Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was one unspoken rule at Charles Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters:

Emma Frost does not get paired with anyone.

She didn’t need to. She didn’t ask. She simply selected a topic, wrote the assignment herself, and turned it in with the kind of icy perfection that dared anyone to question her methods. Teachers didn’t argue. Students didn’t volunteer. Everyone played their part in the quiet, terrified choreography of avoiding her path.

So when Dr. Hank McCoy cleared his throat one drizzly Tuesday morning and said, “For this ethics project, you’ll be working in randomly assigned pairs—”

Half the room turned to look at Emma.

The air in the classroom stilled—not silent, not exactly. It was that tight psychic hush, the kind that came right before a collective groan or a very polite panic.

Jean Grey, seated three rows back in her usual hoodie and fading optimism, immediately felt the flicker of twenty different thought-patterns bloom in unison: anticipation, concern, mild schadenfreude.

And pity. A lot of pity. Especially to the soul that would be paired with the Bitch.

She slouched lower in her seat, pulled the hood tighter over her head, and silently begged the universe not to do what it was so obviously about to do.

Hank adjusted his glasses and continued, reading from the list with the blind neutrality of a man trying to defuse a bomb with his voice.

“Scott Summers and Piotr Rasputin… Ororo Munroe and Raven Darkhölme… Anna-Marie and Bobby Drake… Jean Grey and—ah. Emma Frost.”

The pause was long enough to feel like a threat.

Then, absolute stillness.

Not a cough. Not a breath.

Emma didn’t flinch. She blinked, slow and deliberate, like a cat acknowledging something beneath her.

Jean made a quiet noise in the back of her throat that might’ve been a whimper or a laugh or the start of a psychic aneurysm.

Hank cleared his throat again. “You’ll have the week to prepare a written paper and a short presentation. Topic: ‘Power and Privilege: Mutants and Moral Superiority.’ Explore questions of accountability, governance, ethical identity… that sort of thing.”

Rogue muttered under her breath, “Do we have to partner physically? Because I’m not tryna accidentally kill Bobby with a handshake.”

“Metaphorically,” Hank said dryly. “Please use the school library. Resources are tagged for each subject. I expect collaborative effort. Not just divided labor.”

Emma raised a hand, manicured and diamond-hard in its precision.

Hank hesitated. “Yes, Miss Frost?”

“I assume you’ll be grading based on clarity of argument, not whether or not my partner decides to hurl a bookshelf halfway through?”

Jean turned her head sharply. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t hurl you.”

“Language,” Ororo murmured.

Emma’s mouth curled into the faintest of smirks, and Jean looked down at her desk with the kind of seething dread that came right before someone set a building on fire just to get out of a conversation.

She didn’t hate Emma Frost. Not really. Hate was too simple a word. What Jean felt was something more complicated. Like irritation and fascination had a baby and then enrolled it in a philosophy class just to spite her.

⸻

They met in the library that afternoon.

It was late spring, and sunlight spilled through the north-facing windows in long, warm bands. Dust floated lazily in the air, disturbed only by the occasional whisper or the quiet flutter of pages turning.

Emma was already seated when Jean arrived, tablet open in front of her, scrolling through a digital copy of The Mutant Condition: Reflections on Ethics and Power. She’d annotated it with the kind of ruthless elegance that made Jean’s skin itch.

Jean dropped her backpack onto the table with a thud and muttered, “Don’t expect me to agree with everything you highlight just because you picked it in gold.”

Emma didn’t look up. “Good. It’ll make it easier to identify your mistakes.”

Jean rolled her eyes and sat. “Do you ever stop?”

Emma finally lifted her gaze—ice-pale and unblinking. “If I did, someone else might start. And we can’t have that.”

“Let’s just get this done.”

They worked in a kind of silence. The tense, snippy kind, where every pause begged for an argument.

Jean pulled out a pile of books—Brotherhood manifestos, dusty Xeno-Humanist essays, ancient academic journals—and spread them out like a protective barrier. Emma typed, sharp and fluid, her attention never wavering. She moved like a scalpel—precise, controlled, faintly dangerous.

After thirty minutes, Emma said, “Your thesis is naïve.”

Jean didn’t look up. “Which one?”

Emma turned her screen to her. “This paragraph—‘Mutants must resist the temptation to see themselves as evolutionarily superior, because moral worth isn’t tied to genetic potential.’”

Jean frowned. “That’s literally the point of the assignment.”

Emma leaned back, arms folded. “No, the point is to interrogate the idea. Not deliver a lecture that reads like an after-school special.”

Jean set her pen down with a soft click. “So you’re saying it’s okay for mutants to feel superior?”

“I’m saying feelings aren’t policies,” Emma replied. “But let’s not pretend we’re not dangerous. Powerful. Evolved. Acting like that’s not true doesn’t make anyone safer. It just makes us dishonest.”

Jean stared. “That kind of thinking is exactly what people like Magneto use to justify—”

“Magneto believes only mutants have worth,” Emma interrupted, calm as ever. “I believe power demands responsibility. That’s not superiority—it’s stewardship.”

Jean’s fingers curled around the edge of her book.

“You’re surprised I have nuance,” Emma said smoothly.

“I’m surprised you didn’t find a way to say all that while insulting my shoes.”

Emma tilted her head, appraising. “They insult themselves.”

Jean threw a pencil at her. Emma caught it midair without looking and dropped it delicately into Jean’s lap.

⸻

Two hours later, they had a working outline, a shared Google Doc, and an annotated bibliography that looked like it had been through a very passive-aggressive war.

“You misspelled ‘telepathic’ in this citation,” Emma noted as she stood to leave.

Jean glanced at it. “I was tired.”

Emma zipped up her sleek white satchel. “I’m perfect when I’m tired.”

Jean didn’t look up. “You’re perfect when you’re alone.”

Emma paused, arching an eyebrow, then offered a smile like the edge of a blade. “You’re less unbearable than I expected.”

Jean blinked. “Did you just give me a compliment?”

Emma was already walking away. “You should sit down. It’s disorienting the first time.”

Her heels clicked against the marble floor until they disappeared into silence.

Jean stared after her for a long moment. The faintest scent of her perfume lingered in the air—something like vanilla and winter wind.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss her or throw a dictionary at the back of her head.

⸻

That night, Jean sat on her bed, laptop open, half-finished draft glowing in the dark. Emma had added a section—seamlessly, as if it had always been there. Fluid language, cool logic, biting insight.

It was also infuriatingly good.

Halfway through the new paragraph was a quote Jean vaguely remembered muttering in the library, something she hadn’t written down.

“If we start acting like gods, we’ll forget what it means to be people.”

Jean stared at the words. Then at the blinking cursor.

“She wasn’t even pretending not to read my mind,” she muttered.

But after a moment, she added a comment in the margins anyway.

You stole this from my brain. Rude.
Also… keep it. It’s the most human thing you’ve written so far.

A few seconds later, another cursor appeared.

Almost.

Jean rolled her eyes. And smiled.

⸻

Two days later, they were back in the library.

Jean was late. She half-jogged through the main doors, muttering apologies to the librarian, and found Emma already seated, legs crossed elegantly, reading a printed copy of On Homo Superior and the Ethical Divide.

“You annotate like a serial killer,” Jean said, dropping into the seat across from her.

Emma didn’t look up. “Clarity is not a crime.”

Jean shook her head, amused despite herself. “You know, for someone so obsessed with power and clarity, you sure talk a lot of shit.”

Emma raised one delicate eyebrow. “If you think that was shit-talking, you must’ve had a very sheltered upbringing.”

Jean leaned forward. “And what makes your shit-talking better than mine?”

“Mine is subtle.”

“You just called my shoes tragic two days ago.”

“I said they insult themselves. That’s restraint.”

Jean snorted and cracked open another book. They worked like that for hours, sharpening their arguments, revising each other’s sentences with barely concealed jabs. And somewhere between the sparring and the silence, the dynamic started to shift.

It wasn’t just tension anymore. It was attention. Careful, pointed, unspoken.

⸻

By Friday, the paper was finished.

They stood just outside the library, the soft hum of cicadas beginning in the trees, the spring air thick with pollen and the threat of rain. Jean held her phone up so they could both read the final document.

“You know,” she said, “I never thought we’d finish this without bloodshed.”

Emma smiled, slow and feline. “There’s still time.”

Jean glanced sideways at her. And there it was again—that subtle psychic pressure at the edges of her mind. Not invasive. Not forceful.

