The day after Jean's awakening, Elaine Grey descended on Xavier's Institute like the wrath of Demeter upon Olympus, following Persephone's capture.  She and her husband John arrived at noon, and Bobby Drake had the misfortune to be the one who opened the front door.  "Where's Charles?" she demanded at once, slipping past the boy with a small woman's grace, then looking about, her chin tilted and dark eyes narrow.  She reminded Bobby of nothing so much as a mink, edgy and inclined to bite if approached.  Her husband, a big-boned man with silver hair, followed her inside, giving a nod and half-smile to Bobby, his shoulders slumped as if making an apology in advance.

Bobby, of course, didn't know them, and asked, "Charles who?" because none of the new students was named 'Charles' and the pair in the foyer were obviously parents.

"Dr. Xavier," Elaine replied with a snap, turning to glare, her lips pursed slightly and one eyebrow raised.  "We're here to see Charles Xavier."

"The professor is busy right now."  All three turned at the new voice and approaching footsteps.  Scott Summers stopped in front of the stairs, hands on hips.  "Can I help you?"

"Elaine, why don't we go somewhere and wait until Charles is free," John tried to suggest, but his wife cut him off, speaking to Scott.

"Charles called us this morning.  I can't imagine that he's so busy he wasn't expecting us."  The words mixed humorous disdain with faint reproach.  "You can help best by going to fetch him, thank you."

Her tone was one usually reserved for servants and Scott's shoulders went back, spine snapping straight with the instinctive antipathy of the working class for the country club set.  "Can I tell him who you are?" he asked bluntly, as Bobby -- no longer the focus -- slunk away.

"We're the Greys," John interjected, setting one hand on his wife's shoulder and leaning past her to offer Scott his other.  "Jean's parents.  Let me guess; you must be Scott Summers.  Jean's talked a lot about you."

"That's right, I'm Scott."  And if he weren't so rude as to refuse the hand, he wasn't wholly reconciled and wondered what they were doing there, apparently having driven up that very morning without advance warning.  Had Jean suffered a relapse in the night that he hadn't been told of?

Or maybe they hadn't been told.  The professor tended to play his cards close to his chest, and indeed, Scott's suspicions were confirmed when he went down to the Danger Room to inform the professor of the Greys' arrival.  "Oh, God, my mother," Jean said, wrapping her arms about herself like a fence; Scott could feel the anxiety radiating off of her.  "Did you have to tell her, professor?"

"Well, I couldn't have put it off much longer, Jean."

"She's going to want to see me."

"Do you want to see her, is the question?" Scott said, walking over.  She still appeared haunted and a little blurred about the eyes.  

"No," she replied instantly.  

"Then you don't have to."  

"Scott, she's my mother, she --"

"You don't have to," he reiterated.  

"Scott is correct," the professor told her.  "In fact, in your current condition, I wouldn't advise it, and that's what I intend to tell her."  Turning his chair, Xavier headed for the exit.

Jean looked at Scott in a mix of guilt and hope.  "You stay here," Scott told her.  "I'll go listen."  And with a quick squeeze of her arm, he trotted after Xavier, attaching himself to the professor like a squire to his knight.  If Jean's mother wished to treat him like a servant, then he'd assume a servant's invisibility.

It worked.  No one sent him out of the professor's office, and he took up a position next to the door as Elaine got right to the point and Xavier (ever the proper host) made tea.  "You told us this wouldn't happen!  You said her telepathy was locked away permanently!"

"No, Elaine.  I said her telepathy had been locked away until she was mature enough to manage it."

"And is she?" John Grey asked.  

"Yes," Xavier said.  "I think she is."  He turned to look at the couple seated in front of his wide oak desk.  "Jean's telepathy is as much a part of her as her telekinesis.  It manifested before she was ready, but she is no longer a ten-year-old girl.  Even had the telepathy not remanifested, I would have removed the blocks soon.  The only reason I've permitted her to keep them this long is because she was otherwise occupied with her education."

"Is she going to be all right?" Elaine asked while lighting a cigarette with nervous fingers.  And if Scott would never learn to like the woman, her question and the obvious worry behind it mitigated somewhat his disgust.

"Eventually?  Certainly," Xavier replied.  "By tomorrow afternoon?  No.  Would you like sugar or milk in your tea?"

"Neither," John replied, and his wife said, "sugar only."  She blew smoke, then asked, "What about her residency?  If this goes on too long, she'll have wasted all those years.  Jean's put too much of herself into these degrees, Charles."

"Provisions have been made for Jean's residency," Xavier said.  The statement was vague, but the Greys let it go.  "For now, we need to concentrate on stabilizing her."

"I want to see her," Elaine said.  

Xavier gestured for Scott's assistance, handing him the teacups to deliver.  Servant indeed, but he'd set himself up for it.  Meekly, he took the tea to the Greys as Xavier said, "At the present time, that's unadvised.  Just as before, Elaine, Jean needs to remain isolated until she's stabilized."

"I'm her mother."  

"You're not a telepath.  You have no shielding ability."  

"I'm her mother."  

"Elaine -- "

"Charles, this is my baby!"

"Elaine, please."  Xavier stared her down until finally she glanced away, contravened but not cowed.  "As soon as Jean is ready for visitors, you'll be notified."  And that was that.

And if Scott were relieved to see the shrew sent packing, a part of him still felt empathic disquiet.  Just two days ago, that had been him begging admittance, and the fact he'd won it owed more to his usefulness than to any sympathy on Xavier's part.  Xavier did what he thought best for Jean -- not for Elaine, nor for Scott himself.  When Scott had come back to the mansion, he'd come out of his own neediness, but in this situation, Jean's needs mattered most.  And that, Scott thought, was the difference between maturity and childishness, the ability to think beyond one's own self.

