XMM Fic: Two Measures in Three Quarter Time (Waltz, Cadenza remix)
Title: Two Measures in Three-Quarter Time (Waltz, Cadenza remix)
Summary: There are things you never forget.
Rating: PG-13
Remix of: Waltz, by penknife
One Tiny Note: Hank's quoting Shakespeare in number 4.
I adore feedback. I appreciate concrit. If you feel like it, please tell me what you think!
Two Measures in Three Quarter Time (Waltz, Cadenza Remix)
One
Charles isn't used to this. Isn't used to not having to look over his shoulder. Not having to pull away from touches that have barely started. Isn't used to one of them not having to leave before it's fully light outside. Isn't used to never being alone.
Well. He's used to never being alone, but it's different when there's actually another person in bed or on the sofa or talking from in the shower while Charles is shaving, and not just voices held tightly at bay in his head. Different when he can reach out a hand to comfort when a nightmare wakes him that isn't his own, or when a stray thought hurts.
Charles stopped considering marriage a possibility when he was about sixteen. Had thought sex was out of the question, too, but that was before he met Erik. And even then, at first, he expected it to be sex, and friendship of course, but nothing else.
But now, as he scrubs potatoes in the sink, with Erik perched on a stool at the end of the counter, hunched over the kitchen radio, Charles realizes that his teenage self had a lot to learn.
“What are you smiling about?” Erik asks, appearing at his side a moment later. He arches an eyebrow when Charles turns. “Surely those potatoes aren't that amusing.”
“You never know. Potatoes can surprise you.”
Erik's lips twitch. “Indeed. You might expect hash browns and get mashed potatoes instead.”
“Only when you cook.”
“I have not heard you complain about the way I cook potatoes. Or anything else, for that matter.”
“I'm very polite, my dear,” Charles replies, trying not to chuckle at Erik's offended expression.
“Indeed,” Erik says again, dryly. Then he smiles and flicks his hand, and the radio swells to life, static at first that hones in on something that might be Mozart. “But I hope you'll admit that what I lack in culinary skills, I make up for in other areas.”
“Oh, there was never any question of that,” Charles murmurs, as Erik's hands slide around his chest. He finds himself being turned and kissed in short order. His hands are on Erik's shirt before he thinks, and it is only when water drips down his wrists that he remembers and pulls back. “My hands are wet.”
“I don't care.” Erik's mouth is on his again, softly, Erik's hands are roaming random patterns over his back, and it takes Charles a minute to realize that the two of them are moving.
“Are you dancing with me?” he asks incredulously.
“Perhaps.” Erik smiles against his cheek and reaches to cup his palm against the back of Charles' head, stroking his scalp with his thumb. Slides his hand down until it's in the proper position on Charles' back and takes Charles' free hand in his. “Now I'm dancing with you.”
Charles smiles back and presses Erik's hand. “I could get used to this.”
“Well,” Erik says slowly, as if it should be obvious, “why do you think I fixed the radio?”
Two
“Would you please just let me stop?” Jean's shout carries down the hall, and Charles pauses as he's putting the groceries away in order to listen.
Erik says something too quietly for Charles to hear, which is followed by a strange clatter and the loud thump of a foot against a wooden floor. “I can't.” Jean sounds near tears, and, after setting the package of hamburger on a shelf in the refrigerator, Charles goes to investigate.
Jean and Erik face one another in the center of the conservatory, at least a dozen wire coat-hangers strewn around their feet. “I can't,” Jean says again, kicking one of the hangers with the toe of her sneaker. “Not that many.”
Erik sighs and rakes his hair back from his forehead. “Jean,” he says, obviously struggling for patience, “you can. I've seen you lift far heavier things than these.”
“But not all at once!” Jean shakes her head, ponytail flying. “It's not how heavy they are. It's-you don't understand. My powers aren't like yours.”
Erik's lips tighten, and Charles clears his throat, causing them both to start. “How is practice going?” he asks mildly.
Erik gives him a wry look, but to Charles' surprise, Jean's face crumples when she sees him. “Awful,” she groans, collapsing onto the floor to sit Indian-style. “I can't do anything.”
“Jean, that's not true.” Charles goes to her and pushes a few hangers out of the way with his foot before sitting beside her. “You do a lot of things very well.”
“I do not.” She sighs, glaring at her blue jeans. “I'm not as smart as Hank or as good at basketball as Scott, and I can't do telepathy like you or use my other power like Dr. Lehnsherr...” Jean shakes her head, and her lower lip trembles. “I'm average at everything.”
“Jean...” Charles says again, feeling helpless, putting a hand on her shoulder. At the same time, he directs his thoughts to Erik. “What brought this on?”
“Turning thirteen?” Erik gives him a small, one-shouldered shrug and folds himself gracefully to sit in a nest of hangers. They slide to clear a space, scraping softly against the floor.
“Well,” Charles says after a moment, breaking an uncomfortable silence, “what happened?”
“Dr. Lehnsherr wants me to put all of these hangers on an imaginary closet rod! In a straight line!” Jean says, giving Erik a dark, hurt look. “And I can't do it-not even close-and now he's all mad at me.”
Erik snorts. “I'm not angry with you, and you know it. I simply think you're giving up too easily. It's not a difficult feat.”
“For you!”
“Jean.” Charles jumps in before Erik has a chance to say something he'll regret. “Dr. Lehnsherr and I both know that abilities are different for everyone. But you need to help us understand why you're having difficulty with this. We need to understand how your abilities work so that we can help you make them stronger.”
Jean sighs again and falls back bonelessly to lie on the floor. “I don't know,” she says to the ceiling, putting an arm beneath her head. “I don't understand them. I can't do anything. I'm sick of being a mutant.”
Erik rolls his eyes and pushes himself to his feet, gathering the hangers with a gesture. “We'll try again tomorrow, Jean. That is, if you've finished feeling sorry for yourself by then.”
Jean makes no reply, and Erik gives Charles a look that quite clearly says he's at a loss.
“I'll handle it,” Charles thinks, sounding much more reassuring than he probably should.
“You do that.”
