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A Diamond in the Rough	By : DrunkenScotsman Category: X-Men - Animated Series (all) > General Views: 3410 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Chapter 13: Triangulation

Despite Emma’s fears, no mention of the day’s events came at dinner. Nonetheless, Father’s sharp blue eyes (a trait Emma had inherited) seemed to bore into her, accentuating the silence customary at the Frost dinner table, silence punctuated only by the ticking of the heirloom grandfather clock. Keeping her eyes on her plate, Emma fortified her mind against intrusion, as she and Ms. Grey had practiced, just in case she’d also inherited this ability, some sort of Frost family secret.
The faint clink of metal against porcelain as Father set his utensils onto his plate signified the end of dinner. Father had no love for sweets – “an unhealthy indulgence,” he often called them – so desserts were served only on special occasions or for company. Several staff came to fetch the tableware, clearing the way for after-dinner drinks, if Father so desired.
Father rose from the table, indicating that tonight would not be such a night. “Emma,” he rumbled in his throaty baritone, “come with me.”
“Yes, sir,” Emma replied as she too stood. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a cold smirk adorning Mother’s lips. She must have spoken with him before dinner, and sat there watching me try not to squirm.
The walk from the dining room to Father’s study felt interminable, like some forced migration of Indigenous people where most of them died on the way. Clad in a navy polo and khaki slacks – like Emma, he didn’t own any denim – instead of us usual button-ups and dark slacks, Father cut a thoroughly imposing figure, enhanced by his dark hair (now graying at the temples) and moustache. This must be what he wore golfing, Emma surmised.
Inside, the tall oaken bookshelves filled with books on various topics towered over them while leading the eye to the mahogany desk with Father’s computer, phone, and other necessaries for his business dealings. A trio of plush chairs upholstered in forest green sat in an arc opposite the desk from Father’s tall armchair, which looked in the lamplight for all the world like a throne. A single photo sat on the desk as well, framed in a handsome bronze, of the Frost family, taken before Emma left for college.
Why doesn’t he have a photo with Christian in it? Emma wondered. Granted, it would be a less-recent one, but…
Has Christian been disowned, and Father hasn’t informed me?
Father gestured to one of the chairs, wordlessly bidding Emma to sit, and wordlessly she obeyed. He, however, remained standing beside his desk. With his broad-shouldered frame and a height that exceeded Emma’s even while standing, he now loomed over her. Emma kept her eyes straight ahead, sitting perfectly still and with perfect posture, the perfect picture of an obedient daughter.
“Your mother tells me you’ve behaved disrespectfully towards her since you’ve been back,” Father spoke, his voice thrumming with paternal authority.
Emma didn’t reply. Cold dread prickled at her skin. She knew that, in this scenario, she should only speak when directly asked a question.
“If you were still a child, Emma,” continued Father, “I would now discipline you most severely.”
Emma swallowed a lump that had formed in her throat.
“However, as you are now an adult, a certain degree of independence is now warranted. This places me in a difficult position: for my wife’s sake and my own, I ought not brook disrespect; yet, to encourage you not to accept mistreatment, real or imagined, I ought to reward you. Look at me, Emma.”
She complied, fixing her eyes on Father’s moustache, both to avoid accidental mental contact and to seem less defiant by avoid eye contact.
“Tell me, daughter, how shall I proceed?”