But Xavier hadn't, originally, believed Scott had anything to offer, and if Scott hadn't argued his case, he'd never have been admitted and Jean might still be lost in a swamp of others' impressions.  Scott had been so accustomed to thinking of the professor as the man with all the answers, all the contacts, and all the experience, he'd forgotten Xavier was still a man.  Like anyone else, he made decisions based on opinions; and however wise he might be, he wasn't infallible.  There was a difference between trusting and following blindly; understanding that, too, was maturity.
 

"He's going to be a teacher?"

A verbal pinprick, whispered rapidly and barely caught, as Scott paced down the hall towards the new classroom-cum-arboretum to face eleven students spread across the equivalent of five different mathematical classes.  And how, he wondered, was he to teach something like that?  He was reminded of one-room schoolhouses in the Old West, and hadn't one of his ancestors been a marshal?  But his own preparation had been geared towards modern classes of apathetic teenagers bored by the mere idea of inequalities and absolute value, and since -- by his senior year -- he'd elected to enter graduate school in something else, he'd never taken a teaching practicum.  In short, his only real experience in a classroom had been as a student, and a one-and-a-half semester's stint as a glorified paper grader.

"Good afternoon," he said now as he entered.  Eleven sets of eyes swiveled towards him, glinting with skepticism, amusement, and perhaps a bit of derision.  Who was he trying to fool?

Unsettled by their doubtful expressions, he turned to the mobile chalkboard and began dividing it up into five sections to scribble down assignments, then stopped.  This was just untenable.  With a sigh, he glanced back at the room.  Three were in the equivalent of Algebra I, which the State of New York called "Integrated Math I" -- just to be complicated -- another four were in "Integrated Math II" (Algebra II and basic geometry), and two more were ready for trigonometry.  Of the remaining students, one (Jubilee) was in algebra prep and another (Skids) was in remedial math, still learning the basics of multiplication and division.

Xavier had told him they were used to splitting up, so he sent Jubilee and Skids to the library where they could work in peace until he could tutor them one-on-one.  Then he moved around the room between the other three groups, explaining something, giving them practice equations, and going on to the next group.  But if he were working with one set, he wasn't available to answer questions from another, and between the three larger groups, he couldn't find time to break away to answer questions for the two in the library.  When he finally did get down there, he found his final two students doodling on notebooks in boredom.  Apologizing, he sat down at Jubilee's table.  Eying him, she popped her pink bubble gum and sagely offered, "The professor manages, and he's in a wheelchair."

"Well, I'm not the professor."

Triumphant, she grinned.  "Yeah, I know."  

Unsure how to respond to that, he said only, "Get rid of the chewing gum in the library."  And they went to work.

By supper, he was exhausted and depressed, and didn't want to visit Jean in such a dark mood.  Frank found him brooding on a couch in the den.  "So," the Italian began, seating himself in an armchair across from Scott, who was sprawled inelegantly on the sofa seat.

"So -- I suck as a teacher."  

Frank's expression was dubious.  "What is the problem?"

"I can't be in five place places at once?"

"Ah -- so be in five places at different times."  

The initial answer was a snort.  "Very funny."  

"I was serious."  

"That's what I tried.  I divided up the class just like Xavier said, but they get bored waiting, or can't do the work because they have a question and I'm not available to answer."

Frank waved a hand.  "No, no.  I don't mean five in one session; I mean to teach maths not just in the afternoons.  The school, it has gone from five to eleven this very year.  I believe that even the professor is becoming strained, and the numbers will only increase.  It is time to think anew, no?"

Scott scratched his chin.  One didn't have to be Nostradamus to predict that the school would just get bigger, compounding the problem.  "You mean it's time to divide up by age?"

"Or at least into older and younger.  There are three of you now, to teach -- you, Hank and the professor.  So have Hank take the youngers in the mornings for the English and humanities, and you take the elders for the maths and sciences.  Then reverse after lunch.  The professor can teach them the ethics last, when he is completed with Jean for the day."

"How did a guy who's two years younger than me get to be smarter than me?"

Frank just smiled.  "You are the maths one.  What is it they say about 'inertia'?"

Then they were silent a while until Scott said, "The other problem is that they don't take me seriously."  

Frank just raised an eyebrow.  

"Oh, come on -- look at me, Frank!  I'm not much older than them!  Bobby still calls me 'Scott' in class."  

"And you would rather him to call you 'Mr. Summers'?"  Frank seemed amused.  

"I'm not comfortable with that, either," Scott allowed, then looked down at himself.  He was wearing nice jeans and a polo shirt.  It wasn't, he thought, very professional.  "I look like a college student.  I need some new clothes."

"The clothes make the man?"

"Well, they damn sure don't hurt."  Yet he couldn't go clothes shopping alone.  EJ had helped him in the past, but EJ was in California and Scott just looked at Frank, too proud to ask directly for assistance with something as simple as telling green from blue.

Fortunately, Frank had known him a long time, and now rolled his eyes.  "Basta chiesta, cafone impertinente!"  Just ask, idiot.

"Can you go to the mall with me?"

"Of course."  And grinning, he stood.  "We should take the Aston Martin.  Shall I drive?"

"When hell freezes over," Scott replied.  "But yeah, lets take the Aston Martin."  

It had been a long time since the two of them had gone somewhere together, and their friendship had grown stretched and transparent across a continental divide.  Now they remembered it over fast cars, limp food-court fare, and a running commentary in Italian about the charms of the women they passed in the mall.  "It is the whole shape," Frank said, illustrating with his hands.  "Americans look too much at the parts.  Only in America would you find a restaurant called 'Hooters.'  Philistines.  All of you."

