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.