XMM Fic: "No Need for Translation" (Jean/Charles, R)
Title: No Need for Translation
Fandom: X-Men Movieverse
Pairing/Characters: Jean/Charles (implied Charles/Erik, as always)
Rating: R
Word Count: 4500
Disclaimer: All your X-Men are belong to Marvel and 20th Century Fox.
Summary: In which Jean very badly wants to get drunk, remembers a slumber party, and spends the night with Charles Xavier.
Notes: This was not how this fic was supposed to turn out. I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or not. This takes place years before X1.
Feedback is, as always, very much appreciated! :)
No Need for Translation
The first time Jean saw them together, she thought nothing of it. She did notice that the redhead with him was beautiful, and her haircolor was natural. (Jean couldn't help seeing that; being born a carrot-top meant the ability to tell was in her blood.) But the sight of her standing next to Erik at a conference, pointing to something on a handout across the hotel lobby did nothing to arouse Jean's suspicion. Colleagues, she assumed. The woman was wearing a blazer, but she did look young. Maybe a student.
The second time, a few months later, was at an inter-departmental cocktail hour that Hank practically dragged her to. Jean and Hank were dancing, and again, Jean spotted them across the room. Saw Erik, at least, and then the redhead sidled up to him, carrying two drinks. She was wearing a deep blue dress this time, with a plunging neckline, and the smile Erik gave her as he accepted the glass made something cold and heavy settle in the pit of Jean's stomach.
Friends, she told herself, and she clung to Hank as though the floor were tilting along with them as they swayed. Just friends, or she was a bright graduate student he was fond of. Probably friends, maybe colleagues after all--friendly ones--and anyway, he was allowed to have friends, wasn't he?
The coldness went sharp for a second, a jab of guilt as she thought of home, of Charles no doubt having a Friday night pizza dinner with a table of preteens, but Jean ignored it. Charles had Scott, commuting to college, and Ororo, who was a senior this year and legally an adult, and Hank, and Warren. And Charles had her.
The guilt faded, and Jean glanced at them again, back in the corner where they'd found a table. It was all right for Erik to have a friendly relationship with a colleague. Surely that should be all right. She noticed that the redhead's hair was different than before. A shade darker, a bit less bright. Probably from a bottle, after all.
Jean didn't know why that pleased her, but it did.
The third time was at a restaurant where Jean was treating herself to a cheap hamburger and a fancy chocolate dessert before driving back to Westchester for the summer. Again, she assumed they were friends, and she was comfortable enough with the idea by then to consider going over to say hello and introduce herself. That is, until she noticed that the redhead's hand was not resting on the table but on Erik's knee, realized belatedly that friends didn't typically sit on the same side of the table, and happened to be watching when Erik draped his arm across the top of the booth so that his fingertips brushed her bare shoulder.
The redhead crossed her (admittedly long, admittedly gorgeous) legs, and Jean swallowed a mouthful of icing that tasted like ash. The woman was wearing a miniskirt and skinny sandals with heels. Her hair was different again. Shorter. Paler. Almost strawberry blonde. It made her look washed-out, Jean thought, but Erik didn't seem to care.
This time, there was no question about them. There couldn't be, though Jean could almost feel the gears whirring in her mind, could almost hear the tiny clicks of puzzle pieces being shifted, involuntarily, as her brain tried to explain what her eyes didn't want to believe.
It didn't hurt, strangely enough. Jean only felt cold as she stumbled to her feet and walked out, leaving a handful of bills scattered across the table. She was distantly thankful they hadn't seen her, but mostly just sluggish, stupid, as if that coldness in her gut had spread.
She was barely conscious of the drive home. She left the windows rolled up, the radio off, and flicked the headlights on automatically when the highway began to get dim. She tried not to replay what she'd seen--the way the redhead's lips had curved slightly when Erik leaned close to speak, the way his fingers had skimmed a slow circle on her skin. Expending all of her energy not seeing it again, though, meant Jean couldn't help thinking about it. Wondering.
Did they meet at that conference, or had they driven down together? Did they go out for drinks afterward? Did he invite her or accept her invitation? Was she not a colleague or a student at all but a date he brought to the cocktail hour?
Worse, as Jean's brain was busy analyzing every nuance she remembered, every glance, a tiny, chilling voice whispered from the darkest place within her. Did his fingers tangle in her hair, it wondered? Did he like it best when it was long and nearly auburn, spilling down her back like silk?
The redhead looked young enough to be his daughter. Did he like the way her calves looked above those strappy heels? Had her breath caught when, after whispering to her, his knee fell sideways, touching hers? And when he bent his head and whispered, what language did he speak?
(Ich liebe dich were the first words in his tongue Jean was taught. Not the first she heard, nor the first Charles translated for her when she stumbled over the harsh syllables from her dreams, but the first he spoke, that mattered.)
Her cassette tapes rattled in their shoebox on the floor, and the passenger-side door locked and unlocked itself nervously. Jean took a deep breath and gripped the steering wheel. Prayed the windshield wouldn't crack.
The road went on forever. Jean never had really liked The Hobbit, despite Hank's best efforts to share yet another of his childhood loves. She liked that particular quote (one of his favorites) even less than usual as the yellow and white lines on the asphalt stretched and dashed endlessly. It didn't help that she was driving somewhere around fifteen miles under the speed limit. It was one of the first driver's ed lessons she'd been given--when you're angry or upset, make an effort to go slower, not faster. At first she'd simply wanted to please Charles, but by now it was habit.