Just… there. An invitation. A flicker of interest. Curiosity.

“You ever stop poking around in people’s heads?” Jean asked.

Emma met her gaze. “You ever stop broadcasting every feeling like a lighthouse on fire?”

“I could block you.”

“I could let you.”

They were standing too close now. Jean could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, and hated herself for it. Emma tilted her head, that glint in her eye sharp and knowing.

“What’s the matter, Grey?” she asked, her voice a low hum. “Can’t tell the difference between an argument and a spark?”

Jean inhaled slowly.

Then turned away. “No,” she said, walking toward the hallway. “But I’m starting to think you might not be as awful as I thought.”

Emma’s voice followed her, smooth as ice over glass.

“Careful. That sounded dangerously like friendship.”

Jean didn’t look back.

She just smiled.

Chapter Text

Jean was halfway through an apple in the quad when her watch buzzed.

“Excellent work,” read Hank’s message. “Impressive synthesis of opposing views. I’d like you and Emma to present your findings to the class next week. See me for details.”

She blinked at the screen, then at the slice of sky above the school, blue-gray and full of the kind of heavy spring air that made her skin itch with static. Of course they’d done well—Emma Frost didn’t turn in anything that wasn’t exact, efficient, unnervingly brilliant—but something about getting praised for working with her felt like being patted on the head for surviving a house fire.

Her thumb hovered for a second, then typed:

JEAN: “Guess we’re presenting now. Congratulations, Ice Queen.”
EMMA: “I don’t accept congratulations until the applause begins.”

Jean rolled her eyes. Of course.

⸻

They met that evening in one of the smaller study rooms off the library, glass walls and dim lighting giving the place the quiet tension of a holding cell. The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly. A whiteboard behind them was littered with earlier class scrawlings—half-erased equations and doodles from students who couldn’t sit still.

Emma sat like she belonged there anyway—legs crossed at the knee, tablet propped perfectly upright on its stand, her fingers poised with surgical precision on a stylus. Her voice was clipped, polished, and rehearsed as she read aloud their draft introduction.

Jean sat back in her chair, chewing the edge of a pencil. She resisted the urge to interrupt. Barely.

When Emma paused to scroll, Jean exhaled. “You know, we’re trying to sound like students. Not like we’re hosting mutant NATO.”

Emma didn’t glance up. “If students spoke like diplomats, this school would be far more tolerable.”

Jean smirked. “Says the girl who verbally assassinated a sophomore for saying ‘mutie’ in the cafeteria.”

“I didn’t assassinate him,” Emma said, arching a brow. “I educated him. With psychic flashcards.”

Jean laughed. “And maybe a nosebleed.”

Emma looked unbothered. “Side effect.”

The door opened mid-laugh.

“Hey, Jean.”

Scott Summers stood in the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets like he’d been born posing for catalog shots. His smile was easy. Confident. The kind of confidence that came from never being told to shut up and read the room.

Jean sat up a little straighter. “Hey.”

Emma didn’t move. Her eyes flicked over him with clinical disinterest, like he was an unsightly coffee ring on an otherwise spotless table.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Scott said, glancing between them. “Just saw you through the glass. Thought maybe we could grab a drink when you’re done?”

Jean opened her mouth. A half-formed word sat on her tongue, unsure whether it wanted to be acceptance or polite refusal. She wasn’t not flattered. But she hadn’t expected it—and now she was thinking too fast and too slow all at once.

Emma didn’t wait.

“She’s busy.”

Jean blinked. “Uh—”

Emma turned her gaze on Scott fully now, voice smooth as snow falling on steel. “We’re presenting next week. Surely you don’t want to be responsible for the collapse of Jean’s grade?”

Scott’s smile faltered. “It’s just one night—”

“And I’m sure there’s another redhead on campus who isn’t halfway through a joint research project,” Emma said, pleasant as poison. “With actual deadlines.”

The awkward landed like a brick. Jean scrambled to soften it.

“Thanks, Scott. Rain check, maybe?”

He shrugged, but the set of his shoulders was tighter than before. “Sure. Later, Jean.”

As the door shut behind him, Jean turned slowly toward Emma, eyebrows raised.

“You could’ve let me answer,” she said.

Emma blinked, serene. “You did answer.”

“I mean before you jumped in.”

“I saved you from saying ‘uh’ seven more times and turning a shade of red reserved for emergency flares.”

Jean frowned. “I was thinking.”

“You were short-circuiting.”

Jean huffed, trying not to laugh. “Still. That was kinda… rude.”

Emma finally looked up, voice softer now. Less edged. “Do you want to go out with him?”

Jean hesitated. “I mean, I don’t not want to—but I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting it.”

Emma nodded, as if that answered everything. “Exactly.”

And that was that. She returned to her notes, stylus tapping softly against glass.

Jean stared at her for a second too long.

“Thanks, though,” she added. “For, you know. Helping. I was definitely falling all over my words.”

Emma didn’t look up. “Blushing too.”

Jean flushed harder. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it loud enough.”

Emma’s smirk was maddening. “I told you. Lighthouse on fire.”

Jean leaned forward over the table, eyebrows drawn. “One day I’m going to learn how to shield just to spite you.”

Emma tilted her head slightly, her smile turning curious. “I hope you do. It would be a tragic waste of potential otherwise.”

Their faces were close now—closer than they had any right to be. The air between them shifted, thickened. The buzzing lights above them faded beneath the louder beat of Jean’s heart in her ears.

She swallowed. “So are we doing the second section of the presentation tonight, or are we just gonna flirt awkwardly until one of us throws a chair?”

Emma’s lips quirked. “Flirt? I’m only here to preserve our grade.”

“Right,” Jean said. “And Scott was just here to discuss literary framing devices.”

Emma arched an eyebrow. “Please. That boy wouldn’t know a metaphor if it hit him in the face with a neon sign that read ‘THIS IS A METAPHOR.’”

Jean snorted. Too loud. Then clapped a hand over her mouth, laughing into her palm.

They paused.

Silence again—but it wasn’t icy this time. It was electric. Taut. Like the moments before lightning strikes.

Jean looked away first, tapping the edge of her notes. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s do section two. And maybe… cool the tension a bit.”

Emma raised both brows, voice feather-light. “Why? Afraid of heat?”

Jean gave her a sidelong look. “No. I just don’t want the study room melting before we finish this draft.”

⸻

By the time they left the library, the moon was high. Clouds drifted lazily overhead, caught in slow motion by the city’s ambient glow. The trees lining the path back to the dorms whispered with the wind, their branches skeletal in the dim light.

Jean’s mind buzzed with half-written sentences, ethical theories, and Emma Frost’s voice looping like static in her skull.

She didn’t say goodbye. Just nodded, shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, and walked away fast enough that it didn’t feel like retreating.

Behind her, Emma lingered a moment longer in the doorway. She watched Jean’s silhouette vanish down the path. Her heels made a quiet click against the tile as she turned.

Her face gave nothing away.

Except for the smallest, quietest smile.

The kind only someone paying very, very close attention might have seen.

Chapter Text

Jean had memorized every line of their presentation. Every slide transition, every carefully framed pause meant to let a concept breathe. She knew exactly when Emma would gesture with her hand to emphasize a quote, and when Jean was supposed to take over with real-world examples. They’d rehearsed it twice, debated it four times, rewritten it once. And still, standing behind the slim podium in the ethics classroom, Jean felt like she might combust.

Not from nerves. Or not just that.

From Emma.

From the faint warmth radiating off her body where they stood inches apart. From the scent of her perfume—cold vanilla and impossible precision. From the way her voice dipped just slightly when she was trying not to sound too invested. From the crackling tension that had started as friction and now hummed like something alive.

“Stop bouncing your knee,” Emma murmured out of the corner of her mouth. Her tone was cool, practiced, so low only Jean could hear it. “You’ll look unprepared.”

Jean stilled her leg immediately. “I am prepared. Unlike some people, I don’t need to rehearse in front of a mirror for four hours to function.”

Emma didn’t blink. Her eyes were trained forward, posture flawless. “Some people don’t need psychic training to sense insecurity, either.”

Jean turned her head slightly, just enough to glare. “Are you always like this, or is it just me?”

Emma’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smirk. “Just you.”

Before Jean could fire off something equally biting—or possibly flirtatious, which she was doing increasingly against her will—Dr. Hank McCoy cleared his throat from the front row. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Jean inhaled slowly. A deep breath, the kind she took before high-pressure training simulations or jumping into danger. She nodded once. Emma clicked the remote.