And Charles, watching Jean, sees her wince when the door shuts rather forcefully a moment later.
The conservatory is very quiet after that, bathed in sunlight that turns the floor to honey and Jean's hair to strands of copper. The light catches on the tear that slides sideways, down her temple.
“You shouldn't be angry with him, Jean,” Charles says quietly. “I'm sure he didn't mean to hurt your feelings.”
Jean sits up and wipes her face. “I know.” She takes a deep breath and looks over at him. “And you know what?”
“What?”
“I don't really hate being a mutant. I like it, most of the time. I just wish I was stronger, like you and Dr. Lehnsherr.”
Charles smiles. “When you're our age, I'm sure you will be a beautiful, accomplished, very strong woman. You can do anything you set your mind to.”
“But I can't!” Jean shakes her head and closes her eyes, miserable again in an instant. “Dr. Lehnsherr said the hangers were easy, and I couldn't even lift five at once, let alone ten or twelve, and no way could I put them in a line!”
They could do this all afternoon. Charles closes his eyes briefly, hoping for inspiration. Strains of Mozart come floating through the wall from Erik's study, and Charles spares a moment to be jealous that he's probably grading essays to a waltz while Charles faces teenage angst and insecurity.
A waltz. Charles stands, smiling. It is a good distraction, if nothing else, and he extends both hands to Jean, who takes them hesitantly and allows herself to be pulled to her feet. “What?” she asks, eying him warily. “Are you going to make me practice my powers now? I really don't want to.”
“No. We're going to waltz.”
She gives him a puzzled look. “Waltz,” she repeats. “I don't know how.”
“I'm going to teach you.” Charles sets her left hand on his shoulder, places his right hand against her back, and then takes her free hand in his. “You'll find it much more pleasant than hangers, I assure you.”
Jean looks as if she's trying very hard not to smile. “Okay. What do I do?”
“Just move your feet to follow mine. One back, then one to the side, then together,” he says, leading her slowly through the steps. “You see?” Another few times and she has it, or almost does, and they pause a moment in order for her to hear the beats in the music.
“One, two, three,” Charles murmurs, guiding her around the room, her hand warm and dry as she clutches him, unsure. “One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. Oh, other foot, dear.”
Jean looks up at him, her eyes shining. “Sorry,” she says with a giggle.
“That's all right. One, two, three,” he says, leading her again. “One, two, three.”
As they're making another turn around the room, Jean's back stiffens, and Charles doesn't need to look to know that Erik watches from the doorway. Measured footsteps cross the floor, against the beat, and Charles stops when Erik's fingers brush his shoulder. “May I cut in, please?”
Charles looks to Jean, but she's looking at Erik, shy and triumphant at the same time, obviously eager to show off her new skill. “Of course,” he says, as if it was up to him.
He steps aside and watches as Erik takes her in a slow, graceful circle of the floor. He leads her in a new turn so skillfully that Jean doesn't hesitate, then bends his head a moment later and says something that makes her feet falter for an instant before she looks up at him, beaming.
“One. Two. Three,” Erik says as Charles turns to go, teaching Jean a complicated step Charles hadn't thought she was ready for a moment ago. “One. Two. Three. No, left foot there... Yes, that's it. One. Two. Three.”
Three
He wanted something to be normal. For the children, if nothing else. It is bad enough that their lives now include ugly metal bars in the bathroom and a glaringly new cement ramp to the front door and an elevator in the hall. Bad enough that the phrase “Let me get that for you, Professor,” rolls all too easily off their tongues these days. Bad enough that, on top of everything else, meals have become strained and awkward pauses in an argument he and Erik are always only waiting to resume. Not having a party for the holidays would have been unthinkable, Charles had thought. Surely something should be the same.
It was, perhaps, not the best idea. Despite the decorations and music, the mood is bleak. Hank and Erik are playing Scrabble in the corner, cups of cocoa beside them their only concession to the festivities. Warren and Scott dance in a group with some of the younger children, the only ones who seem to be having a good time. Ororo sits curled up in a chair with a book and headphones, pointedly ignoring everyone, and Jean sits silently at Charles' side, her gaze flicking nervously from him to Erik.
“Well,” Charles says after a long moment, simply to break the awkward silence. There never were awkward silences between them before the accident. Now, he and Jean can't seem to hold a conversation for more than five minutes.
Jean sighs and leans forward, resting her elbows on her thighs and her chin on her hands. “Great party, right?”
“I've been to more exciting meetings.”
“Yeah.”
“You know,” Charles says, after another silence, “you could go dance. You never know; you might surprise yourself by having fun.”
Jean shrugs. “I don't really feel like it.”
“Jean...”
“Really.” She sits up and gives him a small smile. “It's okay.” She brushes at her skirt and sneaks another look at Erik before turning back to Charles. “Do you want some punch, Professor? Or a cookie? Both? I think I want a cookie.”
“I want you to have fun, Jean.” Jean looks away without replying, and Charles sees her face shake. She has been near tears for months, it seems. He sighs, spreading his hand, palm up, on the armrest of his chair. “You are allowed to go have a good time,” he adds gently. “I won't go anywhere while you do.”
“I know,” she replies, so quietly he almost doesn't hear, and in a tone he doesn't really believe.
Charles sighs again and looks across the room, trying not to compare this party to last year's. Trying not to compare now to then at all, in fact. A touch on his palm startles him, and he turns to see that Jean has placed her hand in his.
“Would you like to dance with me, Professor?” she asks, giving him a hesitant smile.
Charles frowns. “Jean--”
“I mean,” she says, as she stands and steps in front of the wheelchair, “like this. I'd really like to.” Her smile turns mischievous. “It would be fun.”
“Well. I'm afraid you'll have to lead, my dear,” Charles says at last, past the tightness in his throat.
“Or...” Scott appears at Jean's side, looking serious. He straightens his shoulders and smiles a bit guiltily. “I couldn't help overhearing, and I'd be honored, Professor. If you want to. Um. You know. Use me.”
Again, takes a moment for Charles to recover. “Thank you, Scott, but--”
“No,” Jean says firmly, taking Charles' other hand. “This is fine.”