Emma’s eyes narrowed slightly at this unexpected development. Thoughts swirled through her mind, each too ephemeral, too evanescent, to latch onto. Finally, she had to admit the truth: “I don’t know, sir. I expected only chastisement.”
Father hummed. “I am not pleased, Emma, nor am I disappointed.”
Emma let out a breath, one she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Again I ask you, Emma: How shall I proceed?”
He’s giving me the opportunity to determine my own fate, but it’s also a test, Emma realized. I don’t believe behavior warrants discipline; should I stand by that and choose clemency? If I choose that, or choose something too lenient, though, will Father grow angry and make the punishment that much harsher for my defiance?
Emma weighed her options. Each choice seemed as fraught with potential to backfire as the other. With each passing moment, she feared that Father might remove the choice from her hands, placing additional pressure on her decision-making, like when her time in a chess game was running low.
A ray of inspiration flashed into Emma’s mind, like sunlight catching the facet of a diamond just right and bringing forth its “fire,” its inner sparkle.
“You should allow your daughter to explain herself,” she told him.
Father harrumphed, but the tone of it indicated surprise and intrigue rather than umbrage. “Very well,” he answered, “you may proceed.”
With a deep breath, Emma obeyed, laying out for Father the difficulties she’d had with Mother: the relentless focus on her body; the pressure for Emma to lure a lover with the sole, express purpose of procuring a favorable marriage; Mother’s intrusive nosiness about “incredibly personal matters.” She left out the business about the swimsuit, unsure if Mother’s memory had returned and afraid to open that Pandora’s box. She also left out yesterday entirely – she thought she might prefer a harsh punishment to describing to Father anything related to her gynecologist’s appointment.
“To conclude, Father, I find Mother’s views of my worth and value both limiting and demeaning. I regularly grow frustrated with her treatment of me as nothing more than a pretty face, because I believe I have much more to offer than merely my looks.” Not just to a potential spouse, but as heir to your empire, she added to herself. “I can no longer brook being reduced like that, even by Mother. Hence, my resistance to her.”
Father hummed; the rumble, to Emma’s relief, sounded thoughtful rather than incensed. He made no reply for a long time. With each passing moment, Emma’s doubt grew, and she feared she’d misread him throughout this situation.
Father’s deep voice broke the silence: “Emma, I have decided. I applaud you for standing for your convictions. I require, however, that you and your mother find some form of compromise when tensions arise in the future. For tomorrow’s party, you will attire yourself in a manner you find alluring, but within the bounds of your own taste. You will mingle with your peers, and consider their worth as potential suitors, yet without expectation that you will select one by any particular deadline.” He paused for a weighty moment. “You may thank me for my leniency.”
Thus prompted, Emma responded, “Thank you, Father, for your leniency.”
Father took his seat behind his desk. “Now, daughter, I have other business to attend. You may go.”
Emma stood, but she paused. “A question, sir?”
Father’s eyebrow rose fractionally. “You may.”
“The party for Labor Day is… tomorrow? Not Monday?”
“Indeed. The wage-slaves have Monday for a holiday,” Father rumbled, “but the captains of industry get no such reprieve. Nor need we.”
Emma nodded and exited Father’s study. Not until she reached her room did she realize how quickly and powerfully her heart beat in her chest. Long minutes passed while she calmed herself, staring at Degas’ ballerinas on her wall, frozen forever mid-dance.
That could have gone much worse.