Jean sighed and pushed harder on the gas; watched the dial climb past 'turtle' to 'old lady,' but even so, the mansion's bedrooms were nearly all dark when she pulled up the driveway. Not the first floor, though, which meant that Charles hadn't assumed she'd changed her plans. More importantly, it meant he was probably waiting up.
The vague, sick chill in her stomach became solid ice at the thought of seeing him, but she steeled herself, tightened her mental shields, and made it with her duffel bag as far as the foyer before realizing that she absolutely could not do this.
Her hand was on the doorknob again when he spoke. "Jean? I thought I heard your car. What's the matter? Did you forget something?"
She turned slowly. "I--" His face was concerned, he looked tired, and it was all she could do not to run to him and fall apart. Instead, she forced a smile. "I thought I did. My pajamas. But everything I need tonight's in here." She half-lifted the bag as proof.
Charles nodded, then looked at her face for a long moment before gesturing toward the kitchen. "Well. There's tea."
"I'd love some." Another lie, since she was already shielding herself. But as Jean watched him turn his chair and head for the kitchen, she knew no amount of lying could fix the mistake she'd made. She had never come home from a vacation or school and failed to hug him. Not once. The distance between them spoke volumes, and now she felt guilty about that, too.
She was tempted to bend and cling to him in the kitchen, to try to start over because maybe falling apart would be better than this, but now there was apprehension mixed with his concern, brittle tension in his movements and almost palpable in the room. When they were settled with mugs of Earl Grey, his gaze across the table was wary.
"Are you expecting a child, Jean?"
She was suddenly glad the tea was too hot to drink, or she would've spit it out in shock. As it was, it took a second for her mouth to form words again. "What? No! Of course not. I'm a doctor."
Charles nodded as though he'd received an answer to a perfectly reasonable question, though Jean thought she saw him relax, just a little. He took a cautious sip and continued to look at her. "I almost didn't hear you come in," he said mildly, after a moment. His tone wasn't reproachful, but Jean clearly heard what he didn't say. He almost hadn't felt her come in. Or, more likely, he had, but he also sensed that she was keeping him out as best she could.
Jean swallowed and clasped her hands in her lap and looked down at them. Her mouth felt dry, and there were so many things she could say that the words choked her and knotted in her throat. That she hated being a telepath sometimes and hated that he was a telepath, too, for starters. "You know I love you," she managed at last.
Charles' lips quirked. "Though it should be, that's rarely a promising beginning to a conversation." Then the smile reached his eyes, and the lines around them deepened, as he added, "Of course I know, Jean. And I love you. But what could possibly make you think you need such a disclaimer?"
"I--" Jean closed her eyes. She was so cold, her voice shriveled up, but she knew instinctively that even a sip of tea--of anything, except maybe straight liquor--would make her vomit. The words that forced themselves free from the tangle, out of her mouth, nearly did, too. "I think we should sleep together."
She was as surprised by this as Charles looked. She hadn't meant to say that, hadn't even considered it, but in the silence after she spoke, Jean heard the last of the puzzle pieces softly snap into place. It made sense.
Jean had a vivid memory from when she was about sixteen, curled up on her bed late one night while Hank sprawled on her beanbag chair. She'd been reading a very-much-frowned-upon copy of Cosmopolitan and waiting for the clear polish on her nails to dry, and Hank had been absorbed in a stack of comic books.
She remembered looking up from a column on how to apply four colors of eyeshadow, right after reading about different 'types' of men, and looking at Hank for a long moment before daring to speak.
"Do you like the Professor and Dr. Lehnsherr?" she'd asked, barely more than a whisper. Hesitantly, too, since Hank had only told her about his own 'flexibility' a few months before.
He hadn't asked what she meant. Merely lowered the comic book as his thick eyebrows climbed. "If you're going to request the dubious pleasures of braiding my hair and giving me a pedicure next, I'm going to leave, Jeannie. Besides, while I am fond of both, I find the question inappropriate. Not to mention disturbing."
Of course, she'd chucked a pillow at him. Then hugged another to her chest, blushing. "I know. And I'm not serious. But they aren't our parents, not really--" (she had felt guilt at that, but in a strictly biological sense it was true) "--and I was just wondering if. You know. You ever thought...?"
Only one eyebrow rose over his glasses, that time, and he gave her an amused look. "I have thought, on occasion, yes."
"Hank!"
He'd heaved a sigh and set the comic down. "If you're asking whether or not I've entertained sexual fantasies about either of them, the answer is no." Then his eyes widened, sparkling with interest. "But you have?"
Jean pressed her lips together as her cheeks grew hotter. "Not 'either,'" she'd mumbled, wondering why on earth she'd thought a slumber party with Hank--best friend or not--would be a great idea. "Not exactly."
Hank leaned forward, the inappropriateness of it all apparently forgotten. And while Jean knew for a fact that his sexual experience was limited to seeing one of Warren's Playboy magazines, kissing her a few times, and (very probably, almost certainly) doing That--masturbation; there was a short and vague section on it in the book Professor Xavier had given them--she also knew that Hank McCoy had an imagination that rivaled his I.Q.
She watched him closely, and it didn't take long for comprehension to dawn. "Oh, my. Jean!"
