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A Diamond in the Rough	By : DrunkenScotsman Category: X-Men - Animated Series (all) > General Views: 4279 -:- 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 18: Middlegame

September evaporated in the daily rhythms of campus life – classes, quizzes, notes, homework, presentations, meetings, hangouts, clubs, random shenanigans. Each passing day leached more and more of late summer’s lingering green from the leaves of Bernhardt’s varied trees, leaving only a patchwork of autumnal golds, oranges, and reds. Cooler temperatures accompanied the color change, and wardrobes shifted to match, featuring longer sleeves, sweaters, jackets, tights under skirts or dresses, and more closed-toed shoes.
Emma and Jean’s friendship shifted as well in the aftermath of that afternoon in Jean’s room. They continued meeting at the coffee shop on Fridays, but they paused any further exploration of Emma’s abilities, lest another mishap occur, this time in public where there might be witnesses. Instead, they mostly studied for their shared psychology class by swapping notes, reviewing material, and completing worksheets together.
At first, when Jean suggested they study together, Emma doubted: What do I gain from this, that I wouldn’t get from studying alone? I’ve always studied alone. My memory is, as Jean has noted, exceptional.
With each passing week, though, Emma grew to look forward to these study sessions. Fridays became the highlight of her week. She realized, Just because I was alone before, it doesn’t mean I have to be now.
I don’t need the support, but it’s nice to have it.

XXXXX

“Got any plans for Fall Break?” asked Jean when they met at the coffee shop on the first Friday of October, right before midterms.
“Not really,” replied Emma. “I’m not even sure if I want to spend it at home.”
Jean, about to sip her drink, paused. “The dorms close for the long weekend.” Her eyes narrowed. “Did that Shaw creep invite you to something, and you just don’t want to tell me?”
Emma blinked at the random-seeming conclusion from her friend. “No, I haven’t heard from Mr. Shaw since the party,” she replied. “Likely too busy with his business empire. I’d tell you if I had. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Embarrassment for accepting,” answered Jean. “Fear that I might judge you for it.”
“It sounds like you would.”
“Probably,” the redhead admitted with a breezy smirk and a shrug. “Definitely try to talk you out of it.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “At any rate, the dorm closures won’t affect me, since I live off-campus.”
Now it was Jean’s turn to blink in confusion. “I thought all first-year students had to live on campus?”
Emma merely shrugged. “I don’t. Before you ask,” she added on seeing her friend start to do so, “I don’t know why. My parents likely negotiated some sort of exception for me.”
Jean shook her head. “Sounds shady,” she groused.
“Now, now, Jean darling, jealousy is unbecoming of a young lady of our breeding and stature.”
Over the lip of her cup, Jean’s glare burned hotter than her coffee had been when she’d ordered it. After she swallowed, she shot back, “Y’know, sometimes, I’m surprised how well you can eat and talk, with that huge silver spoon in your mouth.
“It’s been there since birth,” Emma riposted. “One grows accustomed to it.”
Even though she tried to hide it, Jean chortled. “Anyway, the reason I asked about fall break – I’m headed back to the Institute, and I wondered… if you’d like to come with me?”
Emma’s eyebrows shot upwards. To the Home for Wayward Mutants? she thought, intending for Jean to hear her.
I wouldn’t use the word “wayward” to describe us, replied the other telepath. Most of us, anyway.
Emma snorted.
Aloud, Jean continued: “Professor Xavier expressed interest in meeting you, and I thought you might feel the same.”
Emma hummed. I can’t say I have the slightest interest in joining your merry little band of mutants. No sales pitches if I agree.
I can’t promise that he won’t ask, but I’ll try to convince him not to.
Aloud again, Jean prompted: “C’mon, it’ll be fun. Road trip?”
Emma pondered the idea; to her surprise, she didn’t hate it. Nevertheless, she had reservations. “I presume you’ll be driving, since you know the way there?”
Looking sheepish, the redhead replied, “Actually, I’ve only made that trip once, back in the spring when I visited campus. Even then, I stayed at my parents’ house. I’ve never driven from Bernhardt straight to the Xavier Institute.” She flashed Emma a smile. “Will you help me navigate if I print off directions?”
Emma’s eyes narrowed. “Is that the real reason you’re asking me along?”
Jean rolled here eyes. “No. I just thought…” She clenched her jaw and took a deep breath. “I wanted us to do something fun together. You told me yourself that you haven’t had a friend in a long time, and I get the impression you might be jealous of the fact that I have such a strong friend network.”
Emma bristled, mostly because Jean had read her perfectly. “Did you read my mind while I was looking at your pictures?” she asked in an icy tone.
“No!” protested the other telepath, looking quite offended at the mere suggestion. “But I could feel the emotion radiating from you.” More gently, she added, “For whatever it’s worth, I think my other friends would welcome you with open arms.”
“Of course they would,” snarked Emma. “You drive me somewhere I’ve never been, far from my own family, offering me such belonging and acceptance, all at the home of your dear leader, Professor Xavier, who just happens to be a powerful telepath, likely capable of all sorts of literal brainwashing.”
Jean frowned. “You make it sound like a cult.”
Emma raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t it? You’re even called ‘the X-Men.’”
Jean pushed back from the table. “How dare you,” she snarled. Her eyes flashed with fury barely constrained, and Emma perceived illusory flames licking from her hair and skin. The redhead pointed emphatically. “I will put up with a lot from you, Emma, but not disparaging my friends and mentor.”
As the redhead stormed out of the coffee shop, Emma felt a pit form in her stomach. She’s never lost her temper with me like that before. I must have hurt her rather badly, saying what I said. Why did I do that?
One of the baristas reentered the shop, reeking so strongly of cigarette smoke that Emma could smell him as soon as he shut the door behind him. “What happened? I step out for a smoke, and your girlfriend tears outta here like a bat outta hell.”
“Girlfriend?” Emma echoed, gobsmacked.
The barista, a stubbly fellow probably in his mid-thirties, gestured vaguely as he attended his cleaning duties behind the “bar” across which he served coffee. “Look, it’s pretty common among you gals from that college. I know some people get antsy about that kinda thing, but I don’t care,” he assured her. “To me, love is love, and I think it’s beautiful. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“You’ve misread the situation,” replied Emma coolly.
The barista started to argue, but he stopped himself. With a sly wink and equally-sly smile, he responded, “Yeah, sure. Just a couple o’ gals bein’ pals. I getcha.”
Now feeling thoroughly uncomfortable, Emma gathered her things. “I’m glad we understand one another,” she told him, stiffly, not believing that they did, but know what else to do about it…
… until an idea struck her.
I haven’t tried this since the incident with Mother. Let’s see if I can do this on purpose. Without hurting this man more than necessary.
Emma locked eyes with the barista. “Just friends. Nothing else,” she insisted. As she spoke, she pushed with her will.
The barista’s watery blue eyes glazed over. “Just friends. Nothing else,” he repeated in a flat tone.
Satisfied she’d succeeded, Emma turned away, releasing her hold.
“Hope you and your redhead friend can work things out!” the barista called after her.