“Sorry.” Scott steps back, flushing nearly as red as his glasses, and Jean rolls her eyes.
“No, It's okay. I'll dance with you in awhile,” she says, smiling over her shoulder at him. “But right now, I'm dancing with Professor Xavier.”
“And this is fun for you?” Charles asks a moment later, swaying with Jean in what could only very loosely be called a dance.
“Of course.” She grins and presses his hand. “I've always loved dancing with you, Professor.”
“Have you?”
“Of course,” she says again, leaning down to brush a kiss against his cheek when the song ends. “After all, you taught me how.”
Four
Jean shifted from one foot to the other, resisting the urge to tug her hemline down. It wasn't like pulling at her skirt in public would magically make it grow another inch or two, and doing so would probably only call attention to the fact that there were several-possibly more than several--inches of pantyhose visible above her knees. Despite the fact that Hank had been rendered almost speechless, though that could've been from the shock of seeing her in a dress, period, and even though most of the younger women in the place were wearing similar little dresses, Jean felt awkward. It was like she was eight again and playing dress-up with her mom's clothes. The high heels didn't help.
She took a gulp of her drink, willing the alcohol to do something. Even if it only managed to help unclench her fingers from around the glass, that would be a start.
“I'm sorry for deserting you,” Hank said, appearing at her side more suddenly than anyone that big should be able to. “I just had the opportunity to converse with Dr. Chen about her latest paper, and--”
“Hank?” Jean sighed. “I might have to kill you. Do you know how long I've been standing here, waiting for you to get back from the men's room?” She paused the barest instant before answering herself. “Forty-five minutes. Forty-five. Nearly an hour, Hank, standing here bored out of my mind, at a stupid inter-departmental cocktail hour I don't even want to be at in the first place!”
He snorted. “You could have mingled. And three-quarters of an hour isn't nearly an hour. Unless it's also nearly half an hour.” Jean glared, and Hank spread his hands. “What?”
Jean shook her head in defeat. “Fine. Three-quarters of an hour. But it was boring.”
“You should have been here last time,” Hank said, chuckling a little. “The head of the chemistry department nearly came to blows with someone from fine arts.”
“You're kidding! Over what?”
“Funding, probably.” Hank shrugged. “Or the endless debate about the superiority of one's academic field of choice.”
“God,” Jean said, shaking her head. “And you come to these things voluntarily?”
He shrugged again. “It's an excellent opportunity to speak with professors in an informal setting. Besides,” he added, “the hors d'oeuvres are good, and the school pays the tab.”
“And to think, for fifteen bucks you could have pizza and a beer in your dorm room and read their damn papers.”
“That was last night.”
Jean shook her head again and gave him a fond smile. “You actually dared to have a beer while reading an academic paper? I'm impressed.”
“Two, believe it or not.” Hank grinned, revealing a flash of newly-pointed canines. “And you can guess, I am sure, how two beers made me behave. I am a wild and crazy guy.”
“You party animal,” Jean said, knowing it took at least six to start affecting him. “What will you do next? Go out on a weeknight?”
Hank looked at her consideringly for a moment before giving her a shy smile. “Actually, I was thinking of dancing.” He nodded at the small dance floor at the back of the lounge, where a few couples swayed to whatever the lone pianist was playing. “Would you like to?”
“Dance? Um. Hank, my adviser is over there.”
“Are medical students forbidden to dance?” Hank chuckled and took a drink of his Coke. “Do the heads of that esteemed program fear the effects of exercise upon the poor, overwrought bodies of neophyte physicians? Are they concerned that artistic expression through spontaneous rhythmic movement might unleash the beast within? That the precise surgeons' hands of the future may jiggle the scalpel, at times, with the uncontrollable urge to boogie?”
Jean sighed. “Hank?”
His chest shook beneath his blue dress shirt as he continued, obviously amusing himself. “Your feet, clad in sensible doctor's loafers, might slip upon the tiled floor of the operating room, sending you face-first into the sterile drape covering your patient because, alas, you have caught the dread Saturday Night Fever. And sadly, there is no known remedy. Abstinence is the only hope. Prevention is the only cure--”
“Hank!” Jean smacked his bicep, trying very hard not to laugh. “I get it, okay?”
He grinned and put his arm around her shoulders in a friendly squeeze. “I'm just saying, your head won't explode if you have fun, Jean.”
Jean smiled. “But the real question, Dr. McCoy--”
“Future doctor.”
“Whatever. The question is, will you shut up if I dance with you?”
“Certainly.” Hank plucked her cup from her hand and set both their drinks on a nearby table. “'All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth.'”
“If only,” Jean said with a sigh, following his broad shoulders as they made their way to the dance floor.
Hank wasn't a bad dancer, she had to admit a few moments later, as they swayed to a tune that sounded like cheesy movie music from the fifties. And it was fun, having her hand totally disappear in his huge fist. It was fun, and different, having his other palm covering a large part of her back, holding her against the bulk of his chest as if she were a tiny china doll and might break. Different than dancing with Scott, definitely. He was not that much taller or wider than Jean. They fit like a Ken doll and a much flatter Barbie, whereas dancing with Hank...was kind of like having Barbie waltz with a teddy bear.
“What are you smirking at?” Hank asked the top of her head.
“You.”
He snorted. “I'm funny when I dance?”
“You're funny a lot.” Jean smiled up at him. “But...yeah. You're fun to dance with, Hank.”
“Hmm. Well, perhaps we should do this more oft-oh, my,” he finished softly, looking at something behind Jean.
“What?” she asked, craning her neck. At first she didn't see, but then a woman with big hair stepped to one side, and the man Hank was looking at turned his head, and his hair caught the light like steel, and she did.
And he saw them. His face froze for a minute, then one brow quirked in surprise. Then Jean looked away, but not in time to miss seeing the gorgeous young redhead in the navy dress sidle up to him and hand him a drink.
There was another good thing about dancing with a teddy bear, Jean noticed distantly. Being held felt a lot like a hug, but you didn't actually have to admit that you needed one.
The song ended, and Jean wondered for a minute if Erik would come and invite them to have a drink with him. If he'd ask Hank about classes and ask her to dance, pretending for a few moments that the last nine years hadn't happened.
