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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
- 8
- 9
- 10
Chapter 9: Inaccuracies

Monday morning saw Emma dragging out of bed. Ever since Mother’s call, she’d slept quite poorly. The overcast sky and steady drizzle reflected Emma’s sour mood.
Getting dressed, Emma felt as if she were swimming through molasses. For a rainy day like this, she opted for a pale-pink sweater and khaki pencil skirt, accented with her diamond studs and pearl necklace. Galoshes and a nylon rain jacket in matching mint-green would prevent her from looking bedraggled, especially if the rain picked up throughout the day.
Despite skipping breakfast, she barely made it to class ahead of the professor. Emma caught Ms. Grey’s quizzical look as she took an unclaimed seat near the door. Shame burned inside her chest at the humiliation of having to sit in the back row.
Not that she’d ever show it. Such vulgar displays were beneath her.
Dr. Breckenridge began passing around a stack of papers. “Chapter 17 covers the basics of neurobiology – parts of the brain that govern different emotions, neurochemicals, that sort of thing. I’ll be splitting you up into pairs so you can fill out these worksheets,” she explained before reading the names of the students in alphabetical order.
An even number of students preceded Emma’s name on the roster meant that she was paired with Ms. Grey. Whispers and looks of pity followed her as she crossed the room, but she ignored them. I must be perceived as unafraid, she told herself. Not that I am, of course, but it’s key to project such an image. As a side effect, showing everyone I’m not afraid of the Ms. Grey might discourage any lingering ill feelings towards her; she deserves that much, at least, for her tutelage.
As Emma sat, Ms. Grey regarded her with a suppressed smile. Her green eyes glittered with mirth. “Not afraid of the ‘big, bad mutant,’ huh?” she asked in a playful lilt, just loudly enough that Emma could tell that her counterpart meant for other students to overhear.
“Not at all.”
“Good. You have nothing to fear from me.”
A sidelong glance at the rest of the class showed a few students watching them, expectantly or fearfully or angrily or nervously or all those things at once. They seemed to hold their collective breaths. Emma deduced that they were waiting to see if there might be harsh words for the incident on the first day of class, or perhaps a repeat performance.
Emma sat and set down her worksheet and school bag. “Of course I don’t. Now, shall we?”
The tension in the room dissipated, and the other students all began working on their assignments. The room soon buzzed with chatter between pairs.
I won’t give them the satisfaction, Emma thought, or the ammunition.
The redhead nodded. Thank you, Emma. I appreciate your kindness.
I’m not kind, Emma thought reflexively. You’re of no use to me if you’re injured by an angry mob. Or worse, expelled.
Green eyes narrowed. Your discretion, then.
A small smirk curled Emma’s lip as she opened her textbook. Of course, darling. As long as you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. It’s just good business.
The other telepath snorted and started on the worksheet, pointedly ignoring Emma.