Slide one. White background. The X-Institute’s logo discreet in the corner. The title read:

Power and Privilege: Mutants and Moral Superiority

Jean started them off. Her voice was steady, practiced, clear.

“The question of superiority is not a theoretical one for mutants. It is immediate. It is political. It is personal.”

Emma took the next slide without pause. “It is also dangerous. The mutant condition is not merely an evolutionary marker—it is a cultural pressure point. And the moral framework we apply to that condition determines more than how we live—it determines who we allow ourselves to become.”

And from there, they flowed.

To Jean’s surprise—still, after everything—Emma didn’t dominate the conversation. She guided it. Her delivery was a blade: clean, elegant, devastating in its clarity. She framed the argument in historical theory, grounded it in precedent, invoked scholarly work with citations as sharp as her cheekbones.

Jean, in turn, brought the fire. Her role was to humanize the theory, to bring the lofty ethical frameworks crashing down to earth. She gave examples—mutants who had abused their powers, mutants who had fought to prove they wouldn’t. She talked about public trust, institutional failures, the way power created pressure even when it wasn’t misused.

And slowly, even Jean had to admit—they made a hell of a team.

For a while, she even forgot that this had started with bickering over thesis statements and Emma trying to psychically snatch her margin notes mid-draft.

Then came the final section.

Emma clicked the remote one last time. The final slide appeared. A quote from Charles Xavier in bold serif font:

“Being more does not mean being better.”

There was a pause. Not hesitation. Just… quiet.

Emma stepped forward to deliver the closing. Her voice was still smooth, still perfectly modulated, but Jean heard it. A half-second hitch. A slight drop in cadence. It was nothing anyone else would notice—except maybe her. And maybe that was the problem.

“Superiority,” Emma said, “is not a crown to wear. It is a burden to examine. We do not lead because we are more powerful. We lead when we choose to be more human.”

She didn’t look at the slide. She looked at Jean.

Just for a moment.

It was brief, the kind of glance that didn’t belong in a classroom, let alone at the tail end of a formal presentation. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t even conscious, Jean suspected. It just slipped.

And Jean felt it like static in the air.

There was nothing wrong with the words. The message was sound. But the way she said it—Jean heard something else beneath the polish. Not pride. Not control.

Something like… guilt. Maybe even grief.

It startled her more than if Emma had thrown the remote across the room.

The slide faded.

The room stayed silent for half a second longer than it should’ve.

Then applause broke out. Slow at first—then louder. Genuine. A few whoops from the back, a loud “Let’s go, Frost and Grey!” from Bobby that made several people roll their eyes.

Hank was beaming. “Exceptional work. A remarkably nuanced approach from both of you.”

Jean gave a little wave of acknowledgment, her heart still pounding harder than it had any right to. “Thanks.”

Emma didn’t linger. She inclined her head with textbook poise and made for her seat, heels tapping softly against the tile.

Jean hesitated. Then moved.

She caught up with her at the door.

“Hey.”

Emma turned, slow and guarded. “Jean.”

Jean folded her arms across her chest, still holding her tablet like a shield. “You got soft at the end there.”

Emma’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “Did I?”

“You meant it. That thing about choosing to be more human.”

Emma tilted her head. “Of course I meant it. Why would I say it otherwise?”

“Because it wasn’t rhetorical,” Jean said, voice lower now. “It wasn’t just theory. It sounded like… guilt.”

Emma’s posture stiffened—not dramatically. Just enough that someone who knew her baseline would see the shift.

“That’s quite an assumption,” she said evenly.

“It’s not,” Jean said softly. “I felt it. You broadcasted it. Even if no one else noticed.”

There was a beat. A charged, silent pause between them.

Emma looked at her then. Really looked. Her eyes were still cool and pale, but not unreadable. Not entirely. There was something moving behind them—slow and shifting, like ice cracking under pressure.

For a moment, Jean thought she might finally say something real.

Instead, Emma exhaled softly. “You’re getting better at reading people.”

Jean flushed. “It’s not reading people if you’re shouting emotionally in a room full of telepaths.”

Emma stepped forward. Just one step, but enough to make the air between them shift.

“Well,” she murmured, “maybe I wanted someone to notice.”

Jean’s breath caught.

She didn’t know what she’d been expecting—another deflection, maybe. A cutting remark. But not that. Not honesty, slipped between syllables like something secret.

Her voice came out smaller than she wanted. “Why me?”

Emma was close now. Her gaze flicked down, then back up—calculated, but not cruel. “Because you’re the only one in this place who wouldn’t pity me for it.”

And there it was.

A crack.

A hairline fracture in the marble façade Emma had built around herself since the day she walked into the mansion in stilettos and white leather and refused to sit through orientation like everyone else.

For one raw second, the air between them was filled with everything they hadn’t said.

Rivalry. Tension. Recognition. Desire. Fear.

Then Emma stepped back.

The distance reasserted itself, like a glass wall slamming down.

“Anyway,” she said briskly, already turning. “Presentation’s over. See you in Ethics next week.”

Jean stood there. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched her go.

Her heart was still hammering in her chest, and not just from adrenaline.

She didn’t know if she wanted to chase her down or rewind time and keep her from ever getting that close.

Instead, she whispered, mostly to herself: “Damn it.”

Because this wasn’t rivalry anymore.

This wasn’t academic competition or psychic posturing or even mutual annoyance.

This was something else.

And it was only getting messier.

⸻

That night, Jean sat alone on her bed, the glow from her laptop screen casting odd shadows against the dorm walls. Their slides were still open. She scrolled down to the last one—the quote. “Being more does not mean being better.”

She hovered her cursor over the note Emma had left in the margin during their late-night revision session.

Sometimes I wonder if he believed this when he said it.

Jean stared at it for a long time.

Then, slowly, she typed back.

Do you?

No response.

But the cursor blinked.

Waiting.

Like Emma always did—silent, unreadable, but never really gone.

And Jean wasn’t sure if that scared her or made her want to follow the crack until she found what was underneath.

Either way, she didn’t sleep that night.

Not really.

Chapter Text

Emma Frost did not do loneliness.
At least, not in the way others did.
She occupied solitude the way she occupied her diamond form—gracefully, precisely, beautifully. Alone, yes. But never lonely. That was for lesser creatures. For people who needed to be needed.

And yet.

She sat in her dorm room, curled into the bay window with an untouched cup of tea cooling beside her, and for the first time in weeks… maybe years… she wasn’t sure she believed herself.

The sun outside was lazy and golden, casting long afternoon shadows over the manicured lawns of the Xavier Institute. Most of the student body had taken advantage of the free weekend to disappear—into the city, the woods, the lower levels of the compound where training simulations got a little too competitive.

Emma had opted to stay.

Her dorm was, as always, immaculate. Gold trim. Cream silk. A velvet chaise that cost more than some students' cars. The curtains were drawn back, revealing the grounds below in picturesque serenity. Everything was in its place.

Except her.

She slipped into a cashmere sweater and long coat—both white, naturally—and left without telling anyone. Not that anyone had asked.

The coffee place near the northern side of the campus was still open, a student-run spot with a pretentious name (Bean There? Really?) and too many chalkboard quotes. But they made her drink right. Black. No sugar.

She stood at the counter, fingers wrapped around the warmth of the paper cup, and stared out the wide front window.

And she remembered the first time she saw Jean Grey.

She had been furious that day.
Emma had transferred to the Institute late in her first year—early enough to matter, but too late to build the kind of following she was used to at her old schools. Here, the social scene was fragmented, disorderly. The teachers didn’t coddle. The students weren’t intimidated.

But Jean?

Jean had walked into Advanced Telepathy like she already belonged.
Red hair, a little too wild. Shoulders squared like someone who’d had to fight to be taken seriously. That cursed earnestness.

She was good. Unrefined, but raw with potential. Worse—she didn’t care that Emma was already better trained. She challenged her anyway.

And then there was Scott.

That walking brick wall of insecurity had followed Jean around like a lovesick Labrador. Always trying to one-up everyone in the Danger Room. Always glancing toward Jean when he thought no one noticed.

Emma noticed.

It annoyed her.

All of it did.

Jean’s self-righteousness. Her stupid confidence. Her friendships with the sharp-tongued Anna-Marie and the watchful Raven and the goddess Ororo. The way she laughed too loud and always assumed people would follow her—not because she asked, but because she believed.

Emma had hated her.

Except… she hadn’t.

Not really.