But when she looked for him again, he was gone.
Five
“Professor X?” Kitty leaned down to speak with Charles, interrupting Scott. Apparently realizing this, she gave him an apologetic glance before turning back to the professor. “Piotr wants me to dance with him, and he won't take no for an answer, and I really want to, but I don't know how, and I don't want to trip all over his feet, and--” she broke off, giggling, as Piotr strode over, a seriously intent expression on his face.
Charles smiled. “And...?”
“And will you make me know how? Please?”
Scott opened his mouth to rebuke her, or maybe to offer to teach her himself, but Charles smiled again and looked a question at Kitty. She nodded, grinning, and then Piotr was beside her, tugging her onto the floor. For a moment, Kitty seemed unsure where to put her arms, but then she began to move her feet and soon swept across the dance floor as gracefully as if she'd been waltzing for years.
Scott saw the grateful look she shot Charles from across the room, and his answering smile. Then Kitty whirled away, and Scott was sure only he saw the hurt flicker across Charles' features a moment later.
“I'm sorry,” Scott said quietly, looking out at the kids.
“Because I can't?” Charles shrugged, reducing that to unimportant.
“Not that.” Scott shook his head. “But I would've taught her.”
“I know. I don't think she wanted to be shown. She wanted to know.” Charles looked at his hands for a moment, clasped loosely on his thighs, and Scott looked at Kitty, wondering where she got the courage to ask the most powerful telepath on the planet to help her know how to waltz. Not that there was anything wrong with asking. And dancing was a pretty harmless request. It wasn't like she'd asked him to let her know what it was like to sleep, or breathe oxygen, or feel another human's touch, or any number of things that some of these kids didn't know how to do. Or to see in color, for that matter.
“Scott--” Forget asking the most powerful telepath on the planet anything. Sometimes just knowing him took guts.
Scott sighed. “I know. You would. But--”
“It would be like letting me waltz, for five minutes?” Charles finished.
“Not quite what I was going to say,” Scott said, still looking out at the kids as they swirled past in light red shirts and dark red jackets and dresses in every shade of red. “At least you remember how.”
“There is that,” Charles said softly, though Scott wasn't sure it sounded like an agreement.
They sat in silence for a moment before Scott checked his watch and sighed. “We've got another hour,” he said, tilting his head to get the stiffness out of his neck. “Would you like a cup of coffee, or something?”
“You could dance,” Charles said pointedly.
“I could.” Scott smiled. “So. Coffee?”
“Actually, I wouldn't say no to a cup of punch, if you wouldn't mind.”
“Sure.” Scott went and ladled them both cups of the ruby liquid, then gave Charles his and sat down again before taking a drink.
And when it tasted like 7-Up and lemonade instead of Hawaiian Punch like he'd expected, well. There were worse things.
Six
Pyro had never thought of Magneto as being human. Hadn't thought about him much at all, really, before that whole thing with Marie. Magneto was just the guy that the X-Men were always trying to stop “before he really hurt someone.” The guy they were talking about on TV, usually, the times when Ms. Munroe and Dr. Grey interrupted Pyro and Bobby's marathon games of Mortal Kombat to sit and watch the news. Pyro knew from Pitor that Magneto's real name was Erik something, and he had apparently helped Prof X start the school. But the professor never talked about that, and Pyro had never asked, and anyway, Magneto wasn't that big of a deal.
Until Pyro had met him. And even then, he wasn't just a person. He was an ass-kicking bad guy who was way too smart and way too dangerous, but Pyro couldn't help wanting to be close to him. Wanting Magneto not to think he was just some stupid trailer-trash kid. Talking to him was like running a finger on the edge of a knife-sharp and dangerous, but it was so shiny or something that you wanted to do it anyway.
It had helped that he hadn't looked at Pyro like he was stupid. He'd actually talked to him, and made him feel important even with his craptastic need-a-lighter-to-get-it-started power, and it was just really cool. But he was still Magneto: Really Badass Bad Guy
It wasn't until Pyro had been living with him for awhile that he started to see Magneto as a regular guy. He still didn't dare call him Erik. But after he'd borrowed Magneto's sweatpants and spilled half a Mountain Dew on Magneto's newspaper-without getting yelled at--and took his turn doing the laundry and washed Magneto's boxers, it just sort of happened. Sure, Magneto set the table without actually touching the silverware, and his office doorknob grew some serious spines when he was in there in a bad mood, but that wasn't anything that new for Pyro. Hell, he'd seen weirder things at Xavier's.
And Mystique was really hot, and really blue, and really almost naked a lot of the time, but she wasn't that weird, either. She even had a bunch of computer games-girly ones, like The Sims and Final Fantasy-but they weren't too bad. And one time when she came back from shopping with Magneto, they'd bought Diablo II for him. Mystique had even tried it out a couple of times.
Magneto would barely touch the computer for serious stuff, let alone for fun, so he'd tried to teach Pyro how to play chess. Chess sucked, but Pyro played anyway because it seemed to make Magneto happy.
Mystique seemed to make Magneto happy, too, which was kind of weird because Magneto didn't seem like the kind of guy who would want to be like that with someone. Had Pyro thought about it after meeting Magneto-which he hadn't, not really-he would've thought Magneto was the kind of guy who'd be good at picking somebody up. And having sex, because even if he was really old, he had good arms and a nice ass. He was pretty hot, for an old guy. But Pyro never would've imagined Magneto casually buying Tampax at the grocery store, or watching X-Files with Mystique's head on his shoulder on the couch, or going outside to smoke after dinner because she bitched about it.
But Pyro was getting used to that, and when he went to the kitchen to get a soda, it didn't seem weird at all that they were dancing to something on the radio with peppers and chicken half-chopped and abandoned on the counter. Their arms were around each other, their eyes closed, and they didn't seem to notice that he paused for a minute, watching them with one hand on the handle of the fridge.
Then Magneto reached up to stroke Mystique's hair, and his hand froze for a second on the back of her head. Pyro thought he saw Magneto's eyes open, just a flicker, before he closed them again and kept dancing. It was like he'd expected to see someone else, or something.
