Archive of Our Own

Her mind is overactive, racing thoughts and confusion coupled with dull pain and frantic longing for her parents. Even from a distance, Charles can feel the pressure emanating from her, enveloping the minds around her like a cloud.

She’s smaller than he expected. Younger. Her injuries are mild, covered in gauze and tape, but the pain comes from somewhere else. Somewhere deeper.

He’s familiar with the sort of pain she’s in. He can understand it, can feel it without the psychic bleed. The pressure is enormous and immense and palpable only to him. Thankfully, experience outweighs raw power, and she can’t get through his barriers as easily as he can open hers. The walls hold up without issue, letting him talk to her easily.

He doesn’t have to force her to go with him. There’s no mind control, no manipulation, barely any persuasion. She’s desperate for someone to have faith in her, to give her a chance, and he’s not lying when he offers that to her.

Erik barely hides his fond bemusement when he brings Jean back to the school. He’d taken to cooking after Cuba, spending long nights alone in the kitchen, and offers Charles a cup of tea and Jean several easy options: tea or hot chocolate, chocolate chip cookie or oatmeal, apple or orange.

“Are you special, too?” she asks, dunking the oatmeal cookie in her hot chocolate.

Erik smiles and lifts the spoon from Charles’ saucer, putting it in the sink without looking.

“Magnetism,” he explains. “Charles tells me you have a similar ability?”

Jean shrinks, splitting the orange into segments. “It breaks things,” she whispers. “Hurts people.”

Erik looks at Charles, one eyebrow raised.

She believes she killed her family when her power awakened. I told her it’s a tool, but…

Erik fixes his own cup of tea. “My power coming in led directly to the loss of my mother,” he says simply. Jean’s eyes flick up sharply, the pressure around her pressing against the walls Charles helped Erik erect. “Learning to control it could be the first step in grieving.”

“What if I hurt someone?” Jean asks in a whisper.

“Then we help them,” Charles says. “But I don’t think you will.”

“It happens,” Jean insists. “I – I don’t mean to, but I – I can hear them, all of them –”

Charles leans forward, resting a gentle finger against her temple.

It’s loud, he tells her. Believe me, I know. But I can help you learn to parse the noise and shut out the sounds.

It’s not just noise. Unlike Erik’s direct line like a whisper to his side, Jean’s is a wire from mind to mind, words echoing in his skull. It’s them.

The wire shares more than her thoughts. Her nerves, her fear, the bleed of the people around her – she can’t feel the emotions of him or Erik, but Hank’s frenetic energy in the lab, Raven’s mirth beside him, Alex and Darwin’s ease and contentment in their room –

“I can help you,” he says, repeating his words from the hospital. “And the first thing we’ll learn is how to keep you from feeling everything in the school.”

There’s a flicker of trust that deepens as he presses his ease and confidence toward her. She lets out a heavy breath and sips the hot chocolate.

Charles catches Erik’s eye, feeling his fondness press against him.

You make an adorable father.

Hush, dear.

“She’s powerful,” Erik says as he turns down their bed.

Charles raises an eyebrow, lifting his gaze from his book. “You knew that when she came here,” he says.

“Knowing you found a telekinetic telepath with hypothetical power exceeding our own is different from actually knowing the child. Especially after several months of observation.” Erik’s voice is dry and Charles smiles.

“It’s all right if she’s your favorite student, you know,” Charles says.

Erik flicks his eyebrows, striding over to where Charles is sitting by the window. “She is,” he says. “She also worries me the most.”

“Because of her power?”

Erik nods. “It’s growing rapidly. The moment she learns how to control it, her ability expands another degree.”

Charles sets his book aside, turning his chair toward Erik. “Her telekinesis is getting stronger?”

“A week ago, she was struggling to lift the dumbbells,” he says. He taps Charles’ arm to make him let go of the wheels, moving his chair back to the bed with a simple motion. “Today, she was lifting the bar so Alex could add more weights.”

Charles furrows his brow. “How long did it take you to be able to lift more than your weight?”

Erik offers his arms, helping Charles into bed. “My dear, it took me twice as long to be able to lift a coin reliably,” he whispers. His hands are solid and steady on Charles’ upper arms. “She’s a wonder.”

Charles hums, one hand resting over Erik’s heart. Steady, even, strong. Slower than his own, especially when Erik leans down to press a kiss to his temple.

The channel between them opens, warm fondness and love stretching back and forth. In truth, he can’t tell where his ends and Erik’s begins, but he hardly cares so long as it envelopes his mind as steadily as fog over the woods.

He exhales, eyes shut, forehead pressed against Erik’s. He drags his hand up from his heart to his neck, Erik’s pulse steady beneath his thumb.

You’re distracted, comes the amused comment.

"In truth, I try not to think of the children when it’s time for bed,” Charles admits.

Erik lets out a huff. A second later, warm lips press against his own, gentle and soft. Erik holds his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek.

Charles lets out a small noise, leaning his head into Erik’s palm.

“My apologies, my love,” Erik whispers. You think of them enough in the daylight.

“I think of them all the time,” Charles says, letting Erik get into bed beside him. “It’s hard not to when new students arrive nearly every day.”

“And you’ve found space for all of them.” Erik tugs him closer, letting Charles lean against his side, his face tucked into his shoulder. His arm is wrapped around Charles, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into his hip.

“I may have to find more teachers,” Charles muses softly. He takes Erik’s free hand in his, lifting it to kiss his knuckles.

“There’s time,” Erik murmurs. He kisses the side of Charles’ head, turning off the lights with a flick of his fingers.

It’s an endless source of fascination, seeing how the school shapes around the children. Most are fetched by Erik and Charles after being found on Cerebro, their parents given information just left of the truth to get them to agree to enroll their child, but word spreads on its own that Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters isn’t a typical private school. Some arrive with worried parents in tow, some arrive alone, some are all but shoved out of cars to find their way to the front door and stammer through an explanation before Alex calls for Charles to come talk to the newest student.

When it was just the X-men, classes weren’t really necessary, despite the name. He helped Angel get her degree and Sean finish his GED, but they were all young adults, all beyond the age of school. The only one who truly wanted to pursue any sort of education was Erik, who’d been denied it for so many years.

