Gene's voice haunts me like a bad song on repeat as I slouch in the plush armchair across from Emma. Her office feels a bit too cold, like she's deliberately keeping the temperature down to make her clients uncomfortable, or maybe to justify those impossibly tight white outfits she wears.
"So he sits there, looking at me like I'm some hormone-crazed teenager, and asks if I want to fuck his girlfriend," I spit out, still seething from yesterday's lunch interrogation. "Where does he get off? Like I'm just prowling the mansion looking to steal everyone's partner."
Emma tilts her head, ice-blue eyes studying me with that clinical curiosity that always makes me feel like I'm a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope.
"And do you?" she asks, crossing one perfect leg over the other. "Want to have sex with Cyclops?"
My rant stutters to a halt as I blink at her.
"Of course I do," I admit, throwing my hands up in frustration. "She's older, she's got this air of authority about her, just like you do. But there's a difference between finding someone attractive and actually pursuing them. Gene couldn't get that through his thick skull."
"Oh, I imagine I'd be much better for you than Cyclops," Emma purrs, leaning forward slightly. Her voice drops to a silky whisper. "She's too uptight. I'd make you writhe under me and beg for it."
I barely register her comment, already barreling ahead with my rant. "And then he has the audacity to call me a slut. A slut!" I slouch deeper into the chair, glaring at the ceiling. "He literally invaded my mind at a diner to check if I was lying. Who does that?"
"Someone deeply insecure," Emma offers, "Oh, and also me."
"I guess that's true," I say with a sigh. "You do have a habit of poking around in my head."
"You don't seem to mind when I do it," Emma observes.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. "I do mind, actually. But..." I trail off, feeling heat rise to my face. "It's because you're hot that it feels like it matters less somehow. It's completely irrational, I know."
Emma's lips curve into that predatory smile. "You're being very open today, Jack."
"Well, this is therapy, right?" I gesture vaguely around her office.
"Yes. Yes, it is."
I exhale slowly, trying to let go of some of the tension coiled in my shoulders. "I'm just not used to this kind of bullshit. Where I'm from, men are usually straight shooters, you know? Not all this dramatic bullshit."
"Like women?" Emma suggests, leaning back in her chair.
"Sure," I concede with a shrug as we fall into a moment of silence.
Emma taps her pen against her notebook. "So what else is on your mind, Jack?"
The question triggers a memory of the oil rig, the searing pain in my ankle, and then the peaceful beach.
"Oh," I say, sitting up straighter. "Speaking of your telepathy. I just wanted to say thank you for helping me with the pain the other night. And for cutting my ankle off and making it a fun experience instead of a horror movie moment."
Something shifts in Emma's expression. The flirtatious mask slips just a smidge, revealing something that looks almost like genuine emotion underneath. Her eyes soften around the edges, and her posture changes subtly.
"It was my pleasure to help you, Jack," she says, her voice missing its usual seductive edge.
"Are you embarrassed, Emma?" I ask, a grin spreading across my face. "Oh my God, you're totally the type who's terrible at taking compliments, aren't you?"
Her eyes widen for just a fraction of a second before her composure snaps back into place like an elastic band.
"Of course not, darling," she scoffs. "Compliment me more, I'll show you how well I take it."
"Well, I think you can be incredibly kind, Emma," I say, finding myself actually meaning it. Despite all her games.
Her lips curve into that hungry smile I'm starting to know too well. "Perhaps we should make up for that drink right now," she purrs.
I glance at my watch, raising an eyebrow. "It's like 3:30 in the afternoon."
"I'm done with classes for the day, Jack."
I consider it. Part of me knows this is a terrible idea, Emma Frost is complicated, