaten a good amount of the soup, Wanda brought out the second package: a small parcel of cookies, wrapped in paper and ribbon. “You don’t need to eat these now, but they are the cookies my mother,” -- one of my mothers, Wanda thought but didn’t say - “would make for me when I was sick as a child. They do not have fortifying nutrients, but I hope they will help your mood.”
Jean smiled, a real, if weak, smile. “Oh, Wanda. You are the sweetest human being I have ever met in my entire life.” She paused as her body shuddered with coughs. When her breath returned, she continued, “I don’t even know what to say.”
“You do not need to say anything. Save your strength so you will be well.” Wanda understood Jean’s gratitude, but she did not feel she deserved it. Anyone would do this for someone they cared for so deeply.
“Is there anything else your mom did for you when you were sick?” Jean asked.
Wanda realized that she rarely spoke of her childhood with Jean, or with anyone other than Pietro. It usually felt too private, too haunted. But there were good memories buried in her past.
“She would sing to me. A special song she wrote,” Wanda admitted.
Jean nodded. “Could you… could you sing that for me?”
“It is in Transian.”
“That’s ok.”
“I am not your mother,” Wanda pointed out.
“I know,” Jean said. “You’re my Wanda. That’s even better.”
“O-ok,” Wanda said, still hesitant. She had only sung the song a few times before, always to comfort her brother. But she remembered its every note, and she began to sing it now, her voice quiet and lilting, as she continued to stroke Jean’s hair and hold one of her clammy hands tightly in her own. Jean’s mouth curled up into a smile as her eyes drifted closed.
When she was done with her song, Wanda could tell that Jean was asleep. Sleep, she knew, was the best remedy for illness, and she wasn’t willing to disturb her girlfriend further. As slowly and quietly as she could, she stood up from the bed, releasing Jean’s hand and pulling up the bedcovers. Then she reached into her basket and took out the last item - a teddy bear dressed in a tiny red shirt, something to cuddle when Wanda herself was gone. Gently as possible, Wanda set the bear down next to Jean’s sleeping form, transferring all of her emotions and energies into its stitches and stuffing.
I love you, Wanda thought, looking down at Jean’s sleeping form. She gathered up her empty basket, screwed on the lid of the soup, and headed toward the door.
But as she placed her hand on the doorknob, a voice came into her mind, as clear as if it had been her own thoughts. “I know. I love you too.”
Author: harmonyangel
Fandom: X-Men First Class (comic, not film)
Pairing: Jean/Wanda
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,400
Summary: Jean is sick. Wanda is her own private Little Red Riding Hood.
Author's Notes: Written for garrideb's birthday! Established-relationship fic, utter schmoop.
Wanda shifted her basket to her left hand and knocked on the door to the Xavier Institute. She could hear the vague sounds of shuffling feet and murmured speech, followed by a distinctive bounding gait that stopped just short of the door.
“Ah, my dear Ms. Maximoff!” Hank said, extending a hand in greeting. “How are you faring on this day of crystalline precipitation?”
Wanda smiled and stepped through the door, letting the melting snow fall off of her red cloak as she pushed back the hood. “I’m fine, Henry. It’s good to see you.”
Warren, standing in the mansion sitting room with Scott and Bobby, cocked his head to the side. “You look like Little Red Riding Hood,” he observed.
“Yeah, but I don’t think she plans on treating Jean like her granny, if you know what I’m saying.” Bobby nudged Warren in the side several times, making his feathers rustle.
“Bobby!” Scott exclaimed, turning almost as red as his glasses as Warren made a face of annoyance and nudged Bobby in return.
Wanda did not know what “Little Red Riding Hood” was, precisely, but the name sounded like a vague translation of a fairy tale she’d heard as a child. “I do come bearing gifts for the unwell,” she said, hoping her guess was correct, “and I hope Jean has not been changed into a wolf.”
Just then, a small crash came from upstairs. The boys winced. “You couldn’t have come at a better time,” Scott said. “Jean won’t let any of us near her, not even to bring her more tea. And I think she keeps dropping things.”
Wanda tried to ignore the pained look that came over Scott’s face whenever he talked about Jean. She knew of his feelings for his teammate, and she sympathized with his plight. But it had taken Wanda a long time to develop her own sense of right and wrong, independent of Magneto and her brother and everyone else who had wanted to control her. Caring about someone who cared about her in return was not something that weighed on her conscience.
“I’ll go see her at once,” Wanda said, and she made her way up the stairs, basket gripped tightly in hand.
Wanda did not knock on Jean’s door; she didn’t want to give her the chance to reject her comforts, as she had those of the boys. Instead she simply walked in, settling herself at Jean’s bedside and placing the basket on the floor.