The children are different. They thrive with the structure of classes, even the non-traditional forms they implement. Charles loves his English classes the most, hearing the children interpret the novels he grew up on and offer their own perspective.

Erik, however, is less of a teacher and more of a counselor. He can handle one on one instruction, walking a student through a piece of coursework, but he hasn’t the patience for a full class. Arguably, his only class is one the kids have affectionately dubbed Mastery, where he gives them tasks relating to their powers in an effort to teach them control.

Jean is endlessly distressed by Mastery.

“He keeps finding new things for me to do,” she laments to Charles one day, after skipping Erik’s sessions and hiding in the library. “It’s like – it’s like it’s never enough.”

Charles taps a finger on the arm of his chair. “It’s not that it isn’t enough, Jean,” he tells her. “He just wants you to push yourself and see what all you can do.”

“I can move things three times my weight,” Jean says hotly. “Isn’t that enough?”

Charles leans closer, mouth twitching up when she leans toward him in kind. “The fact that you can do that is incredible, you know,” he says. “Erik – the first time I met Erik, he was trying to pull a submarine out of the water. He nearly drowned trying then, but within a few months of training, he was able to do it.”

Jean scoffs. “Of course he was.”

Charles tilts his head. “Not easily,” he said. “He nearly couldn’t do it the second time, when it really mattered. It’s not just a matter of raw power. It’s mental control as well, finding the emotional state where your power can flourish and grow without anything restraining it.”

She doesn’t roll her eyes, but there’s a distinctly unimpressed look in her eyes. “The point between rage and serenity?” she asks, voice curling to mimic Erik’s accent the slightest bit.

Charles smiles. “I see he’s stolen my words,” he says. “For him, for myself, that’s where our powers are strongest. Not pure calm, nor pure rage, but with enough strong emotion to drive us to try harder and push ourselves a bit more.”

Have you found her? Erik's presence presses against the base of his skull, two floors up and halfway across the school in his office.

In the library. She thinks what she does in Mastery is never enough for you.

That silly name. He can feel the eye roll and the scoff without seeing it, without Erik transmitting it. It’s not that it’s not enough. It’s that I don’t know where the goalpost lies, and I’m doubting I’ll ever find it. She’s capable of more than we can imagine, Charles.

“Jean,” he says, “you’re capable of so much. The way you can master something new so quickly is amazing. Erik just wants to help you figure out the scope of it all.”

Pride and curiosity flicker off of her like flames on a log. Hesitance, too, holding something more back.

“Can it be something more interesting, though?” she asks, finally sounding like the nine-year-old she is. “Lifting things is so boring.”

Charles snorts. “I’m sure we can come up with something more engaging,” he says. He straightens, moving his chair to beside the armchair she’s claimed. “Now, though, may I ask what you’re reading? I don’t recognize it.”

She lifts the book to show him the cover of A Wizard of Earthsea. “Angel gave it to me,” she says.

“Ah. She does enjoy some children’s books,” he says. “I don’t believe I’ve read that one, though. What is it about?”

Her eyes brighten and she tells him about the characters and setting eagerly. After a while, she tilts her head, tapping her fingers on the cover. “Are you making it homework because I skipped Mastery?”

“No, no,” he says with a laugh. “I’m just curious. I haven’t seen you in here too often, so I wasn’t sure if you liked reading outside the assignments.”

She shrugs. “I like this one.”

She drops her guard around him, lets him lean close and ask questions about her books, her classes, her coursework outside of Mastery and his English class. She unwinds slowly, sinking into the armchair.

“Why haven’t we worked on my telepathy more?” she asks.

Charles shifts, rubbing his thumb over his palm. “We have,” he says. “It’s largely subconscious, but you’ve built barriers that are keeping you from hearing and feeling everyone around you. Tell me, right now, what can you hear?”

Jean blinks. She sits up, shutting her eyes as she focuses. A wash of psychic energy brushes past Charles and he taps her arm, pulling her back.

“No, no, I don’t mean, what can you hear if you stretch yourself,” he says. “Right now, in this moment, with your walls up as they are, what can you hear?”

“Nothing,” she says. “I can’t hear your thoughts.”

He lets out a light breath. “You couldn’t hear my thoughts when you first came here, either,” he reminds her. “Do you remember? You could hear everyone in the school, regardless of where they were. Now you don’t, and it’s not a conscious effort anymore. That’s growth, Jean, that’s progress, and not an insignificant sort.”

She lights up, bright joy sparkling around her. Her barriers open slightly and he can see the spiral they create, a funnel narrowing to Jean’s mind at the center, focused and specific.

His own is a fortress, built like the school itself, with room and corridors and locked doors. Raven’s connection is nestled into a couch in front of a fire. Hank’s is in the lab, a radio crackling on the table beside his projects. Erik’s is a window, bright and wide open, leading into an endless green expanse with a simple cottage where the man’s consciousness is protected from any telepath he doesn’t want in.

Charles doesn’t keep specific connections open to the children. There are too many and he can only stretch himself so far. Their projected thoughts are like knocks at the door, getting his attention without pulling it.

Now, though, a little orange bird has settled in the library, nestled among the books. Her opening went both ways before Charles could realize it and as surely as she’s found a room among his fortress, he’s found a notch on her spiral to park himself.

“How come I can’t hear your thoughts?”

Erik looks up from stringing a bow. “Because I’ve guarded my mind from telepaths,” he responds.

“Why?” She doesn’t move from the bench she’s sitting on, feet swinging while she watches him. Erik beckons her over, holding an arm guard that’ll fit a child.

“I’ve known mutants with less honor than rats,” he says simply. “Among them telepaths who would take control of my powers for their own means given the opportunity. Charles taught me how to protect my mind from them.”

Jean furrows her brow, letting him fix the arm guard on her left forearm. “So the professor can’t read your thoughts either?”

“Only if I want him to,” he says. He pats her shoulder and hands her the bow, withholding the quiver of arrows. “Now, you’re bored of lifting, and I’m bored of tossing things in the air for you to add to a pile.” He pauses to let her giggle and points across the pond to a target facing them. “I want you to hit the target without using your powers.”

Jean frowns. “I thought the point of Mastery was to work on my telekinesis,” she says.