"Only in Italy," Scott returned, "would newscasters bend over to show their cleavage to the camera.  Don't try to tell me Italians don't sell stuff on sex, Francesco!"

"I never said that.  But it is all about taste, no?  Fast food, bad beer, and infomercials.  That is America!  Oh, and sieges."  He eyed Scott with humor and made one of his grand Italian gestures.  "You court a woman, mi amico.  You do not lay siege to her."

"So you've said."  Had said it several times, in fact, when Scott had first told him about his determination to win Jean Grey.  

"There is a bet on, you know."  

Incredulous, Scott glanced over.  "A bet?  About what?"

"What do you think?  How soon she will say 'yes,' of course!  And I do not mean to the date."  His grin was impish.  "The date is a foregone conclusion."  

"Where the hell do they get off, making bets on my love life?" Scott asked aloud, but was secretly pleased by the apparent confidence of the others in his eventual success.

"Well," Frank replied, "you were rather vocal about it in the dining hall yourself, no?"

It took him a moment, before he remembered:  the fight with Warren, to which almost everyone in the mansion had been a witness.  At the time, he'd been too distraught to be properly embarrassed, but now he felt the blood scald his neck and ears.  "So we're gossip fodder, huh?"

"Oh, sì, altro che!"  Absolutely.  

Sometime later, in the men's section of Nordstrom's, Scott admitted, "Man, it's been too long since we just hung out.  I don't even know what you're planning to do after you graduate."

"International law," Frank replied, checking a shirt against a pair of slacks that Scott had already bought.  Summers was a deliberate shopper rather than an adventuresome one, Frank had discovered, with a mental list of what he wanted that he stuck to, much to the exasperation of his more spontaneous Italian companion.

"No," Scott said now -- to the shirt, not the career choice.  "Too loud."  

Frank just eyed him and put the shirt back.  "Since when is Façonnable too loud?  It is color.  Everything you have is no color."  

"I've got stuff like that, Frank.  I want clothes that are a little more . . . staid."  

"Fusty."  

"Professional."  

"Unexciting."  

"Why international law?"

Frank shrugged and let Summers change the subject.  "It will be needed."

And there he went, Scott thought, shifting from fashion-conscious young Italian to far-seeing Apollo in the blink of an eye.  "That vision you had was a long time ago, Frank."

Francesco only nodded.  Most people, he had learned, had a short attention span.  In some ways, that made it easier for him.  For two years, Francesco Placido had been working quietly towards the fruition of the only bulwark he'd foreseen that could halt Armageddon.  But perhaps, he thought, it was time to remind them.  "Nothing has changed," he said softly under high, bright ceiling lights amid shelves crowded with shirts and trousers and ties like nooses.

Summers shook his head.  "I haven't found that people much care.  For my last two years at Berkeley, pretty much everybody I knew, knew I was a mutant, including some of my professors.  Okay, sure, a couple were nervous at first, but they got over it."

"That was Berkeley.  And they knew you."  

"Fair enough.  Still."  

Frank considered a moment, then turned to a rack of patched wool shirts.  "Something will change.  I cannot say what, or why.  This country is like an open camp now, at ease, confident -- but in five years, it will not be.  Threats real and imagined will create paranoia."

Frowning, Summers came up beside Placido and set a hand on his shoulder, turning him until they were face-to-face.  "What's going to happen, Frank?"

"I do not know.  Something.  Something big.  The sky will be black for days and your country will learn fear.  Europe will be safer for mutants than America, land of the free."

"Is there some way to stop it?"

"I think . . . no.  But only time will tell."  His smile was wry, but he didn't look Scott in the face.  "Even the smallest change might avert the avalanche, but for now?  No.  It bears down on us."

"How soon?"

"I do not know.  But soon.  It will change everything, and they will fear us.  You and the rest can teach them not to fear.  Maybe.  It is the only answer that I have seen."

Scott had forgotten how disconcerting Francesco could be, and swallowed.  He also didn't miss the fact that Frank hadn't included himself in 'the rest.' "So what can we do?"

"The same thing you set out to do two years ago -- be ready."  

"You make it sound like I'm the lynchpin or something."  

Frank glanced up at him finally.  "You are.  You will lead them."  

Scott snorted and turned away.  But he didn't stop thinking about Frank's warnings.

Jean was reclining on her bed, reading by the light of an end-table lamp, when the knock came on the Danger Room door.  It surprised her so much, she dropped her book and sat up with a gasp, grabbing for her robe.

Three days after returning to herself from the morass of her madness, Xavier had decided that there was no reason for her to be uncomfortable, and had transformed one corner of the DR into a makeshift bedroom complete with a twin-sized bed, end table, small dresser, desk, her computer, and even some knickknacks that Scott had brought down, among them her stuffed, spotted white snow leopard.  Other children had cuddled teddy bears or fluffy cats, bunnies or beanbag dogs.  Jean had cuddled a snow leopard named Ralph.  Ralph had gone with her to the sanitarium, to her dorm at Columbia, her apartment, the institute, and now, the Danger Room.  Despite occasional appearances to the contrary, she had a penchant for constancy in her affections.

Slipping into her robe, leopard tucked under an arm, she crossed to the door.  "Who is it?"

"Just me."  

Smiling, she glanced at her watch.  "Hello, Just Me.  Do you always call on women in their towers after midnight?"

"Only if they let down their hair, Rapunzel."  

"Sorry.  Chopped all mine off."  

"Darn.  I guess I'll just have to find some convenient dynamite to blast my way in.  Or, oops, I kinda come equipped with my own."  

Smiling wider, she unlatched the door so he could enter.  She hadn't realized until she'd heard his voice how disappointed she'd been when he hadn't shown up after supper like he usually did, and now as he entered, the warmth of his mind filled her up.  It wasn't about touch.  She didn't need his touch to be touched by him and usually did her best to keep him at arm's length.  If she let him touch her with his hands like he touched her with his thoughts, she'd be lost.

Moving back a step, she hugged the leopard to her breasts, regretting her half-clothed state even as he noticed it.  Color suffused his cheeks, but not from embarrassment.  He wanted her.  She felt it bright in him, intent.  How long did she really think she could hold out against the force of that?  "I missed you," she whispered.

"Sorry.  I should have called down before we left."  

"It's okay.  Where'd you go?"

Grinning, he held out his arms.  "What d'you think?  I just finished doing laundry for my new duds."  She redirected her attention to what he was wearing, and felt her eyebrows go up.  "Do I look like a prep school math teacher?" he asked.

"You look like you robbed a Land's End catalogue."  He almost pouted and she struggled not to laugh, but then picked up, seeping from the edges of his mind, scattered memories of his awful afternoon.  That removed her amusement.  "Oh, Scott -- you don't have to be somebody else to make them listen to you.  Just be yourself.  You're a great teacher."

"Like hell."  He turned away, his embarrassed pain stabbing at her.  

"It was your first class.  Of course there were bumps."  She studied his back.  "Come on," she said and headed back to her little 'room,' where she took a seat on her bed, her leopard still clutched to her chest.  He followed, slowly, feet dragging, and plopped down in the chair she pointed to.  "I never did tell you about my first night on call, did I?"

They hadn't been talking much at that point; she'd told Warren but not Scott.  "We had an MVA about eight in the evening -- young couple in a pickup truck.  The man had been driving and was hurt pretty badly, but his wife was only banged up.  Still, she had his blood all over the front of her shirt and looked frightful.  They brought them in, put the husband in Trauma Room A, and her in an exam room with me, and as you can imagine, she was just frantic."

Scott had leaned over to listen, hands clasped between his knees, lamplight falling soft on his serious expression and the shiny red of his glasses.  Clearly, he expected some tragic tale.

"Well, I couldn't keep the wife on the exam bed so I could give her an exam.  She kept hopping off and running out into the hall, to hear what was going on in Trauma."  Scott's serious expression had begun to crack.  Just a little.  There was the tiniest tug at the corner of his mouth.

"ER was full that night so we didn't have spare nurses, and here I was, almost six feet tall, but I couldn't keep this little thing from getting away from me.  I swear, she was Mighty Mouse!"

The tug turned into a grin

"Then," Jean went on, "she ran right out into the waiting room -- still wearing those bloody clothes!  I don't know what she thought she was doing -- looking for her mother, she said.  But it was nuts.  I felt more like an air traffic controller than a physician!"

And that succeeded in startling a laugh out of him.  

"I thought I was an utter failure.  But I found out later from the nurses that it was a crazy situation, and I was just inexperienced, not incompetent.  No doubt someone with more familiarity could have controlled her better, but it was the situation -- not me."  She eyed him.  "It's the situation, Scott.  You teach just fine and you know it.  How long have you been tutoring?"

"That's not in front of a classroom --"

"Phoo!"  She flicked her fingers away from her, dismissing his objection.  "I've seen you on stage.  You're an excellent front man, and I also know you're a good math tutor.  But Scott, a person just can't teach five classes at once!"

"The professor can."  

"The professor is telepathic.  He can carry on two different conversations at once -- or did you forget that?"

Scott sat up a little.  "Oh.  Yeah," he said.

"Oh, yeah," she echoed, then winked.  "As for the clothes, they're very New England, Mr. Summers.  But you already looked like a math teacher to me."

He glanced down at himself, pinching the fabric of the oxford.  "At least they make me seem a bit more . . . professional."  And older, she heard him think, but not say aloud.  And it was true.  No longer so indisputably ephebic, he could have passed for his middle twenties.  She rather liked that, and felt guilty for liking it.
 

The next evening, two days after he'd begun teaching and a week after she'd come back to herself, Scott arrived in the sub-basement for their usual evening visit after supper, guitar case tow.  She let him in and he leaned up against the wall, head back against the metal, case propped in front of him and forearms crossed over the headstock, watching her.  She could feel his gaze, even if she couldn't see it.  "What?" she asked, mildly irritated by the force of his regard.

"Go out with me."  

She rolled her eyes.  "I told you no already."  

"And I told you I'd ask in a week."  

"Fine, you asked.  The answer is still 'no,' and it will continue to be 'no.'"

"For how long?"

Embarrassed, she looked away.  "A while."  But even as she said it, she doubted.  It was easy to make declarations, harder to keep them -- especially when she clung so to his company.  He was her rock, her redwood, her friend.  She needed him.  She wanted him, too, and she was reminded of Clarice's reproach, two months prior.  What game was she playing, and when would it end?  "A while, but not forever," she amended now.  "I just . . . You're twenty-two, Scott."

His face turned bitter.  "And when I'm twenty-three, I'll magically cease to be jailbait?"

"You're not jailbait now -- "

"Then stop acting like I am."  

"It's not that simple -- "

"Yes it is!  Why do you make such a big fucking deal out of it?  I know how you feel.  You know I know.  And you know how I feel!  This is stupid!  What are you waiting for?"