And that? Was definitely weird.
Summary: There are things you never forget.
Rating: PG-13
Remix of: Waltz, by penknife
One Tiny Note: Hank's quoting Shakespeare in number 4.
I adore feedback. I appreciate concrit. If you feel like it, please tell me what you think!
Two Measures in Three Quarter Time (Waltz, Cadenza Remix)
One
Charles isn't used to this. Isn't used to not having to look over his shoulder. Not having to pull away from touches that have barely started. Isn't used to one of them not having to leave before it's fully light outside. Isn't used to never being alone.
Well. He's used to never being alone, but it's different when there's actually another person in bed or on the sofa or talking from in the shower while Charles is shaving, and not just voices held tightly at bay in his head. Different when he can reach out a hand to comfort when a nightmare wakes him that isn't his own, or when a stray thought hurts.
Charles stopped considering marriage a possibility when he was about sixteen. Had thought sex was out of the question, too, but that was before he met Erik. And even then, at first, he expected it to be sex, and friendship of course, but nothing else.
But now, as he scrubs potatoes in the sink, with Erik perched on a stool at the end of the counter, hunched over the kitchen radio, Charles realizes that his teenage self had a lot to learn.
“What are you smiling about?” Erik asks, appearing at his side a moment later. He arches an eyebrow when Charles turns. “Surely those potatoes aren't that amusing.”
“You never know. Potatoes can surprise you.”
Erik's lips twitch. “Indeed. You might expect hash browns and get mashed potatoes instead.”
“Only when you cook.”
“I have not heard you complain about the way I cook potatoes. Or anything else, for that matter.”
“I'm very polite, my dear,” Charles replies, trying not to chuckle at Erik's offended expression.
“Indeed,” Erik says again, dryly. Then he smiles and flicks his hand, and the radio swells to life, static at first that hones in on something that might be Mozart. “But I hope you'll admit that what I lack in culinary skills, I make up for in other areas.”
“Oh, there was never any question of that,” Charles murmurs, as Erik's hands slide around his chest. He finds himself being turned and kissed in short order. His hands are on Erik's shirt before he thinks, and it is only when water drips down his wrists that he remembers and pulls back. “My hands are wet.”
“I don't care.” Erik's mouth is on his again, softly, Erik's hands are roaming random patterns over his back, and it takes Charles a minute to realize that the two of them are moving.
“Are you dancing with me?” he asks incredulously.
“Perhaps.” Erik smiles against his cheek and reaches to cup his palm against the back of Charles' head, stroking his scalp with his thumb. Slides his hand down until it's in the proper position on Charles' back and takes Charles' free hand in his. “Now I'm dancing with you.”
Charles smiles back and presses Erik's hand. “I could get used to this.”
“Well,” Erik says slowly, as if it should be obvious, “why do you think I fixed the radio?”
Two
“Would you please just let me stop?” Jean's shout carries down the hall, and Charles pauses as he's putting the groceries away in order to listen.
Erik says something too quietly for Charles to hear, which is followed by a strange clatter and the loud thump of a foot against a wooden floor. “I can't.” Jean sounds near tears, and, after setting the package of hamburger on a shelf in the refrigerator, Charles goes to investigate.
Jean and Erik face one another in the center of the conservatory, at least a dozen wire coat-hangers strewn around their feet. “I can't,” Jean says again, kicking one of the hangers with the toe of her sneaker. “Not that many.”
Erik sighs and rakes his hair back from his forehead. “Jean,” he says, obviously struggling for patience, “you can. I've seen you lift far heavier things than these.”
“But not all at once!” Jean shakes her head, ponytail flying. “It's not how heavy they are. It's-you don't understand. My powers aren't like yours.”
Erik's lips tighten, and Charles clears his throat, causing them both to start. “How is practice going?” he asks mildly.
Erik gives him a wry look, but to Charles' surprise, Jean's face crumples when she sees him. “Awful,” she groans, collapsing onto the floor to sit Indian-style. “I can't do anything.”
“Jean, that's not true.” Charles goes to her and pushes a few hangers out of the way with his foot before sitting beside her. “You do a lot of things very well.”
“I do not.” She sighs, glaring at her blue jeans. “I'm not as smart as Hank or as good at basketball as Scott, and I can't do telepathy like you or use my other power like Dr. Lehnsherr...” Jean shakes her head, and her lower lip trembles. “I'm average at everything.”
“Jean...” Charles says again, feeling helpless, putting a hand on her shoulder. At the same time, he directs his thoughts to Erik. “What brought this on?”
“Turning thirteen?” Erik gives him a small, one-shouldered shrug and folds himself gracefully to sit in a nest of hangers. They slide to clear a space, scraping softly against the floor.
“Well,” Charles says after a moment, breaking an uncomfortable silence, “what happened?”
“Dr. Lehnsherr wants me to put all of these hangers on an imaginary closet rod! In a straight line!” Jean says, giving Erik a dark, hurt look. “And I can't do it-not even close-and now he's all mad at me.”
Erik snorts. “I'm not angry with you, and you know it. I simply think you're giving up too easily. It's not a difficult feat.”
“For you!”
“Jean.” Charles jumps in before Erik has a chance to say something he'll regret. “Dr. Lehnsherr and I both know that abilities are different for everyone. But you need to help us understand why you're having difficulty with this. We need to understand how your abilities work so that we can help you make them stronger.”
Jean sighs again and falls back bonelessly to lie on the floor. “I don't know,” she says to the ceiling, putting an arm beneath her head. “I don't understand them. I can't do anything. I'm sick of being a mutant.”
Erik rolls his eyes and pushes himself to his feet, gathering the hangers with a gesture. “We'll try again tomorrow, Jean. That is, if you've finished feeling sorry for yourself by then.”
Jean makes no reply, and Erik gives Charles a look that quite clearly says he's at a loss.
“I'll handle it,” Charles thinks, sounding much more reassuring than he probably should.
“You do that.”
And Charles, watching Jean, sees her wince when the door shuts rather forcefully a moment later.