“It is. But you still need to develop skills so your telekinesis can be a supplement instead of a crutch.” He kneels down beside her, showing her how to hold the bow. “If you imagine what you can do like building a house, you want the foundation to come from you and not your powers.”

“You make it sound like I might not always have my powers,” she says.

He straightens her arms. “You’ll always have them, but you may not always have the energy to use them.”

Her hand is tight around the bow, knuckles white. Unyielding.

“Ease your grip,” he says. “You want some mobility.”

She adjusts easily, soaking instruction like a sponge. He has to admit, she’s got more interest in how the bow works and how to hold and aim it than she did in just lifting or catching things. It makes her easier to give instruction to, when she’s not biting her tongue to hold back sharp remarks.

He helps her nock the arrow, keeping a hand on her elbow as she draws the string.

“Even breaths,” he says. “Find your anchor. Remember that the string will snap forward with the arrow, so you don’t want to catch your nose with it.”

She nods, her arrow brushing against her cheek as she lines it up, anchoring to the corner of her mouth. Erik leans back, shifting to look over her shoulder. The target is clear across the pond and her arrow is lined up to hit it in some spot, if not the bullseye.

“All right, Jean,” he says. “Loose.”

She releases the string. The arrow clears the pond, burying itself in the first black ring.

“Not bad,” Erik says.

“Not really good,” Jean mutters. “It’s barely on the target.”

Erik clasps her shoulder. “It’s a first shot,” he says. “Now you know where to aim and can make adjustments.” He offers her a second arrow. “Again.”

She meets his eye, careful heat brushing against his walls as she takes the arrow.

“You may knock all you like, but you won’t get into my mind, Jean,” he says. He breaks eye contact, nodding toward the target. “Again.”

By the fifth arrow, she’s solidly in the blue rings. By the tenth, she’s hit the outer red ring twice. She’s standing straighter, head held higher, but still not happy with her performance.

“You’ve made a solid start,” Erik tells her.

“Can I try one more?” She looks up at him, eyes bright and wide. Erik considers her, then offers her the arrow.

“Try it with your powers this time,” he says.

She grins at him and readies her arrow. Like the last, it strikes the red – the inner ring, closer to the yellow bullseye than before. Jean frowns, lowering the bow.

“But…”

“You have raw power,” Erik says. He lifts a hand and summons the target by its metal legs, setting it down in on the paved walk. “We haven’t yet worked on precision, though.”

Jean lets him take the arm guard and the bow back, watching him unstring it with curious eyes. “Can archery be part of that training?” she asks, shifting from foot to foot.

Erik smiles. “It’s like you read my mind.”

Chess is how they connect, in a way. Charles doesn’t read Erik’s mind while they play, instead trying to learn about him through strategy and play, the way Erik learns about him.

Some games are played in silence. Some involve light conversations about their days. Some underscore heavier conversations where the pieces barely move, the players preoccupied with the weight of the world.

Charles taps his fingers on the arm of his chair, studying the board. “Hank is still working on a way to measure a mutant’s power,” he says.

“Is he using you as a lab rat or the children?” Erik asks mildly.

“He’s using us all, in a way.” Charles moves a bishop. “Taking known mutations to contextualize possible mutations, keeping track of power and abilities, the possible limitations or lack thereof…”

“You’re not thinking of Hank.” Erik’s voice is soft.

“I used Cerebro to help him gauge the students,” Charles admits. “Nothing invasive, nothing I haven’t done before, but this time, when I looked…”

Erik waits, moving a knight. They go through four more turns, piece by piece, before Charles speaks again.

“The measurements and readings aren’t consistent, but there are patterns across the board. Powers most often manifest between birth and pubescence, less commonly in adolescence, and rarely in adults. After onset, they grow, then taper and level out, usually at stages of puberty.” He wrings his hands, staring at the board. “Most adult mutants don’t experience major growths in power, though that’s not to say it’s impossible.”

“And when you looked at the children?” Erik leans back in his seat, legs crossed.

“Most of them were consistent,” Charles replies.

“Jean wasn’t?” Erik guesses, moving a bishop to place Charles’ king in check.

Charles shakes his head. “I expect her powers will grow. Beyond the scale we’ve designed. She doesn’t fit it the way the others do.”

“More potential?” Erik asks.

“More depth.” Charles moves his king and leans back, rubbing his chin. “Her mind, Erik, it’s – it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. The mind as a notion alone is incredible, human ingenuity and creativity, but the expanse within, the way it holds who we are – it’s not something to put to words, the way Jean and I can comprehend them, but hers…” He shakes his head. “It’s endless, Erik. There’s more to it than even I can understand.”

“You’re probably the only one who could hope to understand her mind, Charles,” Erik says.

He inhales, deep and shaking. “A frightening notion, that is,” he murmurs. “That no one else could comprehend the depths of who she is.”

“There’s still time, my dear,” Erik says. He leans forward, moving a rook to place Charles’ king in checkmate. “More students can arrive, more mutants can make themselves known. Some may match Jean. Or, even if they don’t, they may endeavor to know her anyway.”

Charles sighs. “I can only hope.”

Erik still takes the night shift, so to speak, waking up when the children do. Charles sleeps through most of it, blissfully unaware of sleepwalkers and nightmares unless there’s a loud enough explosion.

Erik’s slept lightly since he met Shaw when he was twelve.

Most of the kids are simple to return to bed. A glass of milk and a small snack of some sort, a chance to talk about their nightmares and be reassured that no monsters are under the bed or in the closet or anywhere in the school, and if there were, Alex and Erik would be first to deal with them.

Some are harder. Some have no home outside the school and worry about the certainty of their place in it. Some worry their powers will disappear – or long for the loss of them – but still fear the families that turned them out.

Some remember the days their powers came in with vivid horror. Others lock them behind walls that Charles quietly bolsters, hoping to keep the nightmares at bay.

“You know you still have class in the morning,” Erik says softly.

Jean shrugs, hugging her knees to her chest. She doesn’t shift when he sits beside her, nor when he lowers the volume on the television.

“Was it a nightmare?” he asks.

She nods, scratching at her ankles. “Fire,” she whispers.

Erik furrows his brow. Her powers caused a car crash, not a fire. To the best of his and Charles’ knowledge, she’d never been involved in anything concerning fire.

“Is that normal?” he asks. She glances at him and he tilts his head slightly. “Dreaming of fire.”