And he'd stalked back out of the room, would probably have slammed the door if the pneumatics had permitted it.  She'd hugged herself and leaned into the wall where he'd been, wondering if he'd punish her by not returning, but the next day, there he was as usual, with his guitar.  He sang her Simon and Garfunkle's "Bridge Over Troubled Waters" as a veiled apology and they both acted as if nothing untoward had happened.

When you're down and out, when you're on the street,
When evening falls so hard, I will comfort you.
I'll take your part, when darkness comes,
And pain is all around,
Like a bridge over troubled waters, I will lay me down ...

Please come down to the sub-basement when you have a moment, echoed through Scott's skull, halting his explanation of fractions in mid-sentence.  Jean has something to show you.  It was the professor's telepathic voice, and Scott shook his head a little, mumbled, "Sorry," to the class of younger students, and tried to remember where he'd been.

As per Frank's sensible suggestion, seconded by Jean, Scott and Henry had split up the school enrollment; it made teaching less of a trial, even if it lengthened Scott's day.  He supposed he should get used to it:  this was what he'd be doing for the rest of his life, or at least the next several years.  The thought was sobering, and the road to his future no longer stretched into a horizon of potential, or even an adventure of ancient sites and romantic digs (and grant proposals and academic papers given before fractious colleagues).  He was a high school math teacher, and that was that.  There were worse fates, he supposed, and part of growing up was learning that sometimes one had to settle.  He wouldn't have done anything differently in the choices that had led him here, so regrets seemed hypocritical.

When he released his students for lunch, he headed below.  The steel halls were empty, and his steps echoed.  The professor must still be in the Danger Room with Jean, he thought.  Every time Scott saw her, she seemed stronger, more centered, more like the woman he remembered.  Given how psychotic she'd been when he'd first seen her two weeks before, her recovery was nothing short of remarkable, and the only reason she'd remained isolated in the sub-basement had been her inability to fully shield.

But now when Scott keyed the door to the Danger Room and entered, he felt nothing, or at least, no sudden fire-rush of Jean's thoughts into his like he'd come to expect.  It was as if he faced . . . anyone . . . and he was struck by relief for her, and sadness, for himself.  He missed her touch.

Except, except . . . There was still a small warmth, a feather brush.  She wasn't entirely gone.

He smiled at her.  "Wow," he said.  "Shields.  You did it."  

But her face showed irritation rather than triumph, and both hands were raised to her temples as she sat on her bed.  Scott glanced to Xavier, seated not far away.  He, too, was frowning.  "I can't do it!" she said, voice angry.  "I can still . . . feel him."

"Like a tickle," Scott agreed.  "Yeah, I feel it, too."  I like it, he sent to her privately.

She looked up at him.  "It shouldn't be there!" she said aloud.  

And Xavier sighed, their words only confirming what he'd suspected for two weeks but had hoped was an exaggerated misgiving.  "I fear what the two of you sense is a permanent bond."

"A . . . what?" Scott asked, not liking how Xavier had phrased that.  

Jean seemed merely stunned.  "But I didn't mean to -- "

"Of course not," Xavier interrupted, though in truth, he thought a subconscious part of her had meant to.  "Nonetheless, it exists -- the residue of that first encounter when Scott returned, I suspect.  Apparently, you established it while using Scott's memories to rediscover yourself."

Jean looked at Scott.  Scott looked at Jean.  Both wanted it, and were afraid to admit it, yet both also feared it.  They said nothing for several long minutes and Xavier watched the play of emotions across their faces, not needing to read their minds to follow the spiral of their thoughts.  "It can be broken," Xavier said -- offered really.

"No," Scott answered on the instant, then stuttered, "Ah, well, I mean -- what does it do?  Shouldn't we know that first?"  He couldn't look at Jean now; his face was flaming.

"It doesn't do anything, Scott.  It's a psychic link that connects you, allowing you to be aware of Jean's presence, and her of yours."  

We can use it to talk, Jean sent silently into his head.  

You'll always know what I'm thinking?  

No.  I don't know what you're thinking now.  But I can . . . feel you.  

And I feel you.  Do you like it?  It was an impulsive question that he regretted as soon as he asked.  But he also needed an answer.

She didn't reply immediately, finally dropped her eyes.  Yes.  I think . . . yes.  

Me, too.  I've gotten used to coming here, feeling your mind.  I'd regret it if I didn't have that.  

But when I get out, it'll always be between us, Scott.  Every minute of every hour of every day --

Good.  

She sighed, exasperated.  It'd take something like the Danger Room or Cerebro to shield me.  And even then -- I don't think . . . Or rather, now that I consider it, I have felt you in my head since the very beginning.  You're never entirely gone; you're like the earth under my feet.

He smiled faintly.  Then it wouldn't be a good idea to lose your footing, would it?  

She still didn't look at him.  This would be between us all the time.  Do you understand that?  

I understand it fine.  The question is -- do you want it?  If you don't, then let's break it.  

She did look up at him then, and something heated in her dark eyes set his belly on fire.  She spoke to Xavier, not him.  "I'd think we'd like to keep it."

"Very well," the professor replied, but both could tell he wasn't entirely pleased.  "Shall we try the shields with someone else?  Henry perhaps?  Or Frank?"

"All right.  With Henry or Frank," she replied, but she still wasn't looking at Xavier.

It'll be there forever? Scott sent to her.  

It'll be there forever.  Until one of us breaks it, or one of us dies.  

And he hadn't been able to keep the stupid grin off his face, even when Xavier had sent him up to fetch someone new.  It wasn't until much later, alone in his room and cut off from her, that he reconsidered the wisdom of his choice and had second thoughts.  And when, two days later, Jean finally emerged from the sub-basement for limited periods in limited company, Scott got the first taste of what she meant by constant presence.