"Shh!" She'd rolled her eyes. "I don't--I mean, it's just sweet, isn't it? They're both smart, and I guess they're attractive, and--and I like the idea of them being with each other. As a couple, I mean."
She'd half-expected Hank to think she was some sort of freak, but after a moment, he'd nodded sagely. "You can romanticize their relationship in a way that would be strange, were they your biological parents. Being older than you and mentor-figures logically would lead to your infatuation, but given that they are also homosexual, a crush on either--or both--of them allows you to maintain a distance, not to mention a level of security and comfort, that you wouldn't have if they preferred women."
His armchair analysis had left Jean somewhere between embarrassed and annoyed, and they'd soon changed the subject, but not before doing a quick game of 'if you absolutely had to choose.'
After a pause, Hank had almost shyly said Professor Xavier. That made sense to Jean. Their hypothetical relationship would have been the quietest, wryest, most perceptive, gentlest relationship in the history of the world, but she'd known, deeply, that his choice was good.
She'd automatically said Professor Lehnsherr, but she'd known the unthinking choice to be just as true. If she had to choose.
She looked at Charles across the table now, feeling naked even though she knew he hadn't read her thoughts. Could have, surely, but hadn't.
Charles looked shocked, and no wonder. Like Hank, he had a gift for knowing when a seemingly innocent question or statement meant more and never asked her to clarify. Not even now, when she'd said something so enormous, and she actually had slept in his bed before.
He looked, on second thought, as if she'd punched him. "Jean, why?" he asked at last, low and raw.
Her response was automatic again, and just as awful. A whisper, because the ugliest thing in the world shouldn't be said in the first place. "Because it should have been me." Her breath caught, and her voice shook before it broke. "With him. If it wasn't you."
She saw him go white, or start to, before his face blurred and the sudden lack of weight in her stomach sent her hunching forward to protect what was already gone. She didn't need the shields anymore and let them go. Couldn't have held them if she wanted to. Couldn't concentrate and cry at the same time.
Jean buried her face in her arms on the kitchen table and sobbed silently in front of her cooling tea, and it took a long moment--longer than it should have--for him to come up beside her.
"Oh, Jean." He sounded helpless, as strangled as she felt, and Jean sensed all too easily that he didn't dare touch her. His shields weren't holding well, either. Cloth hissed as he settled his hands in his lap, instead. "Jean," Charles said again, "I know this hurt you, but--"
She looked up, not caring at all that her face was doubtlessly blotchy and wet. Her mascara was probably running down her chin. "She was my age, Charles. She was. With red hair."
If Charles looked like she'd punched him before, she'd cut him to the bone now. His mouth opened, just a fraction, but no sound came out. Then he swallowed visibly and did reach out to her, but Jean flinched, unable not to think of another hand on a different shoulder.
"Dear God." Whispered again, probably not meant for her, possibly merely thought--Jean was past telling. He met her eyes steadily, though, and spoke more calmly than Jean would have thought possible. "I won't be a tool for your revenge."
She winced and looked away in shame. "It isn't revenge," Jean muttered after a moment. She cleared her throat and forced herself to lift her eyes to his face. "I love you. And if he has--I mean, I want to--"
"But do you think you want that for yourself, or for me?" Charles asked, not speaking aloud. The two of them always switched, always had, when it got too hard.
"Does it matter?" Jean thought bleakly. "For us both?"
"But I don't need--"
"I know," she whispered. The shreds of her courage weren't enough, but something more than that--maybe love, maybe guilt from a split-second decision made when she was little more than a child, maybe fear that she would make the same choice today, if she got to choose--gave her the will to reach out and set her hand on his knee. She looked at him, meaning it. "I do."
Charles closed his eyes, and his face tightened with pain, though whether that was because he was ashamed of her or almost tempted, Jean couldn't tell. Didn't really want to know, anyway. "Assuming, for the moment, that I would consider this… Jean, I'm--"
"Not my father," she interrupted. "Not related by blood. Not even my legal guardian anymore. Not my professor."
He gave her a look. "I was going to say, not usually interested in women. Nor particularly...adept...in the traditional sense. I'm--"
"A telepath," Jean finished, refusing to let him talk her out of it. She had thought about this, in these last few seconds when her mind was racing to make sense of things. "And so am I. If you want to make me believe--or have me try to make you believe that I'm--I think I could--"
"I am not going to use you."
Jean drew back and reached blindly for her tea, needing something besides him to cling to. The mug was warmer than she'd thought it would be. Her hands shook; the tea wavered when she looked down. "I'm not a child. Charles," she said quietly. His name was an afterthought, of course, a last-ditch attempt to put them on equal footing.
"I knew you when you were eleven years old."
"But I'm not now." Felt like it, maybe, but that was beside the point. "And though I do think of you as--as a mentor--" (the other word would be too awful right now) "--what matters is that I love you."
Charles sighed and reached up to rub his forehead. "Jean, even if you were attracted to me, if this was being proposed freely, without extenuating circumstances--"
"But it's not. There are circumstances."
He sighed again, but his expression was somewhere between exasperated and fond as he regarded her. "Is there anything I can say to convince you that this is a very bad idea?"
Jean closed her eyes, and her hand tightened on the cup. Silence stretched between them, turning the inches to miles. "Tell me you don't love me," she said at last, not daring to look at him as she thought. "That you don't trust me or my judgment. That if it's anyone besides him, with you, it shouldn't be me."