Because every time Jean argued back, it thrilled her. Every time they got paired up, it was the only time Emma didn’t feel like she was wearing a mask. And when Jean snapped at her in the library or rolled her eyes in ethics class or pushed her hair out of her face while reading…

Emma stared out the window now, heart slow and heavy.
She had memorized all of it.

God help her.

She took a sip of coffee.

It burned.

Her walk back to the dorms was quiet. Leaves rustling on the path. Muted laughter from somewhere distant. Even the air felt hollow, like the world was leaning away from her.

She didn’t go inside right away.

Instead, she stood in the middle of the courtyard, coffee now lukewarm, and looked up at the Institute’s tall, arched windows.

Somewhere in that building, Jean Grey was probably sitting on the floor of Ororo’s room, overanalyzing some TV drama or arguing about sandwich toppings.

Surrounded.

Warm.

Real.

And Emma… wasn’t.

She had power. She had control. She had prestige. She had a dorm room most people would kill for.
But none of that filled the space inside her.

Not anymore.

Not when she could still hear Jean’s voice in her head—not telepathically, but really hear it—mocking, laughing, challenging. And when Jean had looked at her after the presentation, when she'd seen her, something had cracked deep inside Emma's chest.

And now, here in the silence, the truth curled around her like winter air.

She wasn’t lonely.

She was infatuated.

With Jean Grey.

God help her.

Emma pressed her palm against the stone wall of the building, forehead leaning into it, breathing shallow.
No one knew. No one could.

Especially not Jean.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Because if Jean found out… if she rejected her…
The cold in Emma’s chest might never thaw again.
She straightened. Composed herself. Walked inside.
Her coffee was cold. But she drank it anyway.

Chapter Text

It was one of those rare, deliciously boring Saturday nights where nothing at all needed to happen. And Jean loved it. Ororo had claimed the comfiest bean bag in the room, long legs folded under her, a bowl of popcorn floating beside her thanks to a casual swirl of wind. Raven was draped upside-down across Jean’s bed, arms dangling off the edge, flipping through her phone. Rogue—Anna-Marie when she wasn’t glaring at the world—was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, eating a pickle straight from the jar like it was a personal challenge. The TV was on. The show was terrible.

“I’m telling you,” Ororo said between sips of sparkling water, “no one writes dialogue like that on purpose. That had to be a dare.”

“I feel personally offended by the script,” Raven muttered, not looking up. “They killed the only semi-interesting character and gave the white guy a redemption arc in under ten minutes.”
Jean rolled her eyes, smiling. “You chose this show.”

“I thought it was going to be about mutant drama, not teenage telepathy plus a love triangle plus brain parasites.”

“I like the parasites,” Rogue said flatly. “They’re the most honest characters.”

They all burst out laughing.

It was easy like this. Safe. Normal. No training, no lectures, no presentations, no—

“Speaking of drama,” Raven said, grinning now, “who’s seen the new gossip thread? Stark’s apparently dating someone from that Wakandan tech delegation.”

“Bullshit,” Ororo said immediately. “T'Challa would never allow it.”

Jean snorted. “Maybe Pepper finally got tired of the playboy schtick.”

“He’s not even cute,” Rogue drawled. “Give me that Professor Lensherr from calculus in a turtleneck any day. Now that’s a man who can ruin your life.”

“I think I just heard Professor Logan scream in the distance,” Raven said dryly.

Another round of laughter. Jean sank into her pillows, head tipping back. For once, she felt just… light. Then Rogue squinted at her.

“So,” she said slowly, “are we gonna talk about the presentation?”

Jean raised a brow. “We already debriefed with Hank.”

“Not that,” Rogue said, adjusting her gloves. “I mean you and her.”

Jean’s stomach tightened.

Raven smirked. “Queen Ice Bitch herself.”

Ororo made a face. “Be nice.”

“She’s not wrong,” Rogue muttered. “Emma Frost walks around like she owns the air we breathe.”

“She is kind of beautiful, though,” Ororo admitted. “In a terrifying, mean-girl-in-an-academy-drama kind of way.”

Raven nodded sagely. “Definitely played violin competitively as a child. Probably broke a bow over someone’s head.”

“I hate her,” Rogue said, but it came out too bitter, too quick. Jean hesitated.

“I don’t like her,” she said carefully. “But she… tried. During the project. She actually listened.”

Ororo’s eyes sharpened. “And you’re saying that like it surprised you.”

Jean didn’t answer. Because it had surprised her. Because Emma hadn’t just listened — she had seen her. Like no one else had. Not even—

Knock, knock.

They all turned to the door. Raven groaned. “Tell me that’s not Cyclops.”

Jean got up before she could think about it.

She cracked the door open.

Scott Summers stood there, perfectly pressed and painfully hopeful. “Hey, Jean.”

“Hey,” she said, already wary.

“I was thinking,” he started, shifting his weight. “There’s this new place in town — they do brick-oven pizza and some kind of mutant-friendly soda bar. Dinner tomorrow? Just us?”
Jean froze. She didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t even processed the question before Rogue slipped past her and leaned against the doorframe.

“She’d love to,” Rogue said brightly. “Right, Jean?”

Jean blinked. “Wait, I—”

“You never go out,” Ororo chimed in behind her. “It might be good for you.”

“She’s just shy,” Raven added with a smirk.

Scott grinned. “Awesome. I’ll pick you up around seven?”

Jean nodded—more out of momentum than intent. “Sure. Yeah.”

He left smiling. She closed the door and turned back to her room. There was a beat of silence.

Then Rogue said, more softly now, “You didn’t actually want to say yes, did you?”

Jean didn’t respond right away. She sat down slowly on the edge of her bed and stared at the muted TV.

“I don’t know,” she said finally.

“You seemed weirdly… thrown,” Ororo said. “Is it because of someone else?”

Raven raised an eyebrow. “Is this about—”

“No,” Jean said, too quickly. “It’s not. It’s just…”

Emma.

There it was again. That flash. That face. Cool and unreadable, and then suddenly, painfully human. The way she had looked at her after the presentation, like Jean had said something no one else ever had. That almost-smile. It wasn’t psychic interference. It wasn’t even emotion. It was invasion. Emma Frost had gotten into her head and made a nest, and now she couldn’t stop thinking about her. Not even when Scott Summers asked her out.

Especially not then.

And it pissed her off.

“I just didn’t expect it,” she said flatly. “And Rogue kind of answered for me.”

Rogue held up her gloved hands. “Hey, sue me. You need to get out. You’ve been in your head way too much lately.”

Jean opened her mouth to snap back, but stopped.

Because she was right.

And wrong.

And Jean didn’t know what she wanted.But one thing she did know—was that when Scott asked her out, Emma’s face had been the one to rise up, uninvited and sharp in her thoughts.
And that terrified her more than anything. She sat back down on her bed and pulled a pillow into her lap. Her hands were suddenly cold. They changed the subject after that. More bad TV. More jokes.

But Jean barely registered it.

Because in the back of her mind, that flash of Emma still lingered—cool, unreadable, infuriating.

And all Jean could think was:

Why did I think of her?

Why now?

Why do I feel like I just made a mistake?

Chapter Text

Emma Frost didn't make a habit of dining alone in public.

She didn't need the pitying glances, the whispered guesses about whether she’d been stood up, the smug looks from couples too wrapped up in themselves to realize they reeked of desperation. No, Emma had a standard. She kept her solitude polished and private, behind penthouse glass and the clink of crystal.

But tonight, she wanted to feel alone.

Not alone in her lavish dorm room with its ivory rugs and silk throws and hollow silence. Not alone on campus where every hallway echoed with eyes on her back. Alone somewhere with voices, noise, life. The little bistro tucked off-campus was dimly lit, candlelight flickering in sconces and a pianist softly playing near the bar. The hostess recognized her immediately and ushered her to a quiet booth in the back without question. She ordered her usual — wild mushroom risotto with truffle oil. Her heels clicked when she crossed her legs. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her menu, but her mind was far, far away.

On Jean Grey.

Of course.

It had started as rivalry. Obvious, almost boring. Red hair, school golden girl, raw psychic power so vast it made Charles Xavier go quiet behind his eyes. Emma had seen her and decided, instantly, that she hated her. But that wasn’t true — not really.

From the moment she’d first met Jean, there had been something. A flare. A mirror, maybe. Something magnetic and maddening in the way she challenged her — not just in class, but in presence.Jean Grey did not shrink from her. And worse… Emma had found herself wanting Jean to look only at her.