Oddly, though, it eased his doubts.  It wasn't intrusive -- more like background noise, soft, and comforting really, and if he turned his attention to it, he always knew where she was.  He came to think of it as his own personal Jean compass.

"We can never play hide-and-seek together," he told her, leaning up against the jamb of the rec room door.  She was pressed back against the door on the other side, as if his physical presence were a force as strong at repelling her as the link was at tying them together.  They were being watched by some of the younger students, as if they were better entertainment than the movie on the TV, but they tried to pretend they didn't know, or that it didn't curtail their interaction.

I don't think we're very good at hide-and-seek, in any case.  Ro told me there's a bet on, she sent.  

Yeah, I know.

I cannot believe that!  They're going to be waiting a damn long time to collect.

Scott just smirked, eyes half-lidded with speculation behind his glasses.  For four weeks now, he'd asked her every Sunday night to go out with him, like clockwork.  And every Sunday, she'd turned him down.  After the first time, he'd quit taking it so personally, had decided simply to wear her down because whatever she said, whatever she did, he was convinced her self-imposed moratorium wouldn't last out the summer, not the way their bodies drew each other with a magnet-pull.  She stayed so far away because if she came any closer, they'd snap together, permanent and inseparable.  Even now, pressed into the door, her hips gave her away, tilted in his direction like an invitation, and her eyes were on his mouth, not his glasses.

"I hear you've been working on one of the old motorbikes in the garage."  

"Yeah.  A Harley 1960 Panhead.  You want to go see it?"

"Sure."  

They headed out down the mansion's main hall, walking apart but their steps in unison; the banks of windows to their right gave back their reflection against the evening darkness beyond.  It was late, and he knew she was tired, so he took her away from the others.  She still slept in the Danger Room at night, to shore up her shields during her unconscious hours, but after a month, she was able to spend most of a day above ground, and was already agitating to return to her residency.  "My sick leave won't last much longer," she said.  "I'm not throwing away years of school just for this.  I'm not that weak, dammit!"  Scott understood her restlessness, and her anxiety -- and her pride -- but he worried.  He didn't think her ready to return to the pressure cooker of residency.

In the garage, they were alone at last, but it put neither of them more at ease.  He spoke too fast, using technical terms that lost her within minutes, but she wasn't listening anyway.  Mechanics bored her.  Instead, she watched him talk, and the light play over his hair, and the fabric of his shirt pull across broad shoulders as he pointed to this or that.  At one point, she leaned in, feigning interest, just as he turned to look at her.  They were so close, she could feel his breath on the skin of her face.  He smelled like the beef and gravy they'd had at dinner, and she started to giggle but it died on her lips.

Time stretched.  He could feel her heartbeat, fast as the wings of a hummingbird where it beat against the bars of her ribcage.  He bent even closer.  She didn't pull away.  Tilting his head ever so slightly, he let his mouth barely brush her own.  His belly shook.

She jerked back, dark eyes wide.  She wanted to stay; she wanted to flee, and after another second in which he grasped fully that he'd moved too fast, she gave in to the latter desire and ran from the garage.  The door fell shut behind her.

"Dammit!" he snarled, kicking his work stool halfway across the floor.

For three days, she avoided him, and he was too embarrassed to corner her.  The time for his weekly suit came and went without him making it, and the morning after, Monday, she took her first trip back to the hospital where it had all begun, the professor along, just in case.  But nothing calamitous happened; her shields had grown strong, like a Tupperware lid on her thoughts, keeping them unspoilt.  People who knew her asked cautiously how she was, as if afraid she might shatter, and she, ashamed, wasn't sure what to say.  "Fine," she replied.  "I'm fine now."

There were harder questions from the director of the residency program, but finally, her return was secured.  The very next week, she'd restart rotations, and she was, she knew, very fortunate.  Other residents' careers had miscarried for less, and mindful of grace, she set herself to prepare, which meant not thinking about a certain brown-haired boy with hidden eyes and a devastating smile.  Besides, what medical resident had time for a love life?

So their dance of avoidance continued -- quite a feat in the small company of the mansion -- but the morning of her first day back, she woke at an ungodly hour, dressed, and descended to the kitchen to grab coffee . . . only to find Scott making her breakfast.  She didn't really have time to eat, but was touched -- Scott Summers rising before the sun to cook for her.  He seemed to realize her hurry.  Slapping her eggs on a bagel along with three pieces of bacon, he slipped it in a baggie and held it out.  "A McSummers Muffin-Bagel.  Death-by-cholesterol."

That made her smile.  "Thanks."  She accepted the offer and all it implied, along with a travel mug of coffee fixed with cream and sugar the way she liked it, though he'd told her often enough that she'd fallen from the True Faith, contaminating the black bean with foreign substances.  Now, she gave him another smile and, impulsively, set down everything to hug him, and maybe that was a mistake but she really didn't care.  He hugged her back.  It was the first time they'd touched so close, body-to-body, since the day he'd returned, and something healed.  He kissed her hair and let her go.  He didn't need to say, "I love you."  The breakfast had said that.  And she didn't need to say it, either.  He could read it in her eyes.

Then she was out the door, wondering to herself -- yet again -- what game they were playing and how much longer she could keep it up, how much longer she wanted to keep it up.  Not long, she decided, and to hell with bets or what the rest thought.
 

"Man, I am going out of my fucking mind!"

"Whoa, Slim-boy.  Crank down the decibel level -- what's the problem?"

"I love her.  She loves me -- "

"Sure of ourselves, aren't we?"

"It's the telepathy, okay?  I'm not guessing -- I know, dammit."  

"Okay -- sorry.  So what's the problem?"