His breath hitched. "I've never lied to you before, Jean."
"Then if it is anyone? Tonight? Ever? If there's anyone you'll let love you?"
In answer, Charles' hand came to rest on top of hers. His touch was light, hesitant, but even so, Jean stared at him, feeling as though all her nerve endings had gone dead except the ones beneath his palm. This contact, so much less than so many other times, should have been nothing, but it shifted the world. It made her want to cry.
It was a question as well as an answer, and Jean nodded. Turned her hand in order to give his a gentle squeeze. "I-um." She felt as unsure as he looked, but she had to do this. He wouldn't. "Should we, um...upstairs?"
His head bobbed in a barely-perceptible nod, and Jean rinsed their mugs in the sink and gathered her duffel bag before following him to the elevator and then down the hallway to his bedroom. Once inside, she went straight to the bathroom in order to give him some privacy and, less importantly, to make herself more presentable. Her mascara had indeed left faint watery trails down her face, but it would have seemed ridiculous to fix it (despite having her makeup bag with her), so she settled for scrubbing hard with a washcloth and cold water.
She briefly considered trying to do something about her hair but found that she couldn't bear to touch it just now, any more than she could bring herself to look her reflection in the eye. Instead, she turned her back on the mirror, folded her arms, and waited until a reasonable amount of time had passed.
She did not-resolutely did not-allow herself to think.
When Jean opened the bathroom door with a hand that was merely cold, not trembling, she found Charles sitting in bed wearing a pajama shirt with the comforter pulled up to his waist. They stared at one another for a moment in silence, and Jean tried to smile.
Charles looked puzzled and gestured, taking in her clothes. "I thought you were changing."
The thought hadn't even occurred to her, given what they had planned, since being naked was kind of a requirement for that, and-oh, God, he probably wasn't wearing pants, given the difficulty that would be involved in getting them off. Jean's cheeks were suddenly on fire. She was thirteen again and reading The Book and had just realized all of them had penises and erections and nocturnal whatevers.
"Jean?"
She swallowed hard and looked at the empty side of the bed, the space that had once belonged to Erik. It seemed wrong, even now, that that space was there. Wrong, and sad, that so many years later Charles had never claimed it.
But Jean found that she couldn't either, not yet, so she went to Charles' side and perched, facing him, near his hip. He watched her and said nothing. She looked at him helplessly. There had been a few men, of course, but it was never like this. They'd wanted her.
After an eternity, Charles sighed and took her hand. Laced his fingers through hers and rubbed the side of her index finger with his thumb. "Jean..."
"Shh." She tensed for a second, concentrating, and flicked the light switch. In the sudden darkness, she could hear herself breathing.
Charles was silent, and still, as Jean's free hand brushed against his forearm and traveled upwards, over bicep and shoulder and the line of his neck. Her palm found his jaw, and she leaned in. His lips were warm and dry, softer than she expected, fuller-feeling than they looked. Jean swallowed and closed her eyes before parting her lips.
Charles' thumb started massaging fingers again, slid down in a half-circle to brush the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist, but he didn't kiss back. Not really. Not more than politely. Jean pulled back and allowed herself to be drawn closer when he tugged on her hand, and she laid her forehead in the crook of his neck. The flannel pajama collar tickled her nose and felt warm when she sighed against it.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered to his collarbone. The flannel brushed against her lips, too, as responsive to them as he had been.
Instead of answering, Charles wrapped one arm around her, pulling her even closer, so that she was half-sitting, half-lying against him, torso twisted, breasts crushed into his ribs. He took a deep, slow breath and rubbed his cheek against her hair. Jean's mouth crumpled, and she started to reach across him to return the hug, but a hand on her arm stopped her.
"One moment..." Charles let go of her and pulled back enough to slide one hand between them, and then the mattress dipped as he pushed himself up and over. Then he moved so that he was lying down completely and found her hand again. "Will you stay?"
With a nod he couldn't see, Jean toed off her shoes and socks and climbed under the covers. It seemed natural, somehow, and not at all weird to lie on her side, pressed against his side, with her head on his shoulder again. Her feet brushed against his long, bony warm ones, and her toes curled for an instant before she recalled herself and jerked away. Charles snorted quietly and hugged her closer. "It's all right."
Jean nodded and gave in to temptation, even if it did seem wrong to touch someone where they couldn't feel it. Her toes really were freezing, and if one of her legs ended up draped over one of his, that was probably okay, too. Their hands met somewhere over his middle, and Jean squeezed his fingers. "Thank you," she whispered.
Charles didn't say anything. His chest rose and fell slowly with deep, measured breaths. In the darkness, cocooned in blankets and getting warmer by the second, Jean yawned, nuzzled her cheek against flannel, and thought, surprisingly, that she might be able to sleep tonight. She almost was asleep, a few minutes later, when she felt Charles' chest hitch, then heard him gasp, raggedly, into her hair.
Jean swallowed hard and pressed her own trembling lips together, partly in an attempt not to break down with him, mostly to stop herself from saying that everything would be all right. She never could lie to him. Not about things that mattered.
She squeezed his hand again. Blinked and felt a hot tear slide sideways, towards her ear. "No matter what," she thought fiercely, "I will never leave you."
Charles sniffed and pressed his cheek against her hair in a tiny hug, but it was a long moment before he replied. "I hope you'll never have reason to."
"I won't. I promise," Jean whispered. She'd made this decision a few years ago, when she absolutely had to choose.