The conservatory is very quiet after that, bathed in sunlight that turns the floor to honey and Jean's hair to strands of copper. The light catches on the tear that slides sideways, down her temple.
“You shouldn't be angry with him, Jean,” Charles says quietly. “I'm sure he didn't mean to hurt your feelings.”
Jean sits up and wipes her face. “I know.” She takes a deep breath and looks over at him. “And you know what?”
“What?”
“I don't really hate being a mutant. I like it, most of the time. I just wish I was stronger, like you and Dr. Lehnsherr.”
Charles smiles. “When you're our age, I'm sure you will be a beautiful, accomplished, very strong woman. You can do anything you set your mind to.”
“But I can't!” Jean shakes her head and closes her eyes, miserable again in an instant. “Dr. Lehnsherr said the hangers were easy, and I couldn't even lift five at once, let alone ten or twelve, and no way could I put them in a line!”
They could do this all afternoon. Charles closes his eyes briefly, hoping for inspiration. Strains of Mozart come floating through the wall from Erik's study, and Charles spares a moment to be jealous that he's probably grading essays to a waltz while Charles faces teenage angst and insecurity.
A waltz. Charles stands, smiling. It is a good distraction, if nothing else, and he extends both hands to Jean, who takes them hesitantly and allows herself to be pulled to her feet. “What?” she asks, eying him warily. “Are you going to make me practice my powers now? I really don't want to.”
“No. We're going to waltz.”
She gives him a puzzled look. “Waltz,” she repeats. “I don't know how.”
“I'm going to teach you.” Charles sets her left hand on his shoulder, places his right hand against her back, and then takes her free hand in his. “You'll find it much more pleasant than hangers, I assure you.”
Jean looks as if she's trying very hard not to smile. “Okay. What do I do?”
“Just move your feet to follow mine. One back, then one to the side, then together,” he says, leading her slowly through the steps. “You see?” Another few times and she has it, or almost does, and they pause a moment in order for her to hear the beats in the music.
“One, two, three,” Charles murmurs, guiding her around the room, her hand warm and dry as she clutches him, unsure. “One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. Oh, other foot, dear.”
Jean looks up at him, her eyes shining. “Sorry,” she says with a giggle.
“That's all right. One, two, three,” he says, leading her again. “One, two, three.”
As they're making another turn around the room, Jean's back stiffens, and Charles doesn't need to look to know that Erik watches from the doorway. Measured footsteps cross the floor, against the beat, and Charles stops when Erik's fingers brush his shoulder. “May I cut in, please?”
Charles looks to Jean, but she's looking at Erik, shy and triumphant at the same time, obviously eager to show off her new skill. “Of course,” he says, as if it was up to him.
He steps aside and watches as Erik takes her in a slow, graceful circle of the floor. He leads her in a new turn so skillfully that Jean doesn't hesitate, then bends his head a moment later and says something that makes her feet falter for an instant before she looks up at him, beaming.
“One. Two. Three,” Erik says as Charles turns to go, teaching Jean a complicated step Charles hadn't thought she was ready for a moment ago. “One. Two. Three. No, left foot there... Yes, that's it. One. Two. Three.”
Three
He wanted something to be normal. For the children, if nothing else. It is bad enough that their lives now include ugly metal bars in the bathroom and a glaringly new cement ramp to the front door and an elevator in the hall. Bad enough that the phrase “Let me get that for you, Professor,” rolls all too easily off their tongues these days. Bad enough that, on top of everything else, meals have become strained and awkward pauses in an argument he and Erik are always only waiting to resume. Not having a party for the holidays would have been unthinkable, Charles had thought. Surely something should be the same.
It was, perhaps, not the best idea. Despite the decorations and music, the mood is bleak. Hank and Erik are playing Scrabble in the corner, cups of cocoa beside them their only concession to the festivities. Warren and Scott dance in a group with some of the younger children, the only ones who seem to be having a good time. Ororo sits curled up in a chair with a book and headphones, pointedly ignoring everyone, and Jean sits silently at Charles' side, her gaze flicking nervously from him to Erik.
“Well,” Charles says after a long moment, simply to break the awkward silence. There never were awkward silences between them before the accident. Now, he and Jean can't seem to hold a conversation for more than five minutes.
Jean sighs and leans forward, resting her elbows on her thighs and her chin on her hands. “Great party, right?”
“I've been to more exciting meetings.”
“Yeah.”
“You know,” Charles says, after another silence, “you could go dance. You never know; you might surprise yourself by having fun.”
Jean shrugs. “I don't really feel like it.”
“Jean...”
“Really.” She sits up and gives him a small smile. “It's okay.” She brushes at her skirt and sneaks another look at Erik before turning back to Charles. “Do you want some punch, Professor? Or a cookie? Both? I think I want a cookie.”
“I want you to have fun, Jean.” Jean looks away without replying, and Charles sees her face shake. She has been near tears for months, it seems. He sighs, spreading his hand, palm up, on the armrest of his chair. “You are allowed to go have a good time,” he adds gently. “I won't go anywhere while you do.”
“I know,” she replies, so quietly he almost doesn't hear, and in a tone he doesn't really believe.
Charles sighs again and looks across the room, trying not to compare this party to last year's. Trying not to compare now to then at all, in fact. A touch on his palm startles him, and he turns to see that Jean has placed her hand in his.
“Would you like to dance with me, Professor?” she asks, giving him a hesitant smile.
Charles frowns. “Jean--”
“I mean,” she says, as she stands and steps in front of the wheelchair, “like this. I'd really like to.” Her smile turns mischievous. “It would be fun.”
“Well. I'm afraid you'll have to lead, my dear,” Charles says at last, past the tightness in his throat.
“Or...” Scott appears at Jean's side, looking serious. He straightens his shoulders and smiles a bit guiltily. “I couldn't help overhearing, and I'd be honored, Professor. If you want to. Um. You know. Use me.”
Again, takes a moment for Charles to recover. “Thank you, Scott, but--”
“No,” Jean says firmly, taking Charles' other hand. “This is fine.”
“Sorry.” Scott steps back, flushing nearly as red as his glasses, and Jean rolls her eyes.