The flu was clearly taking its toll. Jean lay on her pillow, eyes lidded and rimmed with red, looking too weak even to prop herself up to her elbows. Her gorgeous red hair was splayed out behind her haphazardly, full of tangles, and her skin, always pale, was so white that purple shone through where her veins came closest to the surface. On the floor next to the bed, a ceramic mug lay in pieces in a puddle of spilled tea.
“Oh, Jeannie,” Wanda said, leaning down to pick up the jagged pieces and depositing them in the wastebasket in the corner of Jean’s room.
“I tried to lift it telekinetically,” Jean explained, voice cracked and hoarse, “but this medicine mixes up my brain. I couldn’t concentrate.”
Wanda made a clucking sound with her tongue. “This is why you should let your friends help you.” Wanda was proud of how much better her English was getting, as she spent more and more time with Jean and the X-Men.
“I didn’t want them to get sick,” Jean countered, and punctuated her protest with a sneeze.
Wanda was glad that Jean was only telekinetic and not telepathic (at least not yet, as the professor was fond of saying), because it meant she could not hear the frustrated thoughts circling her head. Jean’s self-sufficiency was sure to be her downfall. Instead of lecturing her, Wanda reached out and handed Jean a tissue from the box at her bedside table before she had a chance to attempt to grab it telekinetically. “Well, I am here now. And I have brought you gifts to help you heal.”
Even bloodshot and bleary, Jean’s green eyes were the most beautiful Wanda had ever seen. They widened now, a sign of flu-addled interest.
“First, I have brought you soup,” Wanda said, flipping up one side of her basket and taking out a jar filled with broth and vegetables and tiny bits of chicken. “It is a recipe from my home. We would cook it in huge cauldrons over the fire.” As she talked she poured some soup into the bowl she’d packed and dipped in a spoon.
Jean reached out for the spoon, with her hand this time, but her arm drooped halfway to the table where Wanda had set it down. She looked up at Wanda pleadingly, and Wanda felt her heart skip a beat.
“I will help you eat it, of course. That’s why I’m here.” Gently she helped Jean sit up against her headboard, vertical enough that she wouldn’t choke. Settling down to a sitting position on the side of the bed, she smoothed back Jean’s hair, feeling the heat radiating from her forehead, and wished that she could kiss her without risking flu symptoms herself. Instead, she settled for bringing spoonfuls of soup to Jean’s mouth, letting her spoon and the soup she’d prepared touch the lips that she couldn’t touch herself.
When Jean had eaten a good amount of the soup, Wanda brought out the second package: a small parcel of cookies, wrapped in paper and ribbon. “You don’t need to eat these now, but they are the cookies my mother,” -- one of my mothers, Wanda thought but didn’t say - “would make for me when I was sick as a child. They do not have fortifying nutrients, but I hope they will help your mood.”
Jean smiled, a real, if weak, smile. “Oh, Wanda. You are the sweetest human being I have ever met in my entire life.” She paused as her body shuddered with coughs. When her breath returned, she continued, “I don’t even know what to say.”
“You do not need to say anything. Save your strength so you will be well.” Wanda understood Jean’s gratitude, but she did not feel she deserved it. Anyone would do this for someone they cared for so deeply.
“Is there anything else your mom did for you when you were sick?” Jean asked.
Wanda realized that she rarely spoke of her childhood with Jean, or with anyone other than Pietro. It usually felt too private, too haunted. But there were good memories buried in her past.
“She would sing to me. A special song she wrote,” Wanda admitted.
Jean nodded. “Could you… could you sing that for me?”
“It is in Transian.”
“That’s ok.”
“I am not your mother,” Wanda pointed out.
“I know,” Jean said. “You’re my Wanda. That’s even better.”
“O-ok,” Wanda said, still hesitant. She had only sung the song a few times before, always to comfort her brother. But she remembered its every note, and she began to sing it now, her voice quiet and lilting, as she continued to stroke Jean’s hair and hold one of her clammy hands tightly in her own. Jean’s mouth curled up into a smile as her eyes drifted closed.
When she was done with her song, Wanda could tell that Jean was asleep. Sleep, she knew, was the best remedy for illness, and she wasn’t willing to disturb her girlfriend further. As slowly and quietly as she could, she stood up from the bed, releasing Jean’s hand and pulling up the bedcovers. Then she reached into her basket and took out the last item - a teddy bear dressed in a tiny red shirt, something to cuddle when Wanda herself was gone. Gently as possible, Wanda set the bear down next to Jean’s sleeping form, transferring all of her emotions and energies into its stitches and stuffing.
I love you, Wanda thought, looking down at Jean’s sleeping form. She gathered up her empty basket, screwed on the lid of the soup, and headed toward the door.
But as she placed her hand on the doorknob, a voice came into her mind, as clear as if it had been her own thoughts. “I know. I love you too.”