It was pathetic. So much so that Emma hated herself for even thinking it. She had spent years turning people away with ice and diamonds and wit honed to a blade. She didn’t want to be vulnerable. She didn’t do desire. Not like this. Not this aching kind that lived under her skin like heat and longing and stupid, hopeless hope. The door chimed. Emma glanced up, wine glass halfway to her lips.

Her stomach dropped. Jean Grey walked in. Her hair was loose, her eyes bright. She was wearing something soft and flattering, and her cheeks were flushed — a little nervous, but excited. She didn’t see Emma.

She saw him — Scott Summers stood waiting by the maître d’, bouquet in hand. He gave her that boyish smile, and Jean smiled back like she meant it.

Emma couldn’t breathe. She didn’t look away. She couldn’t. Jean took his hand when he offered it. Sat down across from him. Laughed at something he said. Emma hadn’t even realized her glass was shaking until a drop spilled down her finger.

She set it down, hands trembling as she reached into her clutch for a napkin. Stop it, she told herself. She slammed up her mental shields — thick and hard and brutal. Steel and white walls. Cold as diamond. She wiped her hand. Called the waitress over and asked for the check before her entrée even arrived.

The woman blinked. “Is everything alright, Miss Frost?”

Emma forced a smile. “I suddenly lost my appetite.”

She stood before she could change her mind. The blonde walked past them. Past her.

Jean didn’t look up.

Good.

Outside, the air was brittle and cold. Emma didn’t teleport. She walked. Heels echoing on empty pavement, chin high, tears she refused to acknowledge stinging at the corners of her eyes. She made it back to her room before the first one fell. It slid down her cheek like fire. Emma stared at her own reflection in the floor-length mirror. She looked perfect. Composed. Untouchable.

So why did she feel like she was splintering?

She sat down at the edge of her bed, breath shallow. The sob came out of nowhere. It ripped through her like a blade, sharp and wet and humbling. Her hand flew to her mouth as if she could stuff it back in. As if she could make it disappear like she made everything else. But it was too late.

She cried — real tears, hot, angry ones.

Emma Frost — diamond-skin, ice-cold, queen of the school — cried for a girl who would never love her. For a girl who didn’t even see her in that restaurant. For a girl who laughed at another boy’s jokes and didn’t once look around to see who she’d hurt just by existing. She curled up in her sheets later, wrapped in Egyptian cotton, clutching her pillow like a lifeline.

And the worst part wasn’t the pain. It was the shame. How had she let this happen? How dare Jean make her feel this way? How dare she break through years of armor with one stupid, crooked smile and that goddamn vulnerable sincerity?

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t allowed. And as the tears dried on her cheeks and her throat ached, Emma told herself one thing: She would get over it. She had to.

Because no one — not even Jean Grey — got to make her feel this small.

Not ever again.

Chapter Text

Jean had never hated getting dressed before.
But tonight, every outfit felt like a lie. Every shirt too sweet, every dress too loud. Her hair wouldn’t fall right, and her makeup, normally effortless, was suddenly a struggle of shaky eyeliner and second-guessing every shade of lipstick.

She told herself she wasn’t nervous.

She repeated it like a mantra while Ororo sat on the edge of her bed, flipping through a fashion magazine, and Raven commented dryly from the corner, “You’d think this was a gala, not dinner with Scott Summers.”

Jean tugged at her blouse. “It’s not a date-date. It’s just dinner.”

“That’s what people say when it is absolutely a date,” Rogue drawled, sprawled upside-down on her bed. “It’s cute, though. You going all in on that whole ‘teen sweetheart’ thing.”

Ororo looked up from the magazine. “Just don’t let him talk about flight dynamics again. Last time he got into drag coefficients and I considered flying myself out the window.”

Jean smiled, but it was thin.

She wasn’t sure why this felt wrong.

Scott was safe. Kind. He always remembered to hold doors and compliment her. He listened. He laughed at her jokes.

And yet, as she left the room, her heart wasn’t fluttering. It was heavy. Quiet.

The bistro Scott chose was charming in that overly quaint way. Soft jazz filtered through the speakers, and warm light spilled across wood-paneled walls. Jean spotted him at a small table near the window, already half-standing as she approached.

He smiled, wide and earnest. “You look amazing, Jean.”

She sat, forcing a smile. “Thanks. You too.”

The waitress came. They ordered quickly. Jean asked for water and some pasta she wouldn’t finish. Scott launched into a story about training earlier that day, and she tried to listen.

She really did - But her mind wandered.

To the quiet murmur of the library. The shared looks over textbook pages. The way Emma Frost handed her coffee during their prep session without ceremony, muttering, “You looked like a corpse. Don’t read into it.”

To the way Emma smelled like cool florals and ozone. The way her eyes gleamed when she smirked. The tiny, invisible kindnesses she offered only when she thought Jean wasn’t paying attention.

She blinked and Scott was still talking. She tuned back in, catching the end of a story about Logan nearly getting singed by an optic blast.

“That sounds dangerous,” she said lamely.

He chuckled. “Nah, Logan can handle it. The man’s basically indestructible.”

She nodded. Her fork pushed pasta around the plate.

“Are you okay?” Scott asked finally, leaning forward. “You seem… distracted.”

Jean glanced up. “Sorry. Just a lot on my mind.”

“Presentation stress?”

She paused. “Something like that.”

He smiled. “Well, you were brilliant. That argument about mutant superiority? You made everyone in the room think. Even Hank was impressed.”

Emma helped me build that argument, Jean almost said. Emma pushed me to make it better.
Instead, she smiled. “Thanks.”

The check came. Scott paid before she could offer. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s my treat.”

Outside, the evening air was cooler than she expected. He offered his jacket and she declined. They walked the winding path back to the dorms, side by side in silence.

The campus looked different at night. Softer. Less rigid. Lights glimmered behind windows, laughter echoed faintly across the quad. It felt like something suspended between worlds.

“I’d like to do this again,” Scott said finally, stopping just before the steps to her dorm. “I had a great time.”
Jean hesitated. “That’s good.”

He looked at her, hopeful. Open. Then he leaned in. Not aggressive. Not uninvited-but wrong. Jean stepped back.
His eyes widened, confusion flickering there. “Jean?”

“I can’t,” she said, quickly, her voice catching on something sharp.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No. No, you didn’t.” She shook her head. “This isn’t about you, Scott. It’s me.”

The words sounded cliche, even as they left her mouth. But they were true.

“Then help me understand,” he said gently.

Jean looked away. Her fingers clenched at her sides.

“I’m not who you think I am,” she said softly. “And I’m not what you want. I’m not what you deserve.”

Scott was silent for a long moment. Then: “Is there someone else?”

She hesitated.

Images flickered unbidden through her mind — Emma’s lips pressed into a tight line, the graceful arch of her eyebrow, her voice laced with derision and something that wasn’t quite disinterest. Jean didn’t answer.

Scott nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He gave her a crooked smile. “Still friends?”

She managed a nod, not even a smile. “If you want.”

He turned, walking away down the path. She watched him go until he vanished into shadow. Jean stood on the dorm steps for a long time, staring into the dark.

She didn’t feel relieved.

She felt hollow.

Like she’d lost something she never wanted in the first place, and still managed to regret it. She thought of Emma again. The way her eyes gleamed like frost. The rare, reluctant softness in her tone. The invisible thread Jean couldn’t stop following. She wrapped her arms around herself and went inside, unsure what she was running from - Or toward.

Chapter Text

Jean didn’t know how a good morning could so thoroughly nosedive before second period. It started with a shift in the air. Not the weather — the tension. Emma Frost was radiating something colder than even her diamond form could manage, and it wasn't just psychic static. Jean could feel it before she saw her: a pulse of icy disdain crawling up her spine like frostbite.

She walked into the first class, ethics and power responsibility, and there Emma was — perfect, poised, and already halfway through a smug smirk before Jean could even sit down. Jean sat as far as possible from her. Not that it mattered.

“Good morning, Ms. Grey,” Emma purred, just loud enough for the others nearby to hear. “Surprised to see you’re vertical after last night.”

Jean blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, you know. Dates can be so draining.”

A few nearby students snickered. Jean’s ears burned. The only person she had told about her dinner with Scott was Ororo. And maybe Rogue. And Raven. Okay, maybe it wasn’t a state secret, but the way Emma said it — like it was something sordid, like she was already judging her — made Jean bristle.

She turned toward her. “Don’t you have anything better to do than stalk my social life?”

Emma tilted her head, lips curving into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, darling. If I were stalking you, you’d never know.”