She shakes her head. “Normally… it’s the car. Or the hospital. Or – or something in the lake pulling me under.” Her arms tighten around her legs. “But there was fire everywhere. The whole school and the woods and everyone was stuck inside and I couldn’t stop it –” She sucks in a shuddering breath, hunching over herself further.

“It was just a dream,” he says gently.

She shakes her head. “It just hasn’t happened yet,” she whispers. Her fingers are tight around her knees, her knuckles white.

Erik rests a hand on her back, palm flat. Her heart’s pounding beneath it, fast like a hummingbird’s wings. She doesn’t shy from the contact, but it doesn’t soothe her, either.

“Did it feel different from other dreams?” he asks. She looks at him, confused, and he continues, “I’ve known Charles to dream of people far away. He describes those dreams as more real than any others, like he’s standing in someone’s house, or sitting beside them. There’s something more solid that lets him know it’s real. Did your dream feel like that?”

Jean shrugs, half-turning to him. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “I don’t know if it’s different. How would I know?”

Erik inclines his head, glancing at the television. He can make a thousand guesses, worry about a sudden precognition ability manifesting, but that won’t make a ten-year-old understand what she’s dreaming of, the endless possibilities of her mind.

“Charles would explain it better than me,” he says softly. “For now, I’m sure it’s just a dream.”

She looks at him, distress clear in her eyes behind her bangs. She blinks when he tucks her hair behind her ear.

“Come on,” he says, offering a hand as he stands. “Something to eat and then back to sleep, alright?”

She nods, gripping his hand in hers and following him quietly to the kitchen. She accepts the chamomile tea and the cookie he offers, not inclined to say anything more while he washes the few dishes the teenagers had left behind. She yawns, jaw creaking, and slumps over the table.

Erik rubs her back. “Time for bed, my dear,” he whispers.

She makes a small noise and turns toward him. He freezes, her head falling against his chest, and catches her before she can fall off the chair.

“Jean,” he murmurs, trying to rouse her.

She whines, wordless, and loops her arm around his neck. He sighs and picks her up, carrying her with ease.

More nightmares?

Now you wake. Erik makes his way upstairs, Jean safely cradled against his chest. Her breathing evens out as she falls asleep.

I woke when you got up. I wanted to listen and see what you’d do.

You couldn’t jump in to help her with the nightmare?

You’ve handled nightmares before. There’s nothing to suggest her nightmare was anything more than a dream.

You looked at it? Erik opens the door to Jean’s room and flicks the light on. It’s an odd mixture of classically rich and childish, with her drawings taped haphazardly over dark wood paneling and a brightly colored comforter clashing with the wallpaper. It feels lived in, especially with her bed in a state of disarray from when she woke earlier.

The bits of it she retained. It was disjointed and frantic, the way dreams are. If it were a premonition, it’d be more fluid, follow some rules of logic.

Maybe you could tell her that in the morning. Erik sets her down in bed, sitting on the edge to tuck the blanket around her. She nestles into her pillow, curled up as small as can be. She doesn’t rouse when Erik rests a hand on her head, thumb stroking strands of hair. He sits in silence, waiting.

For what, he isn’t certain.

She’s asleep. Charles’ voice is tired. She should be all right until morning.

Erik looks at the freckles dotting her face, lit by the moon through the window. Almost on cue, she sucks in a sharp breath, kicking out in her sleep. Wisps of energy flicker out against his barriers, like fingers grasping for something to hold.

“Shhh.” He puts his hand back, stroking her hair again. “You’re all right, love, it’s okay.”

Jean snuffles, whimpering in her sleep.

Charles?

Keep doing what you’re doing. It’s helping.

Erik sighs, crossing one leg at the knee. He peers at Jean, fitful in her sleep, one hand stroking her hair in steady, even motions.

Quietly, he starts to sing, searching the depths of his mind for the lullaby his mother sang him, that her mother sang to her, and hers to her, the song that his ancestors passed from parent to child at night until it reached him. It reaches Jean now, far from Dusseldorf where his parents taught him, far from Auschwitz where he sang to himself in the dead of night, far from Cuba where he hummed to Charles on the beach. Lit by the moon in a child’s room, he sings her to sleep, stopping only when her discontented noises turn to quiet breaths.

You make an adorable father.

Quiet, dear.

While their bedroom is Charles’ sanctuary, the kitchen is Erik’s. Cooking for an ever-growing number of students isn’t a simple task, but he takes to it with the same serious focus he takes to anything.

It’s easier when he can plan the meals in advance and task the simpler ones to some of the others, though. Angel and Raven aren’t fond of cooking, but Alex and Darwin enjoy it well enough to do it a few nights a week.

Charles watches Erik teach the children how to cook as they get older. Erik watches them, sharp as a hawk, his powers catching every knife before it can fall off the counter or stopping every blade when they cut toward themselves instead of away.

Jean perches herself on the counter beside Charles, watching Erik explain to Jubilee how to fold butter into pastry dough for croissants.

Why does he spend so much time in the kitchen?

Charles doesn’t look at her, watching Jubilee cut cold butter into thin slices. It relaxes him. Making food requires repetitive motions that he finds meditative. Offering food helps him connect with people.

Jean tilts her head, long red hair falling over her face. Does that work?

Charles inclines his head, resting his head against one hand. So far. It’s worked particularly well with Jubilee. Remember how she wouldn’t talk to anyone when she first came?

Fondly. She barely stops talking now.

Be nice, Jean.

I didn’t say it to her. You’re the only one who can hear me.

Yes, but the others can read your expressions, can feel some of the energy you put out. They can recognize your disdain.

The eyeroll isn’t physical, but Charles can sense it anyway. He looks at her, catching her eye.

Closing yourself off will not make them kinder.

Something hot flares between them, from Jean’s chest to her mind to the connection between them.

They’re scared. Nothing I do will make them less scared, so why bother?

The issue with telepathy, especially when regarding non-telepaths, is that even the most convincing of lies are useless. Charles can pick up on her classmates’ general unnerve and discomfort as clearly as he can pick up on her distress and frustration over the matter.

Jubilee isn’t scared of you, he tells her. She’s curious.

She’s like that with everyone. It’s just because she’s still new and doesn’t know that everyone else hates me.

