X-Men Fic: Charles and Jean
Aug. 7th, 2011 10:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
labingiTitle: "Daughter"
Fandom: X-Men (movieverse)
Characters: Charles, Jean
Word Count: 960
Rating/Warnings: PG for angst, discussion of parental neglect, yet also kind of fluffy
Summary: Trying to cheer up a depressed pre-teen Jean, Charles reflects on their relationship.
"Daughter"
Charles found Jean in one of the study rooms, pretending to read her biology book. As usual, she didn't realize how loudly she was projecting--a melancholy moan that had been building since before lunch.
"Hello, Jean." As if he'd just crossed her path by chance, he wheeled past her to stare at a very interesting bookshelf.
"Hi, Professor."
Opening up a plausible volume, he glanced at her surreptitiously as she curled around her textbook, twiddling a long, red curl around her finger. A growth spurt had left her gangly, just beginning to fill out. Sometimes she looked to him like a miniature woman: an adult reduced by a fourth. Sometimes she astounded him by the adulthood in her manner--the way she'd been teaching first aid to younger children yesterday, as if she were a credentialed instructor. For twenty minutes, he'd watched her guide their hands and explain the underlying principles; he hadn't been able to take his eyes off her.
Last week over breakfast, she'd told Scott she planned to be a doctor. As soon as she said it, she'd hesitated, her eyes seeking Charles's face: "Can I, Professor?" She'd been wondering if her being a student here locked her into working for the school. "Of course, you can," he'd told her. "With your progress in biology, you're already well on your way." She'd grinned, and he could see her so clearly in twenty years' time a dynamic young physician and vastly powerful mutant, wrapped in that native modesty that was always simply Jean.
Then, sometimes--like this--she seemed younger than the day they'd met.
"It's Saturday, Jean. Why not take a break from studying?"
The question hurt her badly though her face barely flinched. After a moment, she said, "I'm not studying, Professor." Just like you're not reading that book.
Charles closed the book and wheeled his chair to her side. Her reaction to his question had told him what he needed. "You wish Scott and Alex had asked you along for lunch?"
"No." She wiped a tear from her cheek. "It's not like I want to horn in on their family time." You really think I'm that selfish? she thought, not intending him to hear her.
"What about if you and I go out to dinner this evening for some family time?"
Her heart leapt, but she locked it down. "We're not real family." And underneath came the question she half wanted him to hear: Why didn't my mom and dad want me?
What comforting lie could he offer? They hadn't wanted her; they'd been growing more afraid of her for years, more resigned to letting go. He told himself he understood their situation, but in truth he didn't want to. Sometimes he opened himself to a devouring rage at the thought that they'd cast off this brilliant, beautiful child they'd created, this big-hearted, sweet-tempered girl, this telepath who had felt their abandonment year by year and emerged plagued with insecurities it might take her a lifetime to overcome.
"Your parents sent you here because they wanted you to have the best home and education for nurturing your talents." That, at least, was not untrue. It was unwise to say untrue things to a telepath. He put a hand on her shoulder. "And this is your home. We are your family, and we will always be here for you." Why "we"? Why not "I"? That's what she wanted to hear, his personal admission of attachment to her. Why couldn't he say it when he felt it so completely?
Her face screwed up and turned bright red; suddenly it was a three year old's face. She wiped at it with her hands and, curling up over her knees, sobbed out a mix of anger, relief, embarrassment, self-pity. He dropped his hand from her shoulder, wanting to hug her but sensing she wanted space. Yet as the hiccuping noise of her sobs beat into him, he couldn't not put his arm around her, straining a little across the distance between their chairs. After a moment's resistance, she scooted toward him till her knees leaned against his armrest, textbook crushed in her lap, her bare toes painted in a shade she called "cranberry-plum," her Scooby-Doo hair clip askew. Each of these details, he memorized. She let her head rest on his shoulder.
When her tears wore out, her mind started ticking over again: Professor, are you lying to me? About being family, she meant; she knew perfectly well he was dissembling about her parents.
The question surprised him. Whyever would you think that?
You never show me what you're feeling.
The words stabbed him cold. How could he explain the necessity of defending her from his mind? A child needed the illusion of the sage and steady parent, capable and emotionally safe. He didn't dare show her how her moods defined his, how her pain was his pain, how her most mundane actions etched themselves on his eyes, how many times over he'd die to protect her. He couldn't burden her with the ferocity of that devotion, the blazing weight behind platitudes like, You are the most important person in my life.
But in sheltering her, he had overcorrected, left her feeling something too like the absence he'd read in his own parents, a legacy he swore he would never pass on.
He quieted his thoughts and calculated an approach. Tightening his arm around her, he said in his most comforting, avuncular voice, "Jean, you are my real family, and I love you very much." As he spoke, he cracked open his mind, letting a faint corona of warmth leak out from the eclipsed sun. Jean brightened at once.