Before Jean could fire back, Hank entered, silencing the class with a subtle but unmistakable wave of authority. And so began the day. It was petty at first. Minor things. Jean’s tablet went missing for ten minutes during group work — reappearing in the exact place she swore she’d left it. Her name was left off the attendance list for class three, and somehow, Emma ended up presenting first in their shared art elective, stealing the spotlight on a topic Jean had chosen two weeks ago.

Jean clenched her fists more times than she could count. It wasn’t just pettiness. It was precision. Emma wasn’t randomly lashing out — this was surgical. Purposeful. Each barb, each cold glance was calibrated. And Jean didn’t know why. Unless…

The date?

But Emma didn’t care. Emma didn’t even like her. Right? Jean shook her head, trying to brush it off, but the discomfort dug under her skin. In powers class, it got worse. She was balancing stacks of books in the air while floating themselves through an obstacle course. Jean wasn’t struggling, but her focus was… erratic. Whenever she thought she had it, a sharp gust — or was it a psychic prod? — nudged her balance. Books toppled. She cursed under her breath.

“Try not to overthink it,” Emma called from across the training space. “Though I suppose that is your thing.”

Jean almost dropped the entire stack. She’d had enough. By the time lunch rolled around, Jean was vibrating with irritation. Rogue noticed immediately as they sat under the cherry tree in the quad.

“You look like you’re gonna combust,” she said, biting into a wrap. “What’s wrong?”

Jean slammed her thermos down. “Emma’s being an absolute bitch today.”

Raven raised an eyebrow. “Frost?”

“She’s been jabbing me nonstop. Messing with my head. Doing these little things all day.”

“Ugh, I hate that frosty cow,” Rogue said, mouth full. “She always acts like she’s better than everyone.”

“She thinks she is,” Jean muttered.

Ororo was quiet. Then she spoke gently. “You two were doing really well during the presentation. You even seemed… close.”

Jean froze. “We’re not.”

No one said anything for a beat. Then Rogue grinned. “You’re still thinking about that coffee she got you, huh?”

Jean flushed. “It’s not like that.”

But the heat on her cheeks said otherwise.

After lunch, things went from bad to worse. Emma passed her in the hallway, bumping her shoulder too sharply to be accidental.

“Oops,” she said. “Watch where you’re going, Grey. Or is your spatial awareness as underdeveloped as your impulse control?”

Jean stopped walking. “What is your deal, Frost?”

Emma turned. “My deal?”

“Yes. You’ve been like this all day. Did I breathe wrong in your direction? Did my red hair offend your minimalist aesthetic?”

Emma leaned in slightly, her voice dropping into a chilly register. “Maybe I’m just tired of watching you float through this school like you’re everyone's favorite little messiah. Poor, misunderstood Jean Grey. So powerful. So tortured. So special.”

Jean’s voice dropped as well. “I like you more in white than in green; jealousy’s not a good look on you.”

Emma smiled without warmth. “Neither is desperation.”

Jean’s patience cracked like a dry branch. She reached out telekinetically and knocked Emma’s textbook clean out of her hands. Emma didn’t flinch. She simply blinked, then waved her fingers. A en jean was left paralysed, forcing her to send Jean’s coffee cup soaring through the air—and splashing directly across Charles Xavier.

He stood a few feet away, now soaked from chest to hip in caramel latte. Silence blanketed the courtyard like snowfall. Jean’s stomach dropped to the soles of her feet. Emma actually paled. Just slightly. Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. “Miss Frost. Miss Grey.”

Jean opened her mouth. “I can explain—”

“You will. In my office. Both of you. Immediately.”

They stood outside Charles Xavier’s office like prisoners awaiting sentencing.

Neither spoke. Emma crossed her arms tightly, staring at the far wall like it had personally insulted her. Jean paced, her boots clicking too loudly against the tile. When Charles finally called them in, he didn’t yell. Which somehow made it worse. He sat behind his desk, taking off his jacket and setting it aside.

“Normally,” he began, “I’d expect a certain level of decorum from students of your calibre. Especially ones who have recently proven they can work together with such skill.”

Jean glanced sideways. Emma’s face was a mask.

“I don’t know what has caused this shift,” Charles continued, “and frankly, I’m not interested in your personal disputes. But I am interested in your ability to coexist on this campus. That includes in public, in class, and during training.”

He folded his hands. “So. For the remainder of this week, you will serve detention. Together. Afternoons. Library reorganization and catalogue assistance. And you will refrain from any further psychic or physical altercations.”

Neither girl responded.

“Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Jean muttered.

Emma nodded once. “Of course, Professor.”

Dismissed, they walked out of the office and into the now-dimming hallway. Jean started down the corridor and Emma fell in step beside her. After a moment, Jean spoke. “Why are you so angry?”

Emma scoffed softly. “You really want to have this conversation now?”

Jean stopped walking. “Yes. I do.”

Emma turned to face her. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something brittle around the edges. “Because you’re infuriating.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“You smile like you don’t know how powerful you are,” Emma snapped. “You walk into rooms and people adore you. You think being humble makes you kind. It doesn’t.”

Jean stepped closer. “You hate me because people like me?”

“I don’t—” Emma caught herself. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me!”

For a second, Emma looked like she might. Then her face shuttered. “Forget it.”

She turned on her heel and walked away, heels clicking like ice against stone. Jean stood in the hall alone. And for the first time that day, she wasn’t angry. She was confused. Hurt. And maybe just a little heartbroken. Because whatever this was between them — fire and ice, anger and tension — it was growing into something she didn’t understand. And that scared her more than detention ever could.

Chapter Text

Jean’s heart still pounded in her ears as she stepped into the nearly empty library for detention. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and the rows of silent study tables felt like a far cry from the bustling halls of Xavier’s. She hadn’t expected this night to be filled with the tension that now seemed to weigh down every word she typed.

The task was simple—the professor’s edict: an essay analyzing why mutant infighting undermines their cause. But the assignment, like everything else these days, was charged with a personal gravity that neither she nor Emma could easily ignore.

Jean’s eyes fell on the cracked wooden table where she was to sit. Across from her, Emma Frost had already staked her claim—a sleek laptop open, fingers moving in deliberate, steady strokes. Emma’s posture was immaculate, every inch of her exuding that signature control, yet tonight there was an undercurrent of something else: barely concealed irritation, a latent frustration that prickled in the space between them.

Jean settled into her seat, her stomach twisting as memories of earlier events mingled with the present. What had made Emma so cross with her? In the past week, their rivalry had softened into something else—something she hadn’t dared to name. Whatever it was, it had shattered tonight.

“I do not think that baldie could have gotten a more obvious essay for us to write about,” Emma said coldly, not looking up from her screen. “Though it may be too much for your primitive mind. Or has the birdbrain not tainted your wits?”

Jean exhaled slowly through her nose. “Scott is annoying, but he is not a birdbrain,” she said, voice low and controlled. She wasn’t going to bite. Not yet.

“I see you’re defending your new partner,” Emma said, a sharp edge to her tone.

“Shut up. That’s not how it went.”

“I saw you,” Emma snapped, the words cutting deeper than intended. “In the bistro. You looked happy.”

“You were there?” Jean blinked. “Why didn’t you say something? We could’ve—”

“It was my spot,” Emma interrupted, her words clipped. “My place. My table. Sometimes even I need a break from quinoa and misanthropy. It’s got the best pasta in the city. Then you showed up with your new arm candy.”

Jean’s brow furrowed. “Did you stay? For the whole date?”

“No,” Emma said quickly, almost too quickly.

“Well, then you didn’t see how it ended. It was awful. Scott was boring. We didn’t click. He tried to kiss me, and I… I felt repulsed. I told him no. There won’t be a second date. Not that I wanted a first one. Anna-Marie accepted for me before I could say no.”

“I don’t like that woman.”

“Yeah? Well, she thinks you’re a bitch,” Jean said, her voice rising. “And you know what? I’m starting to think she’s right!”

Emma’s jaw tightened. “If you want to parade around with some dull jock to stroke your ego, that’s your business.”

“No, you don’t get to do that!” Jean snapped, her hands clenching into fists. “You don’t get to act like you care and then act like I’m trash for going on a date. You don’t get to be jealous and cruel!”

Emma scoffed. “Jealous? Please. I don’t lower myself to—”
“You’re afraid,” Jean said suddenly, the words bubbling up with a clarity she hadn’t expected. “You act like you’re above it all, like nothing touches you, but I see through it. You’re scared. Scared to let anyone in. Scared that if someone gets close, they’ll see that you’re just… lonely.”