XXXXX

Chatter picked up throughout the room as the class worked on the worksheets. Ms. Grey continued to give Emma the silent treatment, which she took in stride as she paged through the textbook chapter. Emma found herself becoming engrossed with the material – the ability of the brain to essentially reshape itself via rerouting connections between neurons, the dizzying array of neurochemicals that affect one’s mood and emotions, the still-unplumbed mysteries of the link between the physical structures of the brain and the ephemeral construct of the human mind.
Finishing the worksheet with time to spare left Emma with little to do besides analyze her counterpart’s sartorial choices. Ms. Grey had put her hair up with a large, toothy clip made of cream-colored plastic. A scoop-necked shirt with three-quarter sleeves and broad stripes of alternating green and yellow hugged her torso, and a dark brown skirt ending at the knee complemented the top. Calf-length boots the color of milk chocolate and lighter-brown hose brought the (quite stylish) ensemble together.
One detail – one tragic flaw – caught Emma’s eye; once noticed, she couldn’t tear her attention away.
The redhead stiffened under Emma’s gaze. Emma? Why are you staring at me?
Unease trickled all through Emma’s body as she replied, I can see the outline of your bra through your shirt.
Green eyes widened. Dammit! I thought this shirt felt tighter than it used to. The other telepath glanced over, her brows furrowed and a frown on her face. Why didn’t you say something sooner?
Emma frowned back. I only just noticed. Don’t be cross with me; I’m not the one whose shirt’s too tight.
Ms. Grey’s frown deepened. What is your deal today?
I could ask you the same thing, Emma retorted.
Does “It’s just good business” ring any bells?
What of it?
That hurt, Emma. I thought we were becoming friends.
Emma glanced at the clock on the wall, suddenly wishing she could be anywhere else. I was just teasing, she insisted. I thought you’d be able to sense that.
Ms. Grey shook her head, and the movement of her pen on her worksheet grew increasingly emphatic. It didn’t feel like teasing.
Emma tried not to grind her teeth in frustration. If you couldn’t sense my intent, that must mean your tutelage is paying off already.
Ms. Grey pinched her nose. Fine. Be that way.
I don’t know any other way to be, Emma thought to herself, unsure if her counterpart could hear her. A slight headache announced itself – more a vague pressure on the verges of Emma’s head, really – but she decided not to push her luck by indulging in further telepathic conversation. Aloud, she asked the other telepath, “Will you be headed home for the long weekend?”
Still focusing on her work, the redhead replied, “No, I’ll be visiting my parents.”
“That’s what I asked,” Emma retorted.
Now Ms. Grey looked up, though not at Emma; instead, she seemed to stare at nothing. Before Emma could inquire further, the other telepath snapped out of her momentary trance. “Sorry,” she offered. “I didn’t realize until just now… I haven’t thought of the Grey residence as home for quite some time.”
Emma hummed as she inferred what Ms. Grey meant. She mulled over the idea of having a home like the Xavier Institute, away from the pressures of being a Frost, away from Father (whom she adored) and Mother (whom she despised), a place where she could be fully herself without having to hide. She couldn’t entirely wrap her mind around the idea, nor could she decide whether she found the prospect sad, terrifying, or…
… exhilarating.
Ms. Grey’s voice broke into Emma’s thoughts: “What about you?”
Emma sighed. “I’ve been summoned home. Father is hosting a party for some his business associates, and Mother believes some of their sons will attend as well.”
“You don’t sound all that enthused.”
Emma snorted and sat back, folding her arms. “Knowing Mother, she hopes one of the young men will sweep me off my feet and redirect me into a role ‘more befitting a young lady of my station,’ or some such nonsense.” She shook her head, the fury she’d been feeling all weekend crystallizing within her. “To her, that means becoming the vapid arm candy of some doltish cad, marrying young, having children, and having no greater purpose.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Emma saw her counterpart’s expression curdle, as if she smelled an unpleasant odor but didn’t want to mention it, outwardly expressing the feelings Emma hid behind a placid visage. “What’s your purpose, then?”
“For Father to recognize me as a worthy heir to groom,” answered Emma without hesitation. “Frost Enterprises is my birthright. My destiny.” Visions danced in her head: of herself in a white business suit, standing in Father’s office inside the company’s high-rise in downtown Boston, with a luxurious desk nearby and “Emma Frost, CEO” emblazoned on the door.
Quite an image, commented Ms. Grey, her smile felt more than seen, for quite a dream.
Emma smirked. Knowing she had someone’s support felt… quite pleasant.
Aloud, she continued from an earlier thread of conversation, “Unfortunately, Mother will expect me home as soon as possible on Friday.”
To her surprise, the redhead grinned. “That works out perfectly. I was going to tell you that I’m leaving right after class on Friday.”
Emma shrugged and, with the professor dismissing the class, packed away her textbook, notes, and pen. Like I said before: You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.