“They don’t hate you,” he murmurs, only loud enough for Jean to hear. She whips toward him, lips pressed together tightly. Her legs, crossed at the ankle, swing slightly.

“Says you,” she mutters.

Charles bites back a sigh. As much as he’s grown to know that middle schoolers are walking embodiments of sass and self-loathing, it never gets easier.

He understands the loneliness of telepathy, the difficulty of connecting with people who never quite trust that you haven’t uncovered their deepest, darkest secrets. He got lucky with Raven, with Erik, but as much as the others are his friends, there’s still a degree of separation they hold him at for their own comfort that he can’t begrudge.

It’s harder for an eleven-year-old girl to accept distance from her peers. Harder still when half the teachers regard her nervously, too. They’re protective of their thoughts and feelings, and even with the barriers Charles has helped most of them construct, Jean’s able to find gaps without trying.

Raven treats her as she treats Charles, gently but firmly pulling her out of her mind when she feels her reaching. It’s a comfort, in a way, that Jean has another person to talk to, but the fact remains that Raven isn’t a peer to her the way she is to Charles.

His own adolescence involved casual connections, easy friendships where he knew exactly what to say and when to say it to charm people. Even if the friendships didn’t last, he had them.

Every student in the school knows about Jean’s telepathy. They shut themselves off before she can try to learn how to navigate them. It’s not hatred, not the way Charles understands it, but to Jean, it is.

“Jean,” Erik says, pulling her attention, “can you grab the baking spray from the top shelf?”

She hops off the counter, pulling the spray to her hand to give to him.

“You can’t use your powers on it?” Jubilee asks. “It’s metal, isn’t it?”

“I could,” he says. “But Jean wasn’t going to join in if I didn’t invite her.” He smiles at Jean, friendly, and she rolls her eyes.

“Manipulative,” she says, jabbing a finger at him.

“That is an aspect of my mutation,” Erik muses. Jubilee snorts, grinning at Jean.

Thank you, love. Charles shifts his chair closer, keeping out of the way.

She’s been sulking for days. This will at least get her to do something outside of her head.

Jubilee chatters while Erik walks the girls through rolling the croissants into shape. Charles is more focused on Jean’s demeanor around her, the emotions swirling off them both, than the words that are said, so he startles when Jean laughs, bright and bubbly. Beside her, Erik catches himself before he starts to grin, catching Charles’ eye.

I think they could be friends, Erik admits.

For Jean’s sake, I hope you’re right.

The students don’t switch rooms very often. There aren’t so many they all need to share rooms, but some still choose to, wanting to be close to their friends. Others enjoy the solitude, but teenagers change their minds on whims every few months or so, so room assignments aren't considered permanent.

Jean, while not physically one of the oldest students, was one of the first after the initial first class of young adults. Younger than the other students, she’d been given her own room a floor below Charles and the other adults. It was the only thing that made sense at the time, and even with Jubilee as a friend, she doesn’t want to switch to a shared room.

She tells Charles she has too many nightmares to sleep in the same room as anyone.

“Do you worry she’d bully you for your nightmares?” Charles asks.

Jean shakes her head, tapping her pen on her paper. She’d come to him under the guise of needing help with biology, but her homework remains untouched.

“I don’t want to keep her awake all night,” she says. “It’s getting worse.”

“Worse how?” Charles doesn’t bother trying to read the essays in front of him. He can grade them when Jean isn’t around, when he can give them their due focus.

“They’re longer,” she says after a moment. “They’re not just things that can’t happen, they – they feel real.” She bites her lip, pen hovering over the paper. “And I get them more often. Not every night, but nearly.”

Charles leans back in his seat. It was true, she had nightmares frequently. What had started as somewhat expected but still sporadic occurrences were growing, shifting from a couple times a month to at least once a week. Erik had expressed his own concern that she wasn’t getting nearly enough rest after the third day in a row that he had to check on her in the middle of the night.

“I can’t do much to mend nightmares,” he says carefully. “But if you’d like, I can take a look and see if maybe there’s some way to shore up your defenses.” He flicks a finger toward his own eyebrow, then toward Jean’s. “May I?”

She nods, swiveling so the table and chair back are at her sides. She leans forward with her eyes shut, letting Charles press two fingers to her temple, his own eyes shut in kind.

Her mindscape is less of a spiral and more of a library now, memories tucked into books on shelves or into drawers with labels in looping writing. While the mind doesn’t accumulate dust, some memories are fresher than others, more fondly held.

Some are locked behind a worn door with rusty hinges that bulges at the seams, inconsistent light flashing around the edges.

“Don’t go in there!”

Charles hisses, Jean’s fright shooting through their connection. The door yaws away from him.

I won’t open it, he promises, pressing the thought against her. Just let me fortify it, okay?

She lets out a small whimper but whispers, “Okay.”

It’s not an easy process, nor a quick one. By the time Charles pulls himself out of her mind, he can feel the exhaustion deep in his bones.

“I think that may help,” he says. He winces, his spine twitching. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I need to move over to the couch for a while.”

Jean grips his sleeve. “Don’t leave,” she whispers.

“I’m not,” he says. “You’re welcome to sit with me.”

She leaves her biology homework on the table, curling up at the other end of the couch while he tries to position his legs in a way that won’t tweak his back further. He takes up two of the cushions, but Jean doesn’t seem to mind, her feet tucked under one of his legs.

“Are you tired, too?” he asks, propping his head up with a hand, his elbow against the back cushion.

She shrugs, then yawns. “I guess,” she says.

“Because you haven’t been sleeping or because I was in your head?”

She shrugs again. “Both? I don’t know. Why would I be tired when you’re the one who used your powers?”

Charles considers the question. “Well, it’s not the same as going into the mind of a non-telepath,” he says. “You have a greater awareness of what’s going on in your mind, so even if I was doing most of the work, your powers were still present and active to some degree.”

He doesn’t tell her that her powers were resistant to him installing barriers and defenses against her own mind. Whatever’s behind the door is more than memories, more than raw emotion or buried trauma.

He doesn’t know what would happen if the defenses fell. If she could bear the weight and come out stronger or crumble beneath it all, if the psychic bleed would hit the people around her or if her own mind would be the only casualty.