XXXXX

Over the weekend, two things drove Emma to distraction.
First, she might have erased the word “girlfriend” from the barista’s mind, but she couldn’t erase it from her own. Why would he make that assumption? Is our friendship truly so different from other coeds like ourselves?
Second, she dwelt on how she’d hurt her friend (not “girlfriend”). Guilt – an unfamiliar emotion – ate at her. Monday can’t come quickly enough for me to make things right.

XXXXX

Monday came, and Emma remained so fixated on mending fences with Jean that she didn’t take particularly good notes from Dr. Breckenridge’s lecture. She kept looking across the classroom at the redhead, but Jean avoided her gaze. With each passing minute, Emma became more and more adamant about speaking with her friend after class.
When Dr. Breckenridge dismissed class, Jean finally looked Emma’s way. Before Emma could reach out with her thoughts, she heard Jean’s voice in her mind – a deep, resounding NO.
No?
I’m still upset and hurt by what you said. I don’t want to be around you right now.
How am I supposed to address my mistake if you won’t listen to me?
To Emma’s surprised relief, Jean’s expression softened. Admitting it was a mistake takes courage. It’s a good first step.
Both ballet and chess have taught me how to recognize mistakes, correct them, and avoid repeating them.
Jean sighed. I’m still not ready to talk, but I promise we will before I leave for Fall Break.
Emma frowned. She didn’t like it, but she knew she had no choice but to accept it. She didn’t want to wait, but she didn’t think that pressing the issue would yield a positive result.
Nevertheless, she felt a modicum of relief – Jean would hear her out.

XXXXX

The rest of the week dragged into a seemingly-interminable morass. Overcast skies each day, punctuated by late-afternoon showers, contributed to the sense of time dilation. At least Emma could concentrate better, knowing that she and Jean would reconcile. Waiting for that conversation required a great deal of patience, though, especially when it didn’t happen on Wednesday.
Fortunately, chess had taught Emma patience.