"She refuses to go out with me!"

"Why?"

"Because I'm twenty-fucking-two!"

There was a pause on EJ's end and Scott adjusted the phone on his shoulder as he flipped over another stack of math homework.  "The age gap won't go away just for you wishing it, man," EJ said finally.

Scott turned his red pen end over end and stared out the window of the little office the professor had given him on the mansion's second floor.  There were storm clouds on the horizon.  "You've never really thought Jean and I were a good idea."

"I ain't gonna dictate your life.  I ain't there; I don't know.  I saw you guys together maybe a week."

"The professor doesn't approve, either."

"I'm sure he just wants what's best for you."  And EJ was talking about himself as much as about Xavier, Scott knew.  "I just don't want to see you hurt."

"I know," Scott said.  "But . . . I can't explain it, Eeej.  I need her; she needs me.  Waiting a few more months, or even a few more years -- it's not going to change a damn thing.  This feels . . . fated, or something."

"I don't believe in fate, Slim.  But I believe in love.  Maybe you just need to get her out of the mansion -- go somewhere it's just the two of you, and talk."

"I tried that!  She keeps saying 'no'!"

"Not on a date, dope.  Just . . . meet her somewhere.  Go out as friends, y'know?"

Scott thought about that, rocking his head back and forth to crack his neck.  "Okay."  It wasn't a bad idea.  

"Just remember it's not a war, man.  Love's about partnership.  If it's real, then it'll happen.  Let it go -- trust it."  

"Yeah, right."  

"Always the freakin' cynic.  And hey, you could always try singing to her under her window at midnight."  

Scott burst out laughing.  "I'll keep that in mind." 
 

May was past its midpoint.  Trees had flowered, leaves were out in full, bulbs had bloomed and were dying away, and the heat had crept up towards summer temperatures on more than one afternoon.  Jean wore a tan, calico-print dress under her white lab coat, and it was humid enough to make her damp beneath the arms and down her back.  Her stethoscope hung at rest over the back of her neck as she headed out to the staff parking lot, another day over and she'd held herself together again.  'One day at a time,' clichéd or not, had been her motto since she'd returned to her residency two weeks before.  Fortunately for her, she was doing internal med this rotation.

Approaching her car, she thumbed off the alarm.  It made a happy chirp and she opened the door, slipping inside.  Her faithful Toyota Camry.  She could have taken one of the mansion cars, but this was hers, even if it did have 76,000 miles on it, and the imprint of Scott (repaired) on the hood.  Could one be accused of nostalgia about a car because of an accident?

She looked forward to dinner, and was thinking more on food than the even-slower-than-usual traffic -- the drive to and from Columbia Presbyterian was made on autopilot by now -- when the whole car suddenly lurched forward.  If not enough to give her whiplash, it was enough to make her whole body weak from the adrenaline of shock.

Glancing in her rearview mirror, she caught sight of a guy on a motorbike.  "Dammit!"  He'd rear-ended her, and now they were stopping traffic on the West Side Highway at rush hour.  Furious, she snapped on hazard lights, opened the door (carefully) and got out as cars zipped past in the other lane.  More than one honked.  Stalking back along the length of her car, she opened her mouth to give the offender a piece of her mind, then stopped cold.

Scott was straddling the old Harley, grinning at her as he removed his bike helmet.

"You son of a bitch!" she screamed.  

"Whoa!  I didn't even dent it!" he called, pointing to her rear bumper.  

She got right in his face and yelled, "What the hell do you think you're doing?  You hit my car!"

"I had to get your attention somehow."  

"You hit my car to get my attention?"

"It worked once before."  

Jean gestured at the heavy traffic and the line of cars backed up behind Scott.  A middle-aged man in a red Accord was making rude gestures at both them and the cabbie who'd just cut him off from pulling out around them.  "Did it never occur to you that a phone call might be better than hitting my car during rush hour?"

He shrugged, managing to look both sheepish and cocksure at once.  "I wanted to surprise you at work, but I didn't get done with class until after four, and by the time I got here, you were already gone.  So I chased you out to the parking lot, but you were already leaving, so I grabbed the bike . . ."

"And hit my car?"

He shrugged again.  "You want to go get something to eat?"

She made fists at her sides and stamped her foot, frustrated beyond bearing.  "You're impossible!  I told you I wasn't going to go out with you!"

"It's not a date!" he shot back, holding up two fingers.  "Just two friends.  You were the one who kept telling me you weren't dating Warren -- it was just two friends hanging out together.  Okay, fine.  Just two friends -- you and me.  Now can we please go get something to eat?  I'm starving."

She wanted to tell him to take a flying leap off the George Washington Bridge, but couldn't, quite, and if they didn't move and quit blocking the lane, they were likely to become the victims of someone's road rage.  So throwing up hands she said, "Fine!  93^rd and Amsterdam.  East side, Purple awning.  I'll meet you there."  And she got back in her car, starting the engine just in time to see Scott zoom past on the bike.  "Crazy bastard," she muttered, following.  And smiling.  Just a little.

They met at the entrance to Coffee-a-Go-Go.  "Is that name for real?" he asked, thumbing up at the sign above the purple fabric over the door.  "It sounds like something out of the '60s."

"It is something out of the '60s," she replied.  "It used to be a local hangout for the Kerouac and Ferlinghetti wannabes.  Now, it's just a diner with good coffee and cool decor."  She opened the door and gestured him through.  With scratched formica tables under chrome lights, (old original) lava lamps, and Dali art on the walls, the place was decidedly prosaic compared to its slickly urbane and upwardly mobile commercial neighbors, here south of 110^th -- a stubborn hold-out of an earlier era.  Scott liked it instantly, and liked it even better when the hamburger he ordered was suitably greasy and the fries over-salted.  Jean rolled her eyes.  "Eating like that, you're going to die of a heart-attack before you're sixty," she warned.  He grinned at her in wordless reply.

