Chapter Text
Jean Elaine Grey would have doubted anyone nine years ago if they had told her that she would have the power to hear people’s thoughts and move objects with her mind. Jean would have doubted anyone eight years ago if they told her that she was going to watch her childhood best friend, Annie, die right in front of her. She would have doubted anyone seven years ago if they told her she had been in a coma since that death. She would have doubted anyone six years ago if they told her that her parents would have her committed due to the illness she had developed since being awake from her coma. She would have doubted anyone five years ago if they told her that someone would save her from the hospital like she would dream and pray for nightly after another round of electroshock therapy. She would have doubted anyone four years ago if they told her that her savior and mentor would utterly shatter upon the draft being initiated in the war. She would have doubted anyone three years ago if they told her that her only other companion in the mansion would have created a substance her mentor would use as a drug. She would have doubted anyone two years ago if they told her that she was going to manage both graduating and finding a college to go to at night. She would have doubted anyone a year ago if they told her that her mentor was only going to keep falling into the pit of despair he had created himself. Today, she would have doubted anyone that told her that when she returned home from her waitressing job, that everything was going to turn around.
In his misery, Charles had unwittingly dragged both her and Hank into a vicious cycle of commiseration and frustration in regards to the man they used to hold up so highly. She would be a liar if she said it had not affected her, and the truth was, it had shaped her into a colder woman. When she went to school at night she kept to herself and to her studies. When she was at work, a part time waitressing gig, she would use her powers to discern what her customers wanted before they ever voiced it. She put on a facade, a mask meant for customer service plastered with a smile. At home, it would be a constant rollercoaster of being unable to stop herself from feeding off others’ feelings.
Her only escape was to venture as far away as possible from Charles and Hank. Her sanctuary was a library on the topmost level of the mansion. Hank would frequent the subbasement and the first level, Charles the first and second. This third floor had quietly become hers, and she had spent time to transport her favorite books up there. When she was in her haven, she was surrounded by books of poetry and short stories all revolving around nature. Henry David Thoreau, although dead, was virtually her best friend. The beauty found in the rawness, in reality, it gave her a small hope she might one day have someone find her so beautiful as well.
She was making the familiar strides to the front door, having elected to walk to and from work that day, when it all hit her. She stumbled, her knee scraping against the gravel as emotion after emotion hit. A hand flew to her head, cradling the side as she tried to will it away. The awful ache of a migraine settling into her system was bad enough, but the emotions stemmed from a source she knew and one she did not. Hank was easy to sort out as it all screamed intruder, intruder, intruder. Feet hit the gravel quickly, long movements of lean legs as they pumped to get her through the threshold and into home.
Her purse and bookbag was left abandoned by the door, legs still pumping as she arrived onto the scene. A fight was taking place between a stranger and Hank, in his true form. Confusion didn't seem to cease as it came off in waves from the man, adding to Jean's. Another short sprint left her between the two men, panting as her hand outstretched in front of her, her mind focused on Hank and getting him away from the man. She needed to break up the fight, stop the confusion, stop the flood. “Stop it,” a quiet plea at first, but her volume grew, “Stop it!”
Hank's body moved, his back hitting the stairs with a thud. The chandelier she sometimes would stare at while not paying attention to her housemates’ bickering began to rain glass. A beautiful thing lost as a casualty against her powers, powers that were still as wild and untamed even with the practice she put herself through. She had gone somewhere around four years without a guide, lost to the maze of her mind. The key to unlocking control was still lost in the enigma. Her attempts were merely claw marks against hardwood floors as she was taken away by her own fears.
Panting. She was still panting, she realized as she stood between the men. Her fiery hair had found ways to pry itself loose from the bun she wore, strands now in her face as her attention juxtaposed between the two. Her voice was steady now, calm. It was a tone she remembered easily, a tone she used well, one that was now normally reserved for Charles. Mothering, nurturing, babying. He was just like a child now, one she and Hank had to care for.
“Stop it and talk it out, right now.”
Hank was the first to move in her sight, but she could feel a previous ball of self-pity shifted into curiosity and worry. It was more of the former. Hank rose from the stairs, wiping glass off of his body as an unsightly robe entered her peripherals. The robe meant it was not a good day, but there never were good days anymore. It meant he had not changed, had not showered, had not cared. A small pinch of disgust added itself to the cacophony of feelings inside of her. “Jean,” a lilt that used to soothe her now began heating her blood, “Hank, who is that? What happened? What happened to my chandelier?”
“A guest.”
“An intruder.”
“A friend.”
Jean, Hank, and the stranger all sounded off as one. She dared a small glance over her shoulder at the unknown man. She couldn't pinpoint what it was about him, the clothes, the body, the posture, the attitude, or the words, but it all screamed trouble to her. Not trouble in the eyes of the law, no, trouble as she wanted him. She was drawn in like a moth to a flame until that lilt tore her attention away.
“A friend,” Charles questioned incredulously, “I don't have those.”
She didn't need powers to understand how his words put a knife into a heart. It was clear on Hank's expression. It was felt in her own heart, no matter how cold it seemed these days. It spoke of the disarray and dysfunction of their relationships. To him, Hank was probably no more than a live-in dealer and she was undoubtedly the maid. The sharp words had no effect on the stranger, and his cheshire grin spelt mischief or advantageous knowledge. Still, he lured her unwittingly to him, he radiated comfort and familiarity, although she knew this was their first encounter. He spoke clearly, uninterrupted this time, “I was sent here by you.”
“By me?” Escalation after escalation, wave upon stronger wave of emotion. All coming from Charles as his already tumultuous temperament frenzied into overdrive. He wasn't aiming for her, but Jean might as well have been the only target. She was the one to feel each shift of his liquid disposition which shifted whenever any molecule seemed unfit or reminded him of his loss.
“Yeah, about fifty years from now.”
His words had her curiosity piqued, but the spark sizzled out immediately upon the nudging gaze in Charles’ blue eyes. She was not only a maid, but a personal lie detector. She was meant to do so on command, to discern the intention of visitors and turn them away should they have a wish different from him. They always did. There was no escaping his unnerving stare unless she did as he bid. Obedience was easy. It was a small moment out of her own head and into the stranger's. Her eyelids closed, a deep breath in, then out as she centered herself. It was nothing more than a nudge against his mind, a prod to see if there was more to his words by omission or simple betrayal.
Her eyes opened to the stranger's. She decided upon his eyes, blue but not innocent nor naive nor wallowing in sorrow. There was a wisdom in them, experiences beyond her years, and the smallest hint of a smile that she hoped was just for her. Those blue eyes were trouble indeed, but he had given her a spark of life and it was taking form, giving way to a fire in her blood that warmed her and excited her for the future. The future was no longer an ideal to escape to, to slave over everyday and provided her hope during the monotony. Now it served as a mystery she wanted to dissect just to find where he fit into it, and find herself a spot next to him.
“He's telling the truth.”