XXXXX

About half an hour later, while Emma was working on calculus homework, her cell phone rang, startling her. Her brow furrowed on seeing the caller ID. She flipped open the device. “Ms. Grey – to what do I owe this surprise?”
“Hey, Emma. You know you can call me Jean, right?”
A strange shiver crept up Emma’s spine. “I’ll consider it,” she answered drily.
A noise – a scoff or an amused snort, Emma couldn’t tell – came from the speaker of her phone. “To answer your question, a little birdie told me you might need to talk, or to hear a friendly voice, at least.”
“A little birdie?” Emma echoed, confused and filled with skepticism.
“I… had a feeling you might need to talk, or to hear a friendly voice, at least. A hunch,” Ms. Grey explained. “You’ve had them before.”
Now understanding, Emma hummed. “Your family home is close to Greenwich, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
I didn’t know she had that much range, she marveled. Questions for later.
Aloud, she admitted, “Your intuition was correct. These last few days have been most trying.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
The soft kindness in the other telepath’s voice sent another strange chill up Emma’s spine. “No,” she breathed, “if only because I just had to tell Father about all the unpleasantness.”
“Based on what you’ve told me, let me guess: your mother?”
“Quite right.” A bitter taste rested in Emma’s mouth.
“For what it’s worth, Emma, I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”
At this point, Emma moved from the chair at her desk to her bed. “Don’t be silly, Ms. Grey,” replied Emma. “It’s not as if you authored the last few days’ annoyances.”
“Maybe tomorrow will be better?”
“Doubtful,” Emma sighed. “The pool party is tomorrow, and there’s no telling how many half-witted young men – barely more than boys, honestly – I’ll have to endure.”
There was a brief silence. “I thought it was a Labor Day party. That’s Monday.”
Emma chuckled. “Labor Day is for the wage-slaves, not the captains of industry.”
Another silence, this one a little longer. “Wow. On behalf of us commoners, thank you for your generosity, O mighty queen.”
Ms. Grey’s sarcasm, coming through the phone as clearly as if she sat in the room by Emma’s side, stung more than she might’ve anticipated. “That’s what Father said,” she explained, unsure why she felt the need.
“And Father is an honorable man.”
Emma couldn’t help but smile at the reference. “I don’t think it’s fair to drag Shakespeare into this,” she sniffed playfully.
“Blame Professor Xavier, Mr. McCoy, and my ex. They all love Shakespeare,” replied Ms. Grey with an audible smile.
“Your ex, the Neanderthal?”
Ms. Grey now laughed. “No, a different one. So much smarter, and kinder to boot.”
Emma hummed and inspected her freshly-manicured nails. “So why is it that he’s your ex?”
Ms. Grey sighed. “Long story short, distance. I’m at Bernhardt, of course, but he’s at Empire State University. We’re still friends, at least.”
“Empire State? Isn’t that mostly for… poor people?”
“You mean, it’s affordable for low-income students,” Ms. Grey corrected her. “Like, say, an orphan with no living relatives besides a younger brother who’s barely a freshman in high school.”
Emma bit her lip. “I… I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t,” snapped Ms. Grey. A deep breath sounded through the phone’s speaker. “Look, my point is, we’re fortunate to have had plenty of choices for ourselves. Not everyone is.”
Emma swallowed a lump in her throat. “You’re right, of course. I meant no offense towards him.”
Here, Ms. Grey snorted. “Maybe not, but… do me a favor? Don’t be such a snob.”
Emma didn’t reply for a long moment as she digested what Ms. Grey had said. It was the bluntest the redhead had been with her. Surprisingly, she didn’t hate it.
Nonetheless, she still had her pride. “I’ll consider it.”
Ms. Grey took her own pause before replying, “In that case, I’ll leave you to mull it over. Goodnight, Emma. See you on Wednesday.”
“Wait,” Emma blurted. “Thank you for calling to check on my well-being, and for offering your sympathetic ear. I truly appreciate it.”
“Of course, Emma,” replied Ms. Grey, her tone much warmer. “What are friends for?”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” admitted Emma, feeling suddenly as though she were taking a huge risk by saying so. “I’ll try to be a better one.”
“That’s all I ask. Night, Emma.”
“Goodnight… Jean.”

XXXXX

A few hours later, as she brushed her hair to prepare for bed, Emma caught sight of herself in the mirror. She noticed her expression, alien, far removed from her typical “resting bitch face.” What graced her lips instead…
… was a smile.
Not the smirk she frequently wore, one often seen as arrogant or haughty. Just a simple, mirthful smile.
Not the broad ear-to-ear grin she’d seen on others’ faces, the kind that often heralded peals of laughter. Just a simple smile.
Why am I smiling like this? Emma wondered.
She felt a certain indescribably lightness throughout herself, a feeling she had no name for, because, to her recollection, she’d never felt it before.
By the time she drifted off to sleep, still smiling, the answer still eluded her.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
A/N: Triangulation is both a chess term (used in a king & pawn endgame to force your opponent's king out of their defensive position by moving yours in a triangle) and a term in psychology for the act of, essentially, forcing someone not involved in a conflict to pick sides, to try to drive a wedge between people, or otherwise put them in between the two sides of a conflict (as a mediator). It's not healthy for relationships to have this sort of triangulation.
In terms of story structure, I realized that the next chapter (the pool party) will mark the end of Phase 1, which has focused on setting up the conflicts and dynamics that Emma will be dealing with. Phase 2 will start to focus on the part that most of you are likely here for, and the part that was the original driving premise for the story: the budding Jean/Emma romance. There will be a Phase 3, but I can't say too much about that without spoilers. I have no idea if each phase will consist of an equal number of chapters; but if so, this will be by far the longest single fanfic I've ever written (which I suspected it would be when I started on it). Even if not, it'll still likely be a long one. So, from the bottom of my heart, I thank you, dear readers for your continued interest and for your patience with this story.
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A Diamond in the Rough