"I love you too, Professor," she said and kissed his cheek.
Fandom: X-Men (movieverse)
Characters: Charles, Jean
Word Count: 960
Rating/Warnings: PG for angst, discussion of parental neglect, yet also kind of fluffy
Summary: Trying to cheer up a depressed pre-teen Jean, Charles reflects on their relationship.
"Daughter"
Charles found Jean in one of the study rooms, pretending to read her biology book. As usual, she didn't realize how loudly she was projecting--a melancholy moan that had been building since before lunch.
"Hello, Jean." As if he'd just crossed her path by chance, he wheeled past her to stare at a very interesting bookshelf.
"Hi, Professor."
Opening up a plausible volume, he glanced at her surreptitiously as she curled around her textbook, twiddling a long, red curl around her finger. A growth spurt had left her gangly, just beginning to fill out. Sometimes she looked to him like a miniature woman: an adult reduced by a fourth. Sometimes she astounded him by the adulthood in her manner--the way she'd been teaching first aid to younger children yesterday, as if she were a credentialed instructor. For twenty minutes, he'd watched her guide their hands and explain the underlying principles; he hadn't been able to take his eyes off her.
Last week over breakfast, she'd told Scott she planned to be a doctor. As soon as she said it, she'd hesitated, her eyes seeking Charles's face: "Can I, Professor?" She'd been wondering if her being a student here locked her into working for the school. "Of course, you can," he'd told her. "With your progress in biology, you're already well on your way." She'd grinned, and he could see her so clearly in twenty years' time a dynamic young physician and vastly powerful mutant, wrapped in that native modesty that was always simply Jean.
Then, sometimes--like this--she seemed younger than the day they'd met.
"It's Saturday, Jean. Why not take a break from studying?"
The question hurt her badly though her face barely flinched. After a moment, she said, "I'm not studying, Professor." Just like you're not reading that book.
Charles closed the book and wheeled his chair to her side. Her reaction to his question had told him what he needed. "You wish Scott and Alex had asked you along for lunch?"
"No." She wiped a tear from her cheek. "It's not like I want to horn in on their family time." You really think I'm that selfish? she thought, not intending him to hear her.
"What about if you and I go out to dinner this evening for some family time?"
Her heart leapt, but she locked it down. "We're not real family." And underneath came the question she half wanted him to hear: Why didn't my mom and dad want me?
What comforting lie could he offer? They hadn't wanted her; they'd been growing more afraid of her for years, more resigned to letting go. He told himself he understood their situation, but in truth he didn't want to. Sometimes he opened himself to a devouring rage at the thought that they'd cast off this brilliant, beautiful child they'd created, this big-hearted, sweet-tempered girl, this telepath who had felt their abandonment year by year and emerged plagued with insecurities it might take her a lifetime to overcome.
"Your parents sent you here because they wanted you to have the best home and education for nurturing your talents." That, at least, was not untrue. It was unwise to say untrue things to a telepath. He put a hand on her shoulder. "And this is your home. We are your family, and we will always be here for you." Why "we"? Why not "I"? That's what she wanted to hear, his personal admission of attachment to her. Why couldn't he say it when he felt it so completely?
Her face screwed up and turned bright red; suddenly it was a three year old's face. She wiped at it with her hands and, curling up over her knees, sobbed out a mix of anger, relief, embarrassment, self-pity. He dropped his hand from her shoulder, wanting to hug her but sensing she wanted space. Yet as the hiccuping noise of her sobs beat into him, he couldn't not put his arm around her, straining a little across the distance between their chairs. After a moment's resistance, she scooted toward him till her knees leaned against his armrest, textbook crushed in her lap, her bare toes painted in a shade she called "cranberry-plum," her Scooby-Doo hair clip askew. Each of these details, he memorized. She let her head rest on his shoulder.
When her tears wore out, her mind started ticking over again: Professor, are you lying to me? About being family, she meant; she knew perfectly well he was dissembling about her parents.
The question surprised him. Whyever would you think that?
You never show me what you're feeling.
The words stabbed him cold. How could he explain the necessity of defending her from his mind? A child needed the illusion of the sage and steady parent, capable and emotionally safe. He didn't dare show her how her moods defined his, how her pain was his pain, how her most mundane actions etched themselves on his eyes, how many times over he'd die to protect her. He couldn't burden her with the ferocity of that devotion, the blazing weight behind platitudes like, You are the most important person in my life.
But in sheltering her, he had overcorrected, left her feeling something too like the absence he'd read in his own parents, a legacy he swore he would never pass on.
He quieted his thoughts and calculated an approach. Tightening his arm around her, he said in his most comforting, avuncular voice, "Jean, you are my real family, and I love you very much." As he spoke, he cracked open his mind, letting a faint corona of warmth leak out from the eclipsed sun. Jean brightened at once.
"I love you too, Professor," she said and kissed his cheek.