Emma stood abruptly, her chair scraping harshly against the floor. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know more than you think,” Jean shot back, rising to meet her. “I see how you push everyone away. How you wear that perfect mask. You hide behind your diamond form because it’s easier to be cold than to admit you feel anything.”

“Fuck you,” Emma spat. “Just go along with your little careless life, Jean. I don’t care who you date. Hell, go out with every moron in the school.”

“Then why do you care so much?” Jean shouted. “What is it with your obsession with who I date, you pathetic bitch?!”

Silence fell like a guillotine blade. Emma stared at her, breath shallow, cheeks flushed.

Then she said it. Soft, almost inaudible: “I guess part of me… part of me wishes it were me.”

Jean froze.

There it was. A confession that split open the tension between them. Not veiled. Not sarcastic. Just… raw.

Before Jean could say anything, the heavy door creaked open. Professor Xavier wheeled in, his presence grounding and immediate. His gaze swept from Jean to Emma, sensing the emotional storm still rumbling beneath the surface.

“Ladies,” he said calmly. “This session is over. I expect you both back here tomorrow to complete the assignment. Dismissed.”

Neither girl spoke. As they gathered their things, Emma kept her eyes down, lips tight. Jean’s thoughts were a blur, a cyclone of emotion she couldn’t yet sort through.
Outside, the night air bit at her skin. The campus was quiet, but her thoughts were anything but. Every moment of the night replayed in her mind: the insults, the yelling, the confession. The hurt.

She got back to her dorm and collapsed onto her bed, the room dark except for the soft glow of her desk lamp. Her friends were already asleep or out for the night, and for the first time in a long while, Jean felt isolated.
A soft knock pulled her from her thoughts.

“Hey, Jean?” Rogue peeked inside, her hair tousled and a hoodie draped over her pajama shirt. “You alright Sugah?”

Jean hesitated. “I’m… I don’t know.”

Anna-Marie stepped inside, sat on the edge of the bed. “Detention with Frost’ll do that.”

Jean laughed quietly, bitterly. “She said something. Something I don’t know what to do with.”

“Emma always says somethin’. Usually mean.”

“No, this was… different.” Jean sighed, running her hands over her face. “I can’t stop thinking about it. About her.”

Rogue nudged her gently. “Maybe that’s something you need to figure out.”

“I feel like everything’s falling apart and coming together at the same damn time,” Jean admitted.

“Well,” Rogue said with a warm smile, standing to leave, “sometimes that’s just how it goes. Sleep on it, hon. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Night,” Jean whispered.

"Night, Jeanie, you'll work it out, you always do so,' said Anna-Marie, "Good night, sugah."

She tossed and she turned, uneasy as she tried to sleep. Outside her window, campus slept, yet she found no rest, no calm, not when her mind kept drifting to an infuriating blond bitch, in need of a good choking. Her mind filled with images of the blonde throughout the years, from when she transferred to the way she dressed even on her morning coffee run. It was only when she finally stabled her beating heart that she could find some sort of rest.

A rest that was disturbed by somebody who tried prodding in her mind.

Then, like a whisper brushing the edge of her consciousness, it came.

"Jean… can we talk?"

Emma.

Jean’s heart leapt. Or maybe it plummeted. She didn’t know anymore.

Her eyes flicked to the ceiling, to the laptop still glowing with the unfinished essay. Words on the screen blurred with the thoughts in her mind.

It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

Her eyes flicked to the ceiling, to the laptop still glowing with the unfinished essay. Words on the screen blurred with the thoughts in her mind. She reached out telepathically, guarded but firm. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

“I know,” Emma replied. “I just… needed to say something.”

Jean didn’t respond right away. Her psychic barriers remained up, solid.

“I acted like a brat. Worse, like someone I don’t even like being,” Emma continued, slower now. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just… saw you with him and it felt like something sharp was tearing through me.”

Jean hesitated, then responded with quiet honesty. “Why didn’t you just say something then? Instead of lashing out?”

“Because I’m afraid,” Emma admitted. “I’m terrified that if I tell you the truth, you’ll laugh. Or walk away. Or… worse. You’ll pity me.”

“I wouldn’t,” Jean said, her mental tone softening.
There was silence. Then Emma let a little more slip through the bond—just a flicker of memory, a lonely evening at her dorm, untouched food, the television playing to no one, the ache of silence and a heart wound tight.

“You shield yourself,” Jean observed. “Even now. You’re scared I’ll see what’s really going on inside.”

Emma tried to block again, but Jean had caught the edges of it. The raw sorrow. The constant pressure of being perfect. The overwhelming fear of never being enough.
And then it came, a surge of emotion—too much, too fast.
Jean felt the spike of panic before Emma could hide it. Her breath quickened, shallow, erratic.

“Emma,” Jean reached out more fully now, concern replacing her frustration. “You’re spiraling. Let me in.”

“No,” Emma gasped mentally. “Don’t—don’t see me like this.”

“Too late,” Jean said gently, already focusing. “Emma, breathe. Just breathe.”

Emma didn’t answer. Her thoughts fragmented into bursts of fear, shame, isolation.

Jean sat up in bed, now fully alert. She concentrated, sending a pulse of calming psychic energy. “Hold on. I’m coming to you.”

“You don’t have to. I don’t want you to see me like this”

“I want to.”

Jean got out of bed and walked to her window. With a deep breath, she opened it, the night air rushing in.

“I’m coming, Emma,” she said aloud.
And then, without hesitation, she took off into the night sky.

Chapter Text

The night sky hung low over the Xavier Institute, its usual serenity broken only by the soft whisper of wind. Jean Grey sliced through the dark, her body suspended in graceful flight, heart pounding with urgency. Her eyes scanned the familiar architecture until they landed on the ivy-cloaked corner tower—Emma’s dorm.

It overlooked the garden, quiet and still, except for one unnatural glint below.

There—on the cobblestone path beneath the dorm balcony—Emma Frost lay crumpled, her body encased in shimmering diamond. She wasn’t moving.

Jean’s breath caught.

She darted downward and hovered just outside the arched window that framed Emma’s dorm. It was locked. Her fists pounded it—once, twice—no answer. Emma didn’t even flinch. No sound escaped the room, and Emma remained collapsed in full diamond form, barely conscious.

“Emma!” Jean shouted through the glass. “Emma, look at me!”

Nothing.

Jean’s panic surged. She raised a hand glowing faintly red and blasted the pane open with a quick telekinetic pulse. Glass scattered, wind screamed through the sudden opening, and she flew in, landing hard beside Emma’s fallen form.

“Emma—Emma, please—can you hear me?”

She knelt and gently shook her. The diamond was ice-cold beneath her touch. Her mind reached out instinctively—only to crash against a mental wall. The diamond form sealed Emma off completely. No thoughts came. No emotion. Just silence. Jean’s voice broke. “Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.”

Still nothing. No movement. Just that same rigid, panic-frozen pose—Emma trapped inside her own body. Jean didn’t know what to do. Her mind raced, searching for something—anything—that might reach her. And then, for some reason she couldn’t quite explain, she did the only thing that came to her.

She began to sing.

Her voice trembled at first, the words foreign on her tongue, but familiar in her heart. Her parents used to calm her down with those songs when she got scared during thunderstorms

“Quand il me prend dans ses bras,
Il me parle tout bas...
Je vois la vie en rose…”

She brushed strands of blonde hair from Emma’s crystal cheek and kept singing.

“Il me dit des mots d'amour,
Des mots de tous les jours…”

The icy shell began to glisten, faint cracks of light rippling through it—not breaking, but softening. Jean’s voice steadied as she cradled Emma in her arms, not with power, but with warmth. Emma’s form shimmered—then slowly, finally—melted back to flesh and blood.

Her chest rose with a shaky breath. Her arms instinctively wrapped around Jean’s waist. Tears traced silent lines down her cheeks, and Jean held her tighter.

“I’ve got you,” Jean whispered. “I’m here.”

Emma didn’t speak. She couldn’t—not yet. But her body shook against Jean’s as the vulnerability she had sealed away came pouring out in ragged sobs. She pressed her forehead to Jean’s shoulder, seeking refuge in the warmth she had once so fiercely rejected. Jean’s hand smoothed through her hair, gently rocking her.

“I saw you,” Jean said softly. “Everything you tried to keep hidden. All of it. And I’m still here.”