XXXXX

By Friday, pockets of blue had begun to break through the previously-seamless ceiling of stratus clouds. The sun, peeking through where it could, illuminated Bernhardt’s campus with its diffuse rays. Students milled about campus on their way to or from their midterms (of varying degrees of difficulty, from “simple” to “simply grueling”), all with palpable excitement for the coming break.
Emma walked out of her Business 101 midterm, her last, with her head held high, knowing she’d aced it. She checked her phone, which had buzzed in the midst of her exam, earning her a glare from the professor. Who could have --?
As it turned out, Jean had texted: < In the library. Meet me when done? >
Emma wasted no time heading for the library. Behind the main circulation desk, one of the librarians, upon Emma’s inquiry, directed her to one of the upstairs study rooms. Besides herself and the librarian, the building seemed utterly empty.
The door to the study room opened at Emma’s knock. Inside the small room, Jean sat a plastic desk just big enough to fit two side-by-side, with an empty chair beside her. She was focused on the large book atop the desk in front of her, one hand raised toward the door, indicating she’d opened it telekinetically.
Emma entered the study room and shut the door behind her, but she remained standing for the moment. “This seems like an odd place for this conversation,” she observed.
“I didn’t want to have it in my dorm, which is a beehive of activity right now,” replied the redhead without looking up. “Ditto for any of the more public parts of campus, in case of prying ears.”
“Of course,” agreed Emma, feeling more unnerved than she’d like to admit by Jean not looking at her. Not that the profile view isn’t also lovely. “On the Friday afternoon before Fall Break, we’re likely the only students in the building.”
“Exactly.” She gestured, and the chair beside her slid back. “Please, sit. I think we’ll be more comfortable if you do.”
Emma slipped into the chair beside her friend, who finally looked up, a small smile on her lips that set Emma immediately at ease. “About last week,” she began, though she paused as she heard one of Father’s commands in her mind: Never apologize, Emma; it shows weakness. “I won’t apologize for what I said.” Jean’s eyebrows shot upward, but Emma continued: “Much as you didn’t apologize for what you said about Father, but for the effect it had.”
The redhead quirked her head to one side, as if to concede the point. “Fair enough – I’ve been thinking about that myself, actually,” she admitted. “From an outsider’s perspective, I can see how the X-Men might seem like a cult. We really aren’t, though. We just want to learn how to use our gifts to make the world a better place for everyone, human and mutant alike.”
Emma frowned, skeptical. “That still sounds like it could be the sales pitch to join the cult, you know.”
Jean’s smile faded. “Okay, what would it take to convince you it’s not a cult?”
“I… don’t know,” Emma conceded.
With a sigh, Jean glanced down at the book on her desk. Emma followed her gaze to see a print of Blue Dancers, one of her favorites; it used to hang on her wall in her room at home, but she’d insisted on bringing it to her apartment. Before she could inquire, Jean asked, “If you don’t trust Professor Xavier, that’s fine; you don’t know him the way I do, how much he’s meant to me as a mentor. Can you trust me, at least, that I’m not trying to brainwash you or anything?”
Emma mulled over that question for only a brief moment before she gave an emphatic nod. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me, Jean. I have no reason not to trust you, and… I am truly sorry for hurting you.”
Jean’s smile returned, and a weight on Emma’s shoulders – one she hadn’t noticed consciously – lifted from her and vanished into the ether. Emma gestured at the art book. “So, what’s this?”
“I’m in Art Appreciation class, and we have our Impressionism unit after the break. I came here to get a head start on it.” Her left hand brushed gently over the painting. “This Degas just… reminded me of that time you shared with me what it feels like to dance like this. So it reminded me of how much I value… our friendship.”
Emma swallowed. “The barista last Friday seemed to think you were my ‘girlfriend.’”
Jean looked up, (dazzling) green eyes wide. “… Really? Why would he think that?”
Emma shrugged. “Apparently, it’s not uncommon among Bernhardt students, but I didn’t inquire further before convincing him he was mistaken. I didn’t hurt him,” she added quickly.
Jean made a face. “May I… confirm that?”
Without hesitation, Emma nodded. The events at the coffee shop last week, after Jean’s departure, replayed themselves in Emma’s mind’s eye, with Jean’s presence manifesting as a fiery raptor perched on her shoulder. It didn’t feel as intrusive as Emma had feared it would, that day in Jean’s room when they first linked minds.
Their awareness returned to the real world in short order. “I’ve never liked using my powers to rewrite or erase memories,” Jean commented, “but I am proud of you for using them with care and precision.” A warm smile spread across her lips.
Emma became suddenly much more aware of the distance between them – or, more accurately, the lack thereof. The unnamed feeling she’d first experienced that afternoon in Jean’s room returned, much stronger than before. She found herself struggling to breathe normally.
Jean’s right hand sat on the desk. Emma’s left hand sat on the desk. Their pinkies touched. Emma’s heart skipped a beat. That unnamed feeling seemed to fill every nook and cranny within her mind, pushing out all else.