They talked of inconsequentials and Beat poetry; he confessed that he'd owned a copy of On the Road since his sophomore year of college but had never actually read it.  She called it "overrated."  He said he wouldn't know; literary analysis wasn't his thing.  She teased him about his fondness for science fiction, and he replied that he liked what he liked.  They played three games of checkers while they drank a pot of coffee.  He won all three.  She stuck her tongue out at him.

It was eight o'clock by the time they left, exiting into the swirl of evening pedestrian traffic.  They made their way north, up Amsterdam, by common, unspoken agreement.  There were more shops on Broadway, but if window-shopping were their excuse, it wasn't their real interest.  He slung one arm around her shoulders and she put hers about his waist in chummy fashion.  The May evening air felt cool on her legs and blew his hair back from his face.  He had a cowlick on one side, near the part, and she wondered why she'd never really noticed before.

No one looked at them twice.  No one offered a disapproving stare.  They were utterly unremarkable, one more young pair amid the human sea, and there were far more colorful fish than they.

So they walked.  At 112^th across from the massive, sprawling, gothic Cathedral of St. John the Divine (impressive despite the construction scaffolding), she dragged him off west in the direction of Broadway.  "I want to visit Labyrinth Books.  Come on; you'll love it."  Obediently, he followed.

The store was cramped and plain, and most of the stock was upstairs on bookshelves of metal, not wood; there were no seats for lounging, and books had been crammed everywhere one turned -- serious books, academic books.  He lost himself in front of the archaeology section, thumbing through texts by Dean Snow on the Iroquois.  She gravitated to the medical section, but after a while, edged back as if pulled by a magnet.  He didn't look up at her, but he was aware of her; she could feel the slight shift of his mind even while he flipped through a massive coffee-table book on the Aztecs.  "Utter crap," he muttered and put the book back.  Pretending to study the shelves, she moved up closer until the light calico cotton dress skirt brushed the back of his hand.

An electric thrill ran all through him and he held his breath.  She moved even closer, turning slightly, just so.  Their fingers brushed.  He moved his hand, caught her pinky with his.  She didn't jerk away; instead, she slid her palm into his.  He was staring at the spines of books but not seeing a one, even while he was hyperaware of everything else around them -- the musty stink common to bookstores, the argument of a pair of friends a little further down the aisle, the tinkle of someone's keys and the scrape of feet as another shuffled along.  For the longest time, he and Jean held as still as statues, then he moved his hand again, just a little, just enough to lace their fingers.  She let him.

It was magic, scintillating and extraordinary.

He knew he was grinning like a fool but couldn't stop, and felt excited heat flush in his face.  Such a small thing, such a silly thing, on the face of it; he felt as if he were back in high school where walking arm in arm might be explained away, attributed to friendship -- but not this, not the lacing of fingers.  This was intimate.  This was for going steady.  They said nothing but continued to stand there, hands entwined, until finally she spoke softly.  "You want to head back?"

"I guess we should."

So they went out, still holding hands, and he didn't want to break that contact, was afraid to, was afraid that if he did, even to get the door, she might not let him have her hand back -- or he might not find the courage to take it.  He was very glad of the long return walk, at least a mile of heaven, and passing by the front of the stone cathedral under the rose window, if he'd heard angels sing, he'd probably have believed it.

Jean was just as giddy, her world in freefall, terrifying and wonderful at once.  She didn't want it to end, and kept smiling over at him.  He smiled back.  Somewhere around 100^th street, they shifted back to strolling arm in arm, but this wasn't the same as the walk up had been, with space between their bodies and a perfunctory hold.  Now his arm curled around her snugly and her fingers slid just inside the waistband of his slacks, gripping his side.  He was solid against her, and it made walking difficult, but she didn't care.  They simply ambled more slowly.

He took her as far as her car in the parking garage.  His bike was up one floor and over.  At the driver's side door, they paused and he, reluctantly, let her go, stepping back.  It was all different, all changed.  Just as in Oakland, or in the mansion garage a few weeks back, they stood inches apart, staring at mouths.  She wondered if he'd kiss her; she wanted him to, and swayed a little nearer to brush his lips with hers in invitation.

He turned his face away.  It was the last thing she'd expected, and surprised her so much, she rocked back on her heels, mouth open.  

But his expression was more puckish than piqued.  "I thought it was customary to get a kiss after the first date," he said, one corner of his mouth quirking up.  "This wasn't a date.  You made that pretty clear back on West Side Highway."

Her mouth opened wider but nothing came out.  She must have looked like a beached fish.  

"I'll see you back at the mansion."  And turning on his heel, he strode away -- or sauntered, really, hands in pockets.  He held all the aces this time and knew it, and if she were miffed, she was also suitably chastised.  She'd wanted to have her cake and eat it, too -- and not deal with the calories.  But that wasn't fair.

"Well, why don't you try asking me for a date!" she called after him.  

Pausing, he turned to glance at her, and positively smirked.  Ooo, she thought -- the arrogance of the man!  "Maybe I will," he replied, then walked on, whistling.

It wasn't until she was halfway back to the mansion that it dawned on her that he'd been whistling the bugle charge.  

She laughed.  

Notes:  Yes, Coffee-a-Go-Go is a bow to the Stan Lee days, and Jean's story of her first night on call is based on a real event.  ;>

Go on the Chapter 18, "The Lion in Winter"