Fandom: X-Men Movieverse
Pairing/Characters: Jean/Charles (implied Charles/Erik, as always)
Rating: R
Word Count: 4500
Disclaimer: All your X-Men are belong to Marvel and 20th Century Fox.
Summary: In which Jean very badly wants to get drunk, remembers a slumber party, and spends the night with Charles Xavier.
Notes: This was not how this fic was supposed to turn out. I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or not. This takes place years before X1.
Feedback is, as always, very much appreciated! :)
No Need for Translation
The first time Jean saw them together, she thought nothing of it. She did notice that the redhead with him was beautiful, and her haircolor was natural. (Jean couldn't help seeing that; being born a carrot-top meant the ability to tell was in her blood.) But the sight of her standing next to Erik at a conference, pointing to something on a handout across the hotel lobby did nothing to arouse Jean's suspicion. Colleagues, she assumed. The woman was wearing a blazer, but she did look young. Maybe a student.
The second time, a few months later, was at an inter-departmental cocktail hour that Hank practically dragged her to. Jean and Hank were dancing, and again, Jean spotted them across the room. Saw Erik, at least, and then the redhead sidled up to him, carrying two drinks. She was wearing a deep blue dress this time, with a plunging neckline, and the smile Erik gave her as he accepted the glass made something cold and heavy settle in the pit of Jean's stomach.
Friends, she told herself, and she clung to Hank as though the floor were tilting along with them as they swayed. Just friends, or she was a bright graduate student he was fond of. Probably friends, maybe colleagues after all--friendly ones--and anyway, he was allowed to have friends, wasn't he?
The coldness went sharp for a second, a jab of guilt as she thought of home, of Charles no doubt having a Friday night pizza dinner with a table of preteens, but Jean ignored it. Charles had Scott, commuting to college, and Ororo, who was a senior this year and legally an adult, and Hank, and Warren. And Charles had her.
The guilt faded, and Jean glanced at them again, back in the corner where they'd found a table. It was all right for Erik to have a friendly relationship with a colleague. Surely that should be all right. She noticed that the redhead's hair was different than before. A shade darker, a bit less bright. Probably from a bottle, after all.
Jean didn't know why that pleased her, but it did.
The third time was at a restaurant where Jean was treating herself to a cheap hamburger and a fancy chocolate dessert before driving back to Westchester for the summer. Again, she assumed they were friends, and she was comfortable enough with the idea by then to consider going over to say hello and introduce herself. That is, until she noticed that the redhead's hand was not resting on the table but on Erik's knee, realized belatedly that friends didn't typically sit on the same side of the table, and happened to be watching when Erik draped his arm across the top of the booth so that his fingertips brushed her bare shoulder.
The redhead crossed her (admittedly long, admittedly gorgeous) legs, and Jean swallowed a mouthful of icing that tasted like ash. The woman was wearing a miniskirt and skinny sandals with heels. Her hair was different again. Shorter. Paler. Almost strawberry blonde. It made her look washed-out, Jean thought, but Erik didn't seem to care.
This time, there was no question about them. There couldn't be, though Jean could almost feel the gears whirring in her mind, could almost hear the tiny clicks of puzzle pieces being shifted, involuntarily, as her brain tried to explain what her eyes didn't want to believe.
It didn't hurt, strangely enough. Jean only felt cold as she stumbled to her feet and walked out, leaving a handful of bills scattered across the table. She was distantly thankful they hadn't seen her, but mostly just sluggish, stupid, as if that coldness in her gut had spread.
She was barely conscious of the drive home. She left the windows rolled up, the radio off, and flicked the headlights on automatically when the highway began to get dim. She tried not to replay what she'd seen--the way the redhead's lips had curved slightly when Erik leaned close to speak, the way his fingers had skimmed a slow circle on her skin. Expending all of her energy not seeing it again, though, meant Jean couldn't help thinking about it. Wondering.
Did they meet at that conference, or had they driven down together? Did they go out for drinks afterward? Did he invite her or accept her invitation? Was she not a colleague or a student at all but a date he brought to the cocktail hour?
Worse, as Jean's brain was busy analyzing every nuance she remembered, every glance, a tiny, chilling voice whispered from the darkest place within her. Did his fingers tangle in her hair, it wondered? Did he like it best when it was long and nearly auburn, spilling down her back like silk?
The redhead looked young enough to be his daughter. Did he like the way her calves looked above those strappy heels? Had her breath caught when, after whispering to her, his knee fell sideways, touching hers? And when he bent his head and whispered, what language did he speak?
(Ich liebe dich were the first words in his tongue Jean was taught. Not the first she heard, nor the first Charles translated for her when she stumbled over the harsh syllables from her dreams, but the first he spoke, that mattered.)
Her cassette tapes rattled in their shoebox on the floor, and the passenger-side door locked and unlocked itself nervously. Jean took a deep breath and gripped the steering wheel. Prayed the windshield wouldn't crack.
The road went on forever. Jean never had really liked The Hobbit, despite Hank's best efforts to share yet another of his childhood loves. She liked that particular quote (one of his favorites) even less than usual as the yellow and white lines on the asphalt stretched and dashed endlessly. It didn't help that she was driving somewhere around fifteen miles under the speed limit. It was one of the first driver's ed lessons she'd been given--when you're angry or upset, make an effort to go slower, not faster. At first she'd simply wanted to please Charles, but by now it was habit.