Before Emma could think too much more about that feeling or analyze it, Jean closed the distance and kissed her.
Her lips felt warm and soft and wet against Emma’s own. Emma lacked a word to describe the flavor, but she immediately wanted more. The scent of Jean’s perfume, light and citrusy, filled her nose, making Emma’s head spin as much as the feeling and the taste.
Jean’s lips massaged Emma’s gently, and she responded in kind. She didn’t know what she was doing. Part of her hated the feeling. Part of her didn’t care and just wanted to keep doing this. Part of her knew that she would best learn by doing this.
All too soon, Jean pulled away.
Emma’s eyes fluttered open – she didn’t remember shutting them – to see Jean looking… shocked? Sad? Remorseful? Confusion rose within Emma at the redhead’s reaction. A powerful urge to retreat, to escape, followed shortly behind.
“Emma… I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have—”
Emma pursed her lips, while her heart sank. “Of course,” she replied, disappointment thick in her throat. She started to stand.
“Wait, Emma, let me finish.” The redhead took Emma’s hand more fully into hers. “I meant… I suspected we might both have feelings beyond just friendship, but I meant to talk about it first. Maybe even let you make the first move. I’m sorry for jumping the gun.”
A deep sense of relief filled Emma as she sat back down, a soft smile on her lips, which still tasted of Jean’s. “It’s probably for the best,” she replied. “If you’d asked, I wouldn’t have known how to respond. I’ve… never felt like this before; I didn’t know what it was until now.”
“I thought that might be the case.” Jean squeezed Emma’s hand. “By the way, either you’re a natural or a quick study at kissing,” she added with a smile that warmed Emma all the way through.
Emma preened. “What can I say? I’m a woman of many talents.” She leaned closer. “However, talent only carries one so far without practice.”
This time, Emma kissed Jean, who emitted a noise of soft surprise before kissing back. She mimicked their earlier lip movements, which Jean mirrored. The warmth that had filled Emma a moment ago now intensified, from the crown of her head to the tips of her (ugly, misshapen, thankfully hidden) toes.
Jean ended the kiss again, beaming. “Okay, we both feel the same way.” She bit her lip. “What now?”
Blinking, Emma replied, “You’re asking me? You’re the one who’s been in this kind of relationship before.”
“Fair point,” conceded Jean with a laugh. “Could I change your mind about coming with me?”
Emma shook her head. “I haven’t packed. Besides,” she added with a sigh as the high from kissing this beautiful woman began to wear off, “I need time to wrap my mind around this.”
“How do you mean?”
Emma turned her head, her eyes alighting on the painted ballerinas on the page. “One of the… issues… between Father and Christian is that my brother is gay. Not that he ever told me, but… there were signs.” She bit her lip, hard enough for it to hurt. “I don’t know if Father would’ve tried to force him to marry and have children to carry on the Frost name and bloodline. Maybe that’s why he’s stayed away.”
The vision that Emma had for her future – of herself standing in Father’s office as the CEO of Frost Enterprises – began to ignite, burning away in the flames of what just happened. “Now, it turns out… I might be the same way.”
Jean hummed thoughtfully. “It does sound like you’ve got a lot to process, Emma, and you’re right—”
“Of course I am.”
“—that you need some space,” the redhead continued without missing a beat, though she shot Emma a playful glare. “I’d encourage you, since you’re new to this, not to worry too much for the moment about labeling yourself, okay?”
Emma nodded, a bit absently.
“I should, um, hit the road. Could I call you on Monday? Just to check in?”
Emma nodded again, this time returning her full attention to her fellow mutant. “I’d like that, in fact.”
Jean released Emma’s hand and pulled further away. She stood, gathering her things, but she paused to lean down and kiss Emma’s cheek. “As much as I’m looking forward to seeing my friends at the Institute, I’ll miss you. See you Wednesday.”
After the redhead had gone, Emma sat with the book and ran her fingertips over the page with the Degas, her heart much lighter than she might’ve expected. Even with the ramifications of what she’d done today looming over her, she had a hard time stopping herself from smiling. She resolved not to leave until she could do so – she didn’t want the librarian to get any weird ideas – for a full minute.
Over an hour later, Emma finally left the library to start her long weekend, but she knew she’d be counting the minutes until Jean’s promised call on Monday.
_________________________________________________________________________________
A/N: In chess, the middlegame begins once the opening ends - usually, when each player is sufficiently satisfied with their setup that they're ready to start trading pieces. It's still a little fluid, though.
When I said at the beginning that this would be a slow burn, I wasn't exaggerating. This story is already approaching the length of some of my longest works (namely, "First Times at Bayville High" and "Chicks Dig the Fuzzy Dude"), and it's only just now getting to the (ahem) juicy bits.
So, if you've hung with me this far, I thank you for your patience and your attention. I also welcome any feedback you're willing to give. :)
Also, a link to the painting mentioned in the story: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blue_Dancers
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A Diamond in the Rough