“No, It's okay. I'll dance with you in awhile,” she says, smiling over her shoulder at him. “But right now, I'm dancing with Professor Xavier.”
“And this is fun for you?” Charles asks a moment later, swaying with Jean in what could only very loosely be called a dance.
“Of course.” She grins and presses his hand. “I've always loved dancing with you, Professor.”
“Have you?”
“Of course,” she says again, leaning down to brush a kiss against his cheek when the song ends. “After all, you taught me how.”
Four
Jean shifted from one foot to the other, resisting the urge to tug her hemline down. It wasn't like pulling at her skirt in public would magically make it grow another inch or two, and doing so would probably only call attention to the fact that there were several-possibly more than several--inches of pantyhose visible above her knees. Despite the fact that Hank had been rendered almost speechless, though that could've been from the shock of seeing her in a dress, period, and even though most of the younger women in the place were wearing similar little dresses, Jean felt awkward. It was like she was eight again and playing dress-up with her mom's clothes. The high heels didn't help.
She took a gulp of her drink, willing the alcohol to do something. Even if it only managed to help unclench her fingers from around the glass, that would be a start.
“I'm sorry for deserting you,” Hank said, appearing at her side more suddenly than anyone that big should be able to. “I just had the opportunity to converse with Dr. Chen about her latest paper, and--”
“Hank?” Jean sighed. “I might have to kill you. Do you know how long I've been standing here, waiting for you to get back from the men's room?” She paused the barest instant before answering herself. “Forty-five minutes. Forty-five. Nearly an hour, Hank, standing here bored out of my mind, at a stupid inter-departmental cocktail hour I don't even want to be at in the first place!”
He snorted. “You could have mingled. And three-quarters of an hour isn't nearly an hour. Unless it's also nearly half an hour.” Jean glared, and Hank spread his hands. “What?”
Jean shook her head in defeat. “Fine. Three-quarters of an hour. But it was boring.”
“You should have been here last time,” Hank said, chuckling a little. “The head of the chemistry department nearly came to blows with someone from fine arts.”
“You're kidding! Over what?”
“Funding, probably.” Hank shrugged. “Or the endless debate about the superiority of one's academic field of choice.”
“God,” Jean said, shaking her head. “And you come to these things voluntarily?”
He shrugged again. “It's an excellent opportunity to speak with professors in an informal setting. Besides,” he added, “the hors d'oeuvres are good, and the school pays the tab.”
“And to think, for fifteen bucks you could have pizza and a beer in your dorm room and read their damn papers.”
“That was last night.”
Jean shook her head again and gave him a fond smile. “You actually dared to have a beer while reading an academic paper? I'm impressed.”
“Two, believe it or not.” Hank grinned, revealing a flash of newly-pointed canines. “And you can guess, I am sure, how two beers made me behave. I am a wild and crazy guy.”
“You party animal,” Jean said, knowing it took at least six to start affecting him. “What will you do next? Go out on a weeknight?”
Hank looked at her consideringly for a moment before giving her a shy smile. “Actually, I was thinking of dancing.” He nodded at the small dance floor at the back of the lounge, where a few couples swayed to whatever the lone pianist was playing. “Would you like to?”
“Dance? Um. Hank, my adviser is over there.”
“Are medical students forbidden to dance?” Hank chuckled and took a drink of his Coke. “Do the heads of that esteemed program fear the effects of exercise upon the poor, overwrought bodies of neophyte physicians? Are they concerned that artistic expression through spontaneous rhythmic movement might unleash the beast within? That the precise surgeons' hands of the future may jiggle the scalpel, at times, with the uncontrollable urge to boogie?”
Jean sighed. “Hank?”
His chest shook beneath his blue dress shirt as he continued, obviously amusing himself. “Your feet, clad in sensible doctor's loafers, might slip upon the tiled floor of the operating room, sending you face-first into the sterile drape covering your patient because, alas, you have caught the dread Saturday Night Fever. And sadly, there is no known remedy. Abstinence is the only hope. Prevention is the only cure--”
“Hank!” Jean smacked his bicep, trying very hard not to laugh. “I get it, okay?”
He grinned and put his arm around her shoulders in a friendly squeeze. “I'm just saying, your head won't explode if you have fun, Jean.”
Jean smiled. “But the real question, Dr. McCoy--”
“Future doctor.”
“Whatever. The question is, will you shut up if I dance with you?”
“Certainly.” Hank plucked her cup from her hand and set both their drinks on a nearby table. “'All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth.'”
“If only,” Jean said with a sigh, following his broad shoulders as they made their way to the dance floor.
Hank wasn't a bad dancer, she had to admit a few moments later, as they swayed to a tune that sounded like cheesy movie music from the fifties. And it was fun, having her hand totally disappear in his huge fist. It was fun, and different, having his other palm covering a large part of her back, holding her against the bulk of his chest as if she were a tiny china doll and might break. Different than dancing with Scott, definitely. He was not that much taller or wider than Jean. They fit like a Ken doll and a much flatter Barbie, whereas dancing with Hank...was kind of like having Barbie waltz with a teddy bear.
“What are you smirking at?” Hank asked the top of her head.
“You.”
He snorted. “I'm funny when I dance?”
“You're funny a lot.” Jean smiled up at him. “But...yeah. You're fun to dance with, Hank.”
“Hmm. Well, perhaps we should do this more oft-oh, my,” he finished softly, looking at something behind Jean.
“What?” she asked, craning her neck. At first she didn't see, but then a woman with big hair stepped to one side, and the man Hank was looking at turned his head, and his hair caught the light like steel, and she did.
And he saw them. His face froze for a minute, then one brow quirked in surprise. Then Jean looked away, but not in time to miss seeing the gorgeous young redhead in the navy dress sidle up to him and hand him a drink.
There was another good thing about dancing with a teddy bear, Jean noticed distantly. Being held felt a lot like a hug, but you didn't actually have to admit that you needed one.
The song ended, and Jean wondered for a minute if Erik would come and invite them to have a drink with him. If he'd ask Hank about classes and ask her to dance, pretending for a few moments that the last nine years hadn't happened.