Jean sighed and pushed harder on the gas; watched the dial climb past 'turtle' to 'old lady,' but even so, the mansion's bedrooms were nearly all dark when she pulled up the driveway. Not the first floor, though, which meant that Charles hadn't assumed she'd changed her plans. More importantly, it meant he was probably waiting up.
The vague, sick chill in her stomach became solid ice at the thought of seeing him, but she steeled herself, tightened her mental shields, and made it with her duffel bag as far as the foyer before realizing that she absolutely could not do this.
Her hand was on the doorknob again when he spoke. "Jean? I thought I heard your car. What's the matter? Did you forget something?"
She turned slowly. "I--" His face was concerned, he looked tired, and it was all she could do not to run to him and fall apart. Instead, she forced a smile. "I thought I did. My pajamas. But everything I need tonight's in here." She half-lifted the bag as proof.
Charles nodded, then looked at her face for a long moment before gesturing toward the kitchen. "Well. There's tea."
"I'd love some." Another lie, since she was already shielding herself. But as Jean watched him turn his chair and head for the kitchen, she knew no amount of lying could fix the mistake she'd made. She had never come home from a vacation or school and failed to hug him. Not once. The distance between them spoke volumes, and now she felt guilty about that, too.
She was tempted to bend and cling to him in the kitchen, to try to start over because maybe falling apart would be better than this, but now there was apprehension mixed with his concern, brittle tension in his movements and almost palpable in the room. When they were settled with mugs of Earl Grey, his gaze across the table was wary.
"Are you expecting a child, Jean?"
She was suddenly glad the tea was too hot to drink, or she would've spit it out in shock. As it was, it took a second for her mouth to form words again. "What? No! Of course not. I'm a doctor."
Charles nodded as though he'd received an answer to a perfectly reasonable question, though Jean thought she saw him relax, just a little. He took a cautious sip and continued to look at her. "I almost didn't hear you come in," he said mildly, after a moment. His tone wasn't reproachful, but Jean clearly heard what he didn't say. He almost hadn't felt her come in. Or, more likely, he had, but he also sensed that she was keeping him out as best she could.
Jean swallowed and clasped her hands in her lap and looked down at them. Her mouth felt dry, and there were so many things she could say that the words choked her and knotted in her throat. That she hated being a telepath sometimes and hated that he was a telepath, too, for starters. "You know I love you," she managed at last.
Charles' lips quirked. "Though it should be, that's rarely a promising beginning to a conversation." Then the smile reached his eyes, and the lines around them deepened, as he added, "Of course I know, Jean. And I love you. But what could possibly make you think you need such a disclaimer?"
"I--" Jean closed her eyes. She was so cold, her voice shriveled up, but she knew instinctively that even a sip of tea--of anything, except maybe straight liquor--would make her vomit. The words that forced themselves free from the tangle, out of her mouth, nearly did, too. "I think we should sleep together."
She was as surprised by this as Charles looked. She hadn't meant to say that, hadn't even considered it, but in the silence after she spoke, Jean heard the last of the puzzle pieces softly snap into place. It made sense.
Jean had a vivid memory from when she was about sixteen, curled up on her bed late one night while Hank sprawled on her beanbag chair. She'd been reading a very-much-frowned-upon copy of Cosmopolitan and waiting for the clear polish on her nails to dry, and Hank had been absorbed in a stack of comic books.
She remembered looking up from a column on how to apply four colors of eyeshadow, right after reading about different 'types' of men, and looking at Hank for a long moment before daring to speak.
"Do you like the Professor and Dr. Lehnsherr?" she'd asked, barely more than a whisper. Hesitantly, too, since Hank had only told her about his own 'flexibility' a few months before.
He hadn't asked what she meant. Merely lowered the comic book as his thick eyebrows climbed. "If you're going to request the dubious pleasures of braiding my hair and giving me a pedicure next, I'm going to leave, Jeannie. Besides, while I am fond of both, I find the question inappropriate. Not to mention disturbing."
Of course, she'd chucked a pillow at him. Then hugged another to her chest, blushing. "I know. And I'm not serious. But they aren't our parents, not really--" (she had felt guilt at that, but in a strictly biological sense it was true) "--and I was just wondering if. You know. You ever thought...?"
Only one eyebrow rose over his glasses, that time, and he gave her an amused look. "I have thought, on occasion, yes."
"Hank!"
He'd heaved a sigh and set the comic down. "If you're asking whether or not I've entertained sexual fantasies about either of them, the answer is no." Then his eyes widened, sparkling with interest. "But you have?"
Jean pressed her lips together as her cheeks grew hotter. "Not 'either,'" she'd mumbled, wondering why on earth she'd thought a slumber party with Hank--best friend or not--would be a great idea. "Not exactly."
Hank leaned forward, the inappropriateness of it all apparently forgotten. And while Jean knew for a fact that his sexual experience was limited to seeing one of Warren's Playboy magazines, kissing her a few times, and (very probably, almost certainly) doing That--masturbation; there was a short and vague section on it in the book Professor Xavier had given them--she also knew that Hank McCoy had an imagination that rivaled his I.Q.
She watched him closely, and it didn't take long for comprehension to dawn. "Oh, my. Jean!"
"Shh!" She'd rolled her eyes. "I don't--I mean, it's just sweet, isn't it? They're both smart, and I guess they're attractive, and--and I like the idea of them being with each other. As a couple, I mean."