He hopes he never finds out.

His watch says that it’s nearly time for her to go to Darwin’s history lesson.

His heart can’t find it in him to send her to class. Not when she’s nodding off at the end of the couch, mind slowly easing in a way he’s never known hers to.

Raven? He finds her in the kitchen, making sandwiches for herself and a couple of the younger kids. Can you take my English class in an hour? It’s the seniors, they should be fine with discussing their reading.  

Sure thing. Is everything okay?

Yes, everything’s fine. It’s just my back. I need to rest for a while, is all.  

I’ll tell Alex to bring you some medicine.

Thank you.

He rubs his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t get migraines, thankfully, but he’s not immune to a headache from strain. He still needs to tell Darwin where Jean is, though, lest he send out a search party to interrupt their much-needed rest.

Darwin? Jean’s in my office, she’s going to miss your lesson.

He can almost hear the crash of the books Darwin knocks over when he startles. Fucking hell, Charles, warn a guy next time. That was like a bullhorn in my ear.

Sorry. I didn’t realize I could have volume control issues in telepathy.

Me neither. Not like you could make me go deaf, anyway. Is Jean okay?

Exhausted. I think she might be able to rest up here, though. I can go over your lesson with her later.

Hey, no worries. I’ll keep the other kids from asking too many questions.

Thank you.

Charles sighs, sinking back against the arm of the sofa, head tipping back. “Okay,” he breathes. “Okay.” He peels open one eye, watching Jean slowly slide down the cushion. She’s got her legs between his and the back of the sofa, a pillow hugged against her chest as she blinks slowly, sleep coming closer and closer. “Darwin knows where you are, so you can stay in here.”

She mumbles a thanks around a big yawn that makes Charles smile. There’s something young and innocent about the motion, something he hasn’t seen from her very often despite her youth.

She’s asleep when the door creaks open, Alex coming in with a tray bearing a glass of water, a couple of sandwiches, and a small cup with a couple of pills. He sets it on the coffee table, glancing at Jean with mild curiosity.

“Naptime?” he whispers.

“It’s not like she’s sleeping at night,” Charles says after taking the medicine and draining the glass. He ignores the sandwiches, not particularly hungry. He knows he’ll have to eat something, but until his spine stops objecting to his use of it, he can’t stomach the thought.

“Hey, whatever works.” Alex sets the empty glass on the table and nicks the blanket from the chair in the corner, draping it over Jean as gently as he can. It covers Charles’ legs, too, but Alex’s intent is clear as day.

“I’ll tell the kids to leave you be,” Alex says. He dims the lights, leaving them with the daylight scattering through the half-drawn curtains. Between the quiet of his office and Jean’s deep, even breaths, he drifts into his own light sleep.

Charles rouses when the sun is setting, pulled out of a dreamless sleep by Erik’s low voice and Jean’s quiet whispers.

“And now he rises,” Erik says when he sits up, making Jean giggle. She’s still tucked into the other end of the couch, the blanket pooled in her lap. Erik’s sitting on the coffee table, his elbows on his knees.

“Only just,” Charles breathes, rubbing his eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

You both needed to, Erik projects at him. You may not be having nightmares, but you’re still more stressed than you should be.

Charles sighs, eyebrows flicking up.

“You’re doing it again,” Jean says, drawing their gazes.

“Doing what?” Charles asks.

“Your silent conversations,” she says. “I can’t hear what you’re saying, but I can feel when you do it. It’s like a powerline going between you.”

Charles glances at Erik. Erik raises an eyebrow.

“Can you pick up on anything more than psychic energy?” Erik asks.

Jean peers at him, chewing on her lip. Hesitation flickers off her for a moment, a tightening spiral around her mind.

“You’re worried,” she says at last. “And you’re… warm. Like when Darwin and Alex come back from dates.”

She’s more perceptive than we were giving her credit for, Erik muses.

That may be my fault. I knew she could pick up on emotions, but I didn’t realize she could sense them through our barriers.

“You’re still doing it,” Jean says, more annoyed.

“I’m sorry, love. We didn’t realize you could feel our emotions through the barriers we have up,” Charles explains. He sits up slowly, the soreness in his back gone.  

Charles can feel the frustration curling off her as clearly as he can feel Erik’s growing concern. Her voice wobbles when she asks, “Why do you keep them up around me? I’m not gonna do anything, I promise.”

Erik leans forward, putting a hand on her knee. “We don’t think you would do anything,” he says. “But there are things in our minds, things we know, things we’ve been through, that we want to keep private.”

“A mind isn’t like a book,” Jean snaps. “I can’t just flip through the pages and learn everything about you. And I wouldn’t, I just –”

“Then what do you want?” Erik asks, voice level and calm.

Her thoughts are rapid and disjointed, halfway coherent and thick with longing and hurt. Let me in – trust me – stop shutting me out – trust me – let me closer –

“We can’t bring down our barriers entirely,” Erik continues. “You may be the only telepath enrolled, but you’re not the only one besides Charles. Any open door, even if intended for one person, remains an opening.” He looks at Charles for a moment but doesn’t project any thoughts before turning back to Jean. “So, what would you have us do?”

“I don’t know,” she says after a moment, voice shaking and weak. She very pointedly doesn’t look at Charles.

The issue with lying around telepaths is that it’s a fruitless endeavor, more often than not. Your lies will be clocked immediately, the truth they’re covering unveiled, the intent laid bare.

The thing is, Jean isn’t completely lying. She doesn’t know what she wants, not in a way she can verbalize. In the hazy muddle of half-formed thoughts she’s just lonely and desperate and hurt, stuck watching from the outside while everyone else exists within something.

We have to let her in. Charles can’t freeze Jean the way he can anyone else. He sees how her eyebrows draw together, her lips pressed into a thin line as he talks to Erik.

Charles, you know –

She’s lonely, Erik, lonelier than you were. She just wants us to trust her.

“We can’t bring down all our barriers,” Charles says. “They aren’t just designed to keep people out. What I did earlier, protecting you from something within your mind? Erik and I have similar defenses in place. What we can do is ease our holds on our minds around you, to a point.”

“Charles,” Erik says, eyes darting between him and Jean.

“Not all of our minds,” Charles goes on. “But letting you pick up on emotions or hear some more casual thoughts can’t hurt anything.” Let some thoughts bleed out. She and I are the only ones listening for you, anyway.