XXXXX

What a day, Emma thought as she drew a hot bath on Wednesday evening. On a whim, she added lilac-scented bubble solution.
Her unit test on derivatives in calculus had proven an absolute gauntlet. She felt confident in her mastery of the material, but Professor Etheridge clearly overestimated how many problems her students could complete in the allotted time. Emma barely completed the last problem in time – problem 17, by far the most complex on the test, had by itself required almost ten minutes to solve – and she doubted most of her classmates had matched that feat.
In her ballet session, Professor Oglethorpe had put her through her paces, calling sequences of movements to perform… without any musical accompaniment. The sequences also struck Emma as unconnected to each other, as if she were choreographing the routine on the fly. It felt thoroughly alien, barely like dancing at all.
Emma submerged her aching feet as soon as the tub held enough water, letting the warmth climb her legs and soothe her pains. She massaged her thighs and calves, digging her thumbs into the muscle. A soft sigh escaped her lips as the pain dulled. Prickly skin indicated she’d need to shave after her soak.
Once the tub filled, Emma shut off the faucet and sank fully into the water’s warm embrace, sparing only her head from immersion. Due to her height and the tub’s design, she couldn’t stretch out fully and remain completely underwater; her knees protruded from the water like two islands. Nothing beats a bubble bath, she thought as the liquid heat leeched the fatigue from her body.
Time dilated, stretching and warping into meaninglessness as Emma luxuriated in her bath. She barely moved, except to submerge her knees, which forced her to prop her sudsy feet on the lip of the tub. At this level of relaxation, she didn’t even mind the sight of her gnarled, misshapen toes, the hideous crookedness of them a result of years dancing en pointe. The human foot simply wasn’t designed to bear one’s entire body weight on the tips of the toes, much less in some of the poses a ballerina routinely held for long stretches, often on only one foot; thus, the bones and joints had slowly warped themselves out of their natural configuration into a most… displeasing… alternative.
After a long, luxurious soak, Emma relocated onto the edge of the tub. Filling a small plastic cup with water from the faucet, she rinsed her legs of the bubbles still clinging to her skin, which the warm water would by now have softened. With her triple-bladed Gillette Venus razor, she began shaving, starting just above the ankle and dragging the blade slowly upward, against the grain (for the closest, smoothest shave) of the fine blonde hairs that grew on her shin and calf.
Carefully she approached her knee – every time she’d nicked herself, it had occurred just below the knee, where the shin bone bulges and transitions to flesh-over-tendon. I will not nick myself, Emma resolved. It won’t heal before I have to see Mother, and I’d never hear the end of it if I had such an “unsightly wound.”
At the trickiest moment, something crashed outside her apartment, a sound that mingled metal, glass, and plastic. The surprise of the commotion caused Emma to jerk and whip her head around toward the small window of her bathroom wall above the commode, the movement bringing her hand with the razor along. Voices shouted at one another, and Emma surmised that someone else living in this complex had hit another’s car.
Deep breaths, deep breaths, became Emma’s mantra as she calmed herself. Once her heart stopped pounding, she turned back to her leg. From the way her hand had pulled the razor over her knee, she fully expected a scene of bloody carnage.
Instead, her skin seemed glittery and iridescent, translucent if not transparent. At first, she thought it a mere trick of the light and bubbly water, especially when a few blinks left her skin looking normal. Upon inspection, though, one of the blades was missing from her razor, and the shards floated amongst the bubbles.
So much for a relaxing bath, groused Emma. What was that?
As she finished grooming (with a fresh razor) and bathing, Emma realized she wouldn’t get any answers until her next trip to the coffee shop with Ms. Grey… over a week away.

______________________________________________________

A/N: Greetings, readers! In chess, "inaccuracies" are sub-optimal moves, that weaken your position slightly or miss out on a much better idea. They're usually denoted with a single question mark.
I meant to have this chapter posted weeks or even months ago, but work has been absolutely brutal this year. Not helped by the fact that I didn't want to jump just yet to Emma's weekend with her parents, instead leaving it as a sort of lingering dread. I hope this chapter doesn't feel too much like "filler" - I did try to set up a few things that will pay off later in the story. Your feedback is most appreciated!
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A Diamond in the Rough