She'd half-expected Hank to think she was some sort of freak, but after a moment, he'd nodded sagely. "You can romanticize their relationship in a way that would be strange, were they your biological parents. Being older than you and mentor-figures logically would lead to your infatuation, but given that they are also homosexual, a crush on either--or both--of them allows you to maintain a distance, not to mention a level of security and comfort, that you wouldn't have if they preferred women."
His armchair analysis had left Jean somewhere between embarrassed and annoyed, and they'd soon changed the subject, but not before doing a quick game of 'if you absolutely had to choose.'
After a pause, Hank had almost shyly said Professor Xavier. That made sense to Jean. Their hypothetical relationship would have been the quietest, wryest, most perceptive, gentlest relationship in the history of the world, but she'd known, deeply, that his choice was good.
She'd automatically said Professor Lehnsherr, but she'd known the unthinking choice to be just as true. If she had to choose.
She looked at Charles across the table now, feeling naked even though she knew he hadn't read her thoughts. Could have, surely, but hadn't.
Charles looked shocked, and no wonder. Like Hank, he had a gift for knowing when a seemingly innocent question or statement meant more and never asked her to clarify. Not even now, when she'd said something so enormous, and she actually had slept in his bed before.
He looked, on second thought, as if she'd punched him. "Jean, why?" he asked at last, low and raw.
Her response was automatic again, and just as awful. A whisper, because the ugliest thing in the world shouldn't be said in the first place. "Because it should have been me." Her breath caught, and her voice shook before it broke. "With him. If it wasn't you."
She saw him go white, or start to, before his face blurred and the sudden lack of weight in her stomach sent her hunching forward to protect what was already gone. She didn't need the shields anymore and let them go. Couldn't have held them if she wanted to. Couldn't concentrate and cry at the same time.
Jean buried her face in her arms on the kitchen table and sobbed silently in front of her cooling tea, and it took a long moment--longer than it should have--for him to come up beside her.
"Oh, Jean." He sounded helpless, as strangled as she felt, and Jean sensed all too easily that he didn't dare touch her. His shields weren't holding well, either. Cloth hissed as he settled his hands in his lap, instead. "Jean," Charles said again, "I know this hurt you, but--"
She looked up, not caring at all that her face was doubtlessly blotchy and wet. Her mascara was probably running down her chin. "She was my age, Charles. She was. With red hair."
If Charles looked like she'd punched him before, she'd cut him to the bone now. His mouth opened, just a fraction, but no sound came out. Then he swallowed visibly and did reach out to her, but Jean flinched, unable not to think of another hand on a different shoulder.
"Dear God." Whispered again, probably not meant for her, possibly merely thought--Jean was past telling. He met her eyes steadily, though, and spoke more calmly than Jean would have thought possible. "I won't be a tool for your revenge."
She winced and looked away in shame. "It isn't revenge," Jean muttered after a moment. She cleared her throat and forced herself to lift her eyes to his face. "I love you. And if he has--I mean, I want to--"
"But do you think you want that for yourself, or for me?" Charles asked, not speaking aloud. The two of them always switched, always had, when it got too hard.
"Does it matter?" Jean thought bleakly. "For us both?"
"But I don't need--"
"I know," she whispered. The shreds of her courage weren't enough, but something more than that--maybe love, maybe guilt from a split-second decision made when she was little more than a child, maybe fear that she would make the same choice today, if she got to choose--gave her the will to reach out and set her hand on his knee. She looked at him, meaning it. "I do."
Charles closed his eyes, and his face tightened with pain, though whether that was because he was ashamed of her or almost tempted, Jean couldn't tell. Didn't really want to know, anyway. "Assuming, for the moment, that I would consider this… Jean, I'm--"
"Not my father," she interrupted. "Not related by blood. Not even my legal guardian anymore. Not my professor."
He gave her a look. "I was going to say, not usually interested in women. Nor particularly...adept...in the traditional sense. I'm--"
"A telepath," Jean finished, refusing to let him talk her out of it. She had thought about this, in these last few seconds when her mind was racing to make sense of things. "And so am I. If you want to make me believe--or have me try to make you believe that I'm--I think I could--"
"I am not going to use you."
Jean drew back and reached blindly for her tea, needing something besides him to cling to. The mug was warmer than she'd thought it would be. Her hands shook; the tea wavered when she looked down. "I'm not a child. Charles," she said quietly. His name was an afterthought, of course, a last-ditch attempt to put them on equal footing.
"I knew you when you were eleven years old."
"But I'm not now." Felt like it, maybe, but that was beside the point. "And though I do think of you as--as a mentor--" (the other word would be too awful right now) "--what matters is that I love you."
Charles sighed and reached up to rub his forehead. "Jean, even if you were attracted to me, if this was being proposed freely, without extenuating circumstances--"
"But it's not. There are circumstances."
He sighed again, but his expression was somewhere between exasperated and fond as he regarded her. "Is there anything I can say to convince you that this is a very bad idea?"
Jean closed her eyes, and her hand tightened on the cup. Silence stretched between them, turning the inches to miles. "Tell me you don't love me," she said at last, not daring to look at him as she thought. "That you don't trust me or my judgment. That if it's anyone besides him, with you, it shouldn't be me."
His breath hitched. "I've never lied to you before, Jean."