The cold bit at them, creeping through the broken window. Emma shivered violently, and Jean realized how exposed she was in her thin nightgown.

“We need to get you warm,” Jean murmured.

Emma gave a dazed nod.

“Come with me. You’re staying in my dorm tonight.”

Emma blinked. “But—”
“No arguments.” Jean wrapped her arms around her again, lifting her gently as if she were weightless. “I’m not leaving you alone tonight. And your window is broken, you can't warm up here.”

They soared into the sky, moonlight kissing their silhouettes as Jean carried her across the sleeping campus. Emma’s head rested against Jean’s shoulder, her breath steadying, her fingers lightly clinging to the fabric of Jean’s sweatshirt as if afraid to let go.

The dorm room was quiet when they arrived. Jean pushed the door open with her mind and floated gently inside, setting Emma down on the edge of the bed.

“You take the bed,” Emma said, voice faint.

Jean shook her head. “No, you’re exhausted. You need rest.”

Emma looked at her hands. “I didn’t mean to—break like that.”

“You didn’t break.” Jean knelt before her. “You just… let go. That’s okay. You’re allowed to.”

Emma’s lips quivered. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“I’m glad I did,” Jean said. “Because now I know just how strong you are. Even when you’re falling apart.”

She tucked the blanket around Emma’s shoulders. “I’ll take the couch.”

But as she stood to turn away, Emma’s voice stopped her. “Jean…?”

She looked back. Emma’s expression was so raw—unguarded in a way Jean had never seen before. “…Can you stay?”

Jean’s heart clenched. Emma’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Just for tonight… can you hold me?”

Jean didn’t answer with words. She crossed the room, slipped under the covers, and wrapped her arms gently around the trembling blonde. Emma pressed her face into Jean’s chest and exhaled shakily, finally letting her entire weight rest against the woman who came for her.

They lay together in silence, tangled in shared warmth and breath, no longer enemies, no longer rivals—just two girls clinging to each other in the aftermath of too many battles fought alone.

And as sleep took them both, Emma’s final whispered thought reached Jean’s mind like a secret gift wrapped in hope. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

Jean squeezed her tighter. “You’re not.”

Chapter Text

Emma awoke slowly, as if surfacing from deep beneath still water.

For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. The ceiling above her wasn’t familiar—it lacked the ornate molding of her private dorm. The sheets weren’t silk, but cotton. Soft. Warm, even without her usual thread count. And the air… the air carried the faintest scent of lavender and something else—something floral and unmistakably Jean.

Her eyes fluttered open. She was alone. The bed was empty save for her, and the blanket curled tightly around her like a cocoon. But Jean was gone.

Emma sat up quickly, and the absence of Jean’s body beside hers left a cold spot that pierced more deeply than she expected. Her fingers curled around the comforter, pulling it tighter around her shoulders, but it did nothing to fill the ache.

Where did she go?

Her eyes darted to the window. Rain streaked across the glass in slow, steady lines. The grey morning light bled into the room, muted and hazy. She sighed and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. A soft shiver passed through her. She was still wearing only the camisole and sleep shorts she’d had on the night before, now wrinkled and clinging. She hadn’t even realized how much of herself she had exposed. It made her skin prickle.

But then she saw it. Draped across the back of a nearby chair was a deep green sweater. Thick knit. Worn but clean. Jean’s. Emma hesitated—then crossed the room quietly and picked it up.

She brought it to her nose first—an involuntary movement. It smelled of peppermint shampoo and faint ozone, like the lingering touch of her powers. Something grounding. Something safe. Slipping it over her head, Emma felt the fabric fall loosely around her frame. It hung long on her, the sleeves brushing her fingertips. It was absurdly cozy. And far too warm to be allowed.

She returned to the bed, curling beneath the covers again, this time wearing the sweater like armor. She didn’t expect to fall back asleep—too much had happened—but the idea of pretending for a little while longer was tempting.

That fantasy lasted all of two minutes. The door burst open with the subtlety of a cannon.

“Jean?” Rogue’s Southern twang rang through the room. “You in here? Xavier’s lookin’ for—”

She froze. Emma blinked at her from the bed. They stared at each other. Rogue’s green eyes narrowed. Emma’s stayed lidded, unmoved.

“…Well, hell,” Rogue muttered.

“Good morning,” Emma said flatly.

“You’re in Jean’s bed?”

“I am.”

“You stayed the night?”

Emma didn’t answer. She simply tugged the blanket up higher. Rogue’s mouth opened, closed, then twisted into a grin. “Huh. Never thought I’d live to see it.”

Before Emma could come up with a retort that wasn’t laced with acid, two more figures appeared in the hallway behind her—Raven and Ororo, following Rogue like the world’s most inconvenient entourage.

“Oh dear,” Ororo murmured, surveying the scene with wide, amused eyes.

“Called it,” Raven said dryly. “Didn’t think it would be this quick, though.”

Emma felt her spine tighten. “Is there a reason you're all invading this room like a herd of poorly dressed elephants?”

“Rude,” Rogue drawled. “You always wake up this charming?”

“Only when I'm interrogated before I’ve had caffeine.”

Ororo chuckled, but Rogue wasn’t laughing. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Jean’s our friend. We care about her. And we don’t want her hurt.”

“I’m not going to hurt her,” Emma said, voice low and tired. “You think I don't know how much she means to all of you?”

“You’ve never cared what other people think, Frost.”

“I care what she thinks,” Emma snapped, then immediately bit her lip.

The room went quiet. Emma suddenly felt exposed again—despite the blanket, despite the sweater, despite her best efforts to remain untouchable. The weight of three gazes settled heavily on her, each with their own shade of judgment or curiosity.

But then, mercifully, the silence broke—by the sound of the door swinging open again. Rain and fresh air rushed in. Jean Grey, soaked through, stood in the doorway holding a brown paper bag and two takeaway cups in a cardboard tray.

“Sorry,” Jean said, brushing wet strands of hair off her forehead. “Bean There had a line.”

Emma stared. Her voice came out stunned. “You… went in the rain?”

Jean gave her a crooked smile. “Got your pain au chocolat. And your coffee. Black, no sugar, because you’re a monster.”

Emma’s heart thudded. “You remembered.”

“I pay attention.”

Jean’s eyes swept across the room. “Now why are all of you in my room at 8 a.m. harassing my guest?”

“She’s wearin’ your sweater,” Rogue said pointedly.

“She was cold,” Jean replied with a shrug, walking over to Emma and handing her the cup. “And she looks good in green.”

Emma tried to hide her smile in the rim of her coffee cup.

“Out,” Jean added, not unkindly but firmly. “Please.”

The trio didn’t argue. Ororo gave Emma a small nod, Raven smirked knowingly, and Rogue… well, Rogue lingered a beat too long, but finally left with a muttered “We’ll talk later.”

When the door shut, Jean toed off her wet sneakers and peeled off her hoodie, wringing out her sleeves over the trash can. She was still damp, curls clinging to her temples, but her eyes were warm and focused.

Emma watched her. “You didn’t have to go out,” she said quietly.

“I wanted to.”

Emma lowered her gaze. “You’re very confusing, Jean Grey.”

Jean laughed softly. “That’s rich coming from you.”

They sat together on the bed, shoulder to shoulder. Jean pulled her iced tea from the tray and opened the bagel bag. The quiet between them wasn’t tense—it was soft. Tentative. Shared.

“I meant what I said last night,” Jean finally murmured. “About not letting you be alone.”

Emma looked at her hands. “I’ve always done better alone. I… thought I had to.”

Jean reached out and took one of her hands, threading their fingers gently together.

“You don’t,” she said. “Not with me.”

Emma squeezed her hand back. “So what now?”

“Well, detention again tonight,” Jean said with a dry smile. “And every other night this week, according to Professor X’s new ‘mutual cooperation initiative.’”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Fantastic.”

“But,” Jean continued, “this weekend? No library. No essays. Just us.”

Emma blinked. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“I’m telling you we’re going on one,” Jean teased. “Something proper. Maybe somewhere that doesn’t involve yelling or crying.”

Emma smiled—truly smiled—and it felt like something deep inside her cracked open. “Alright, Jean. A date.”

Jean leaned in, just close enough to whisper. “And maybe after, you’ll stay the night again.”

“I might,” Emma said, cool and confident—until she added, much softer, “if you keep these warm sweaters nearby.”

Jean laughed and pulled her closer. “Deal.”

And for the first time in a long time, Emma Frost let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—this was something she was allowed to have.

Not just warmth.

But hope.