Jean’s not entirely satisfied, but she can recognize the olive branch for what it is. “Some thoughts?”

“It’ll still be less than what you’d hear from anyone else in the mansion,” Erik says. “But I suppose you can listen to me figure out grocery lists and recipes.”

Charles snorts, nodding when Jean looks confused. “He does spend a lot of time thinking about cooking.” He furrows his brows a little. “Very often in German, too, which I didn’t understand until after I’d met him.”

“You can speak German?” Jean asks.

“He can speak most languages if he’s met someone fluent in it,” Erik says. “You might be able to learn that way, too.”

“Oh, she probably will,” Charles says. “She might even be able to make the sounds that I still struggle with.”

Erik lets out a quick puff of air through his nose. “He has trouble with Yiddish,” he tells Jean. Many of the sounds come from the back of the throat and he can’t get it quite right. He tries his best, but even Charles can’t do everything perfectly.

Jean blinks. Your accent is different.

Erik smiles softly. He lets his accent drop, switching from Irish to German like a switch. “When I was younger, I met an older couple in Manhattan who’d immigrated from Ireland. I learned how to imitate their accent to avoid anyone identifying me as German. It was safer to pass myself off as an Irishman than a German or a Jew.”

Jean tilts her head. Is there still danger in being Jewish?

“There is danger in everything. The day any aspect of my identity is safe is the day I can rest peacefully,” Erik says drily. Jewish, mutant, queer. The hatred they beget is testament to the idiocy of humanity.

“Until then, the mansion is the safest place for all of us,” Charles says. He moves over on the couch, not feeling his feet hitting the floor but hearing the thumps all the same. “Love, can you…”

Erik flicks a hand, summoning Charles’ chair. He holds it steady while Charles moves over, waiting for him to settle before adjusting his feet.

“How do you two feel about dinner?” Erik asks. “I’m afraid Raven’s sandwiches have gone stale by now.”

“Dinner would be lovely.” Charles looks over to Jean. “What do you think, my dear?”

She nods and stands up, stretching slowly. I think dinner would be great.

The connection between the three of them isn’t anything like the isolated, one-to-one connections Charles has kept with most of the teachers, nor like the occasional knocks from students that want his attention. There’s a brightness to it, a sudden ever-present awareness of Jean’s consciousness in the same thread as Erik’s, like strings of lights stretching across the mansion. Even when she isn’t projecting thoughts to them, he can tell where she is – and she knows where they are in kind.

The novelty of the connection isn’t the most interesting part, though. Hearing Erik and Jean talk through it takes that prize. Discussions of her coursework, conversations about her friendships, debates over her Mastery lessons – they let Charles listen in, a sudden shift from Erik asking his opinions from a distance when he was uncertain.

Professor?

Charles puts a finger down to keep his place in the essay he’s reading. Yes?

Can Jubilee and I go to the movies?

Charles furrows his brow. A wave of exasperation ripples through the connection, preceding Erik’s voice.

This is not what I meant when I said I’d talk to Charles about it.

Your way would take too long. Besides, it’s not like we’d be completely alone. There’s a showing at the same time as the movie Alex and Darwin were talking about.

You are far too young to see The Exorcist with them.

We’re not going to see The Exorcist. Westworld is still showing and Jubilee’s been talking about it. She heard Alex and Darwin talking about the movies and found the showtimes for this weekend.

Charles sighs and presses his attention toward Erik. Why would you need to discuss with me whether Jean leaves the grounds?

You do realize she’s barely left the grounds since coming here?

You barely leave the grounds.

I leave the grounds weekly. You leave less often than I do.

Are you worried she’ll get overwhelmed in a crowd? She’s gotten better at filtering everyone out, and mutant minds are easier for her to tap into than human ones.

I worry that she and Jubilee are both thirteen-year-old girls who will be alone in a dark theatre with three hundred strangers and the nearest help in a separate dark theatre.

Other students have gone on outings before, Erik, and you’ve never been so worried.

Jubilee is Chinese and Jean is… It’s not the same as when the other students visit the mall with Raven.

He understands the worry. He also knows that keeping the kids sheltered and never exposing them to the world for fear of danger won’t help them the way Erik thinks. Protection can only go so far before it becomes paranoid.

What if you and I supervised? We don’t have to go in with them, the theatre’s attached to the mall. There’s a bookstore we can wait for them in.

You don’t think Alex and Darwin are enough supervision?

I don’t think you’ll relax for a single minute between when they leave and when they return if you aren’t in the same building. I’m sure they’ll be fine to see a film.

He can almost feel Erik’s sigh. So they’re going to the movies?

Yes, darling.

To be fair, Charles doesn’t leave the mansion very often. It's not that he’s incapable of leaving. He’s just happy with his students and friends, the family he’s cobbled together for himself. He only leaves for appointments or meetings, usually with Hank or Raven, since Erik puts doctors and government officials on edge.

Erik leaves at least once a week to go grocery shopping, and a few times a month to go to temple. He’s not the most social person, nor the most trusting of humans, but Charles and Raven had vetted the synagogues in the area heavily before finding him one he could feel safe attending. Going with the kids to the mall was something he left to Raven, more often than not. She and Angel and Sean enjoy taking the kids out, watching them mingle with the locals. The few times he went, he spent the entire time worried someone would start a fire or a fight or somehow draw the wrong type of attention.

He watches people whenever he leaves. Listens to their conversations, their comments, sees how they behave and act.

It doesn’t nurture growth in his trust for humanity.

You’re on edge. Charles takes the spot across from Erik, his back to the rest of the room so Erik can sit in the corner. He’d moved the regular chair to another table while Charles ordered from the counter, picking something out for Erik.

You’re not.

“I’ve been coming to this bookstore since I was a boy,” he says. “Every week, my mother and I would come to pick up books we’d ordered. Well, I ordered. Later on, Raven and I would come here to get away from my stepfather and stepbrother. The original owner had passed it on to his son by then, and I believe his grandson is the current manager. He’s the one I order books for the school through.”

He doesn’t falter when Erik gives him a flat stare, one eyebrow raised.