"Then if it is anyone? Tonight? Ever? If there's anyone you'll let love you?"
In answer, Charles' hand came to rest on top of hers. His touch was light, hesitant, but even so, Jean stared at him, feeling as though all her nerve endings had gone dead except the ones beneath his palm. This contact, so much less than so many other times, should have been nothing, but it shifted the world. It made her want to cry.
It was a question as well as an answer, and Jean nodded. Turned her hand in order to give his a gentle squeeze. "I-um." She felt as unsure as he looked, but she had to do this. He wouldn't. "Should we, um...upstairs?"
His head bobbed in a barely-perceptible nod, and Jean rinsed their mugs in the sink and gathered her duffel bag before following him to the elevator and then down the hallway to his bedroom. Once inside, she went straight to the bathroom in order to give him some privacy and, less importantly, to make herself more presentable. Her mascara had indeed left faint watery trails down her face, but it would have seemed ridiculous to fix it (despite having her makeup bag with her), so she settled for scrubbing hard with a washcloth and cold water.
She briefly considered trying to do something about her hair but found that she couldn't bear to touch it just now, any more than she could bring herself to look her reflection in the eye. Instead, she turned her back on the mirror, folded her arms, and waited until a reasonable amount of time had passed.
She did not-resolutely did not-allow herself to think.
When Jean opened the bathroom door with a hand that was merely cold, not trembling, she found Charles sitting in bed wearing a pajama shirt with the comforter pulled up to his waist. They stared at one another for a moment in silence, and Jean tried to smile.
Charles looked puzzled and gestured, taking in her clothes. "I thought you were changing."
The thought hadn't even occurred to her, given what they had planned, since being naked was kind of a requirement for that, and-oh, God, he probably wasn't wearing pants, given the difficulty that would be involved in getting them off. Jean's cheeks were suddenly on fire. She was thirteen again and reading The Book and had just realized all of them had penises and erections and nocturnal whatevers.
"Jean?"
She swallowed hard and looked at the empty side of the bed, the space that had once belonged to Erik. It seemed wrong, even now, that that space was there. Wrong, and sad, that so many years later Charles had never claimed it.
But Jean found that she couldn't either, not yet, so she went to Charles' side and perched, facing him, near his hip. He watched her and said nothing. She looked at him helplessly. There had been a few men, of course, but it was never like this. They'd wanted her.
After an eternity, Charles sighed and took her hand. Laced his fingers through hers and rubbed the side of her index finger with his thumb. "Jean..."
"Shh." She tensed for a second, concentrating, and flicked the light switch. In the sudden darkness, she could hear herself breathing.
Charles was silent, and still, as Jean's free hand brushed against his forearm and traveled upwards, over bicep and shoulder and the line of his neck. Her palm found his jaw, and she leaned in. His lips were warm and dry, softer than she expected, fuller-feeling than they looked. Jean swallowed and closed her eyes before parting her lips.
Charles' thumb started massaging fingers again, slid down in a half-circle to brush the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist, but he didn't kiss back. Not really. Not more than politely. Jean pulled back and allowed herself to be drawn closer when he tugged on her hand, and she laid her forehead in the crook of his neck. The flannel pajama collar tickled her nose and felt warm when she sighed against it.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered to his collarbone. The flannel brushed against her lips, too, as responsive to them as he had been.
Instead of answering, Charles wrapped one arm around her, pulling her even closer, so that she was half-sitting, half-lying against him, torso twisted, breasts crushed into his ribs. He took a deep, slow breath and rubbed his cheek against her hair. Jean's mouth crumpled, and she started to reach across him to return the hug, but a hand on her arm stopped her.
"One moment..." Charles let go of her and pulled back enough to slide one hand between them, and then the mattress dipped as he pushed himself up and over. Then he moved so that he was lying down completely and found her hand again. "Will you stay?"
With a nod he couldn't see, Jean toed off her shoes and socks and climbed under the covers. It seemed natural, somehow, and not at all weird to lie on her side, pressed against his side, with her head on his shoulder again. Her feet brushed against his long, bony warm ones, and her toes curled for an instant before she recalled herself and jerked away. Charles snorted quietly and hugged her closer. "It's all right."
Jean nodded and gave in to temptation, even if it did seem wrong to touch someone where they couldn't feel it. Her toes really were freezing, and if one of her legs ended up draped over one of his, that was probably okay, too. Their hands met somewhere over his middle, and Jean squeezed his fingers. "Thank you," she whispered.
Charles didn't say anything. His chest rose and fell slowly with deep, measured breaths. In the darkness, cocooned in blankets and getting warmer by the second, Jean yawned, nuzzled her cheek against flannel, and thought, surprisingly, that she might be able to sleep tonight. She almost was asleep, a few minutes later, when she felt Charles' chest hitch, then heard him gasp, raggedly, into her hair.
Jean swallowed hard and pressed her own trembling lips together, partly in an attempt not to break down with him, mostly to stop herself from saying that everything would be all right. She never could lie to him. Not about things that mattered.
She squeezed his hand again. Blinked and felt a hot tear slide sideways, towards her ear. "No matter what," she thought fiercely, "I will never leave you."
Charles sniffed and pressed his cheek against her hair in a tiny hug, but it was a long moment before he replied. "I hope you'll never have reason to."
"I won't. I promise," Jean whispered. She'd made this decision a few years ago, when she absolutely had to choose.