But when she looked for him again, he was gone.
Five
“Professor X?” Kitty leaned down to speak with Charles, interrupting Scott. Apparently realizing this, she gave him an apologetic glance before turning back to the professor. “Piotr wants me to dance with him, and he won't take no for an answer, and I really want to, but I don't know how, and I don't want to trip all over his feet, and--” she broke off, giggling, as Piotr strode over, a seriously intent expression on his face.
Charles smiled. “And...?”
“And will you make me know how? Please?”
Scott opened his mouth to rebuke her, or maybe to offer to teach her himself, but Charles smiled again and looked a question at Kitty. She nodded, grinning, and then Piotr was beside her, tugging her onto the floor. For a moment, Kitty seemed unsure where to put her arms, but then she began to move her feet and soon swept across the dance floor as gracefully as if she'd been waltzing for years.
Scott saw the grateful look she shot Charles from across the room, and his answering smile. Then Kitty whirled away, and Scott was sure only he saw the hurt flicker across Charles' features a moment later.
“I'm sorry,” Scott said quietly, looking out at the kids.
“Because I can't?” Charles shrugged, reducing that to unimportant.
“Not that.” Scott shook his head. “But I would've taught her.”
“I know. I don't think she wanted to be shown. She wanted to know.” Charles looked at his hands for a moment, clasped loosely on his thighs, and Scott looked at Kitty, wondering where she got the courage to ask the most powerful telepath on the planet to help her know how to waltz. Not that there was anything wrong with asking. And dancing was a pretty harmless request. It wasn't like she'd asked him to let her know what it was like to sleep, or breathe oxygen, or feel another human's touch, or any number of things that some of these kids didn't know how to do. Or to see in color, for that matter.
“Scott--” Forget asking the most powerful telepath on the planet anything. Sometimes just knowing him took guts.
Scott sighed. “I know. You would. But--”
“It would be like letting me waltz, for five minutes?” Charles finished.
“Not quite what I was going to say,” Scott said, still looking out at the kids as they swirled past in light red shirts and dark red jackets and dresses in every shade of red. “At least you remember how.”
“There is that,” Charles said softly, though Scott wasn't sure it sounded like an agreement.
They sat in silence for a moment before Scott checked his watch and sighed. “We've got another hour,” he said, tilting his head to get the stiffness out of his neck. “Would you like a cup of coffee, or something?”
“You could dance,” Charles said pointedly.
“I could.” Scott smiled. “So. Coffee?”
“Actually, I wouldn't say no to a cup of punch, if you wouldn't mind.”
“Sure.” Scott went and ladled them both cups of the ruby liquid, then gave Charles his and sat down again before taking a drink.
And when it tasted like 7-Up and lemonade instead of Hawaiian Punch like he'd expected, well. There were worse things.
Six
Pyro had never thought of Magneto as being human. Hadn't thought about him much at all, really, before that whole thing with Marie. Magneto was just the guy that the X-Men were always trying to stop “before he really hurt someone.” The guy they were talking about on TV, usually, the times when Ms. Munroe and Dr. Grey interrupted Pyro and Bobby's marathon games of Mortal Kombat to sit and watch the news. Pyro knew from Pitor that Magneto's real name was Erik something, and he had apparently helped Prof X start the school. But the professor never talked about that, and Pyro had never asked, and anyway, Magneto wasn't that big of a deal.
Until Pyro had met him. And even then, he wasn't just a person. He was an ass-kicking bad guy who was way too smart and way too dangerous, but Pyro couldn't help wanting to be close to him. Wanting Magneto not to think he was just some stupid trailer-trash kid. Talking to him was like running a finger on the edge of a knife-sharp and dangerous, but it was so shiny or something that you wanted to do it anyway.
It had helped that he hadn't looked at Pyro like he was stupid. He'd actually talked to him, and made him feel important even with his craptastic need-a-lighter-to-get-it-started power, and it was just really cool. But he was still Magneto: Really Badass Bad Guy
It wasn't until Pyro had been living with him for awhile that he started to see Magneto as a regular guy. He still didn't dare call him Erik. But after he'd borrowed Magneto's sweatpants and spilled half a Mountain Dew on Magneto's newspaper-without getting yelled at--and took his turn doing the laundry and washed Magneto's boxers, it just sort of happened. Sure, Magneto set the table without actually touching the silverware, and his office doorknob grew some serious spines when he was in there in a bad mood, but that wasn't anything that new for Pyro. Hell, he'd seen weirder things at Xavier's.
And Mystique was really hot, and really blue, and really almost naked a lot of the time, but she wasn't that weird, either. She even had a bunch of computer games-girly ones, like The Sims and Final Fantasy-but they weren't too bad. And one time when she came back from shopping with Magneto, they'd bought Diablo II for him. Mystique had even tried it out a couple of times.
Magneto would barely touch the computer for serious stuff, let alone for fun, so he'd tried to teach Pyro how to play chess. Chess sucked, but Pyro played anyway because it seemed to make Magneto happy.
Mystique seemed to make Magneto happy, too, which was kind of weird because Magneto didn't seem like the kind of guy who would want to be like that with someone. Had Pyro thought about it after meeting Magneto-which he hadn't, not really-he would've thought Magneto was the kind of guy who'd be good at picking somebody up. And having sex, because even if he was really old, he had good arms and a nice ass. He was pretty hot, for an old guy. But Pyro never would've imagined Magneto casually buying Tampax at the grocery store, or watching X-Files with Mystique's head on his shoulder on the couch, or going outside to smoke after dinner because she bitched about it.
But Pyro was getting used to that, and when he went to the kitchen to get a soda, it didn't seem weird at all that they were dancing to something on the radio with peppers and chicken half-chopped and abandoned on the counter. Their arms were around each other, their eyes closed, and they didn't seem to notice that he paused for a minute, watching them with one hand on the handle of the fridge.
Then Magneto reached up to stroke Mystique's hair, and his hand froze for a second on the back of her head. Pyro thought he saw Magneto's eyes open, just a flicker, before he closed them again and kept dancing. It was like he'd expected to see someone else, or something.
And that? Was definitely weird.