“No one is looking at us, darling,” Charles says softly. “No one is paying attention to us. They’re too wrapped up in their own lives to notice two men sharing a table in a bookstore café.”

Erik sighs and leans back, one leg crossed over the other at the knee, one elbow on the back of his chair. “You understand my concern, though, don’t you?” he asks. “This – when I was a child, where I grew up –”

“We aren’t in Nazi Germany,” Charles says, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “And we’re not little boys. You and I both know we can protect ourselves in a worst-case scenario.”

Erik sets his jaw, swallowing roughly.

I know you carry your past with you, that you’re molded by it as I am by mine, but it doesn’t have to dictate the present.

You have the knowledge, but sometimes I doubt you grasp the depth of it all, Charles.

“I can only try,” Charles murmurs. He sits up when the barista brings over their drinks – tea for Erik and coffee for Charles – and thanks her, charming smile the same as when he was twenty-eight with a fresh doctorate and more optimism than Erik could fathom. “Besides, if anyone does wish to bother us, I’m not above making them forget why they got up in the first place.”

Erik lets his mouth twitch up into a small smile, taking in the brightness of Charles’ eyes.

You’re staring.

You’re handsome.

Charles smiles behind his coffee. His hair is starting to gray, the brown slowly lightening, his eyes gaining crow's feet, his face losing some of its softness. He still draws people’s eyes, still holds their attention with ease, even when he’s not trying.

You’re looking rather dashing yourself tonight, you know.

Erik snorts. He still wears turtlenecks and chinos, sometimes his old leather jacket when the weather starts to turn. They’re comfortable and reliable. Raven would add things to his wardrobe without warning, though, and he’s grown fond of the plaid flannels she’d stocked him with. The one he has on is a simple red and black buffalo check left open over a black t-shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Charles never bothers with subtlety when he stares, letting waves of interest pulse off him and toward Erik. He’s especially fond of his arms and the short beard Erik’s grown in, projecting images of strong arms moving him around and the phantom feeling of stubble scratching his face.

“You’ll make me blush,” Erik warns, sipping his tea slowly.

“Oh, I hope I do.” Charles doesn’t hide his hungry grin, looking at Erik like he’s never eaten before.

Charles doesn’t always look the part of the professor. For teaching, he’s fond of soft sweaters under cardigans and tweed jackets. On more relaxed days, though, he’s taken to loose buttoned shirts with bright patterns, sometimes a brown leather jacket a few shades off from Erik’s. It makes him look younger, especially with his hair grown out long.

Charles keeps their conversation light, talking about some of the books he’s ordered. Some are for the students’ assignments, some at their request, some for his own interests. Erik’s shoulders unwind as they talk, the conversation warming him over with his tea.

He’s almost surprised when the girls come in, still holding candy and whispering about the movie. Charles shifts his attention to them seamlessly, asking about the film. Jubilee starts chattering immediately, Jean nodding beside her.

Jean catches Erik’s eye and he raises an eyebrow. She holds out the bag of gummy worms for him to take one.

He thanks her and squeezes her shoulder when he stands up. “Charles, I’ll bring the car around.”

“Thank you,” Charles says.

Happiness ripples off Jean through their channel, all laughter and levity all the way back to the school. She and Jubilee chat in the backseat the whole time, conversation drifting from the movie to their coursework to whispered gossip about their classmates that Charles doesn’t acknowledge. Erik pretends not to listen, though he takes some interest in what happens in Alex’s physical education class.

It’s not until they’re back in the school, Erik and Charles heading for the study and Jean and Jubilee heading upstairs, that he hears Jubilee say, “It’s pretty cool that your dads still go on dates.”

Erik hears the thuds of Jean tripping up the steps, feels the startle and confusion jerk off her as she splutters, “Dads? They’re not –”

“Aren’t they?” Jubilee sounds genuinely confused. “You said that Mr. Lehnsherr and the Professor took you in after your parents died.”

Erik glances at Charles. Will you not intervene?

Will you fault me for wondering what they think?

“You can read minds,” Erik whispers.

“But you cannot,” Charles returns, voice just as low. “And I know you’re just as curious as I am.”

Erik raises an eyebrow at him and tilts his head back toward the main stairs. They’re out of sight, but he can hear Jean’s stammered excuse and apology, her clattering steps down the stairs, can feel the waves of confusion that haven’t translated to anything discernible.

She rounds the corner to the study, skidding to a stop when she sees them.

“You – I was –” She swallows, looking between them.

Charles waves for her to come in. “You can close the door,” he says softly.

She flicks a hand, the doors shutting without slamming. Erik twitches a finger, sliding the lock into place while Charles and Jean lock eyes, some silent conversation happening between them.

It wasn’t noticeable to Erik before, since his link with Charles was all verbalized thoughts, the occasional projection of images or feelings. With Jean’s connection, though, he’s learned that thoughts aren’t always coherent – they’re emotions, impulses, memories and images, indiscernible to anyone who isn’t a telepath. He can’t understand everything coming through the channel, but Charles can.

Jean’s voice wobbles. “It’s not horrible of me?” she asks, looking at Erik. “Thinking of you as parents when mine are –” She breaks off.

“No,” he says. “You lost them. You miss them. But you have cognizance to recognize that people are still raising you. There’s nothing wrong with knowing that.”

“Nor is anything wrong with the emotions that come with that,” Charles interjects. “Jean, we may not have said as much, but we do care for you beyond your endeavors as our student.”

Her eyes water, her cheeks turning pink. Erik rests a hand on her shoulder.

“You’re under no obligation to change anything,” he says.

But what if I want to change everything?

The thought hits him sharply, desperate longing tinging it so deeply that Erik’s mind brings forth an image of his mother, encouraging him as best she could.

Alles is gut.

“Then do so,” Erik whispers.

Jean lurches forward to hug him tightly, her face pressed against his collarbone. Her thin arms are tight around his waist, body shaking when he wraps one arm around her shoulder, his hand holding her head.

I did tell you that you made an adorable father.

Erik bites back a snort, dropping his chin on top of Jean’s head. He stops trying to analyze the emotions she’s projecting, letting himself fall into the channel the way he does with Charles. Warmth and fondness and a sense of safety, all comfort in the same degree he’d felt when he realized the mansion had become his home.

“We’re happy to be your family, Jean,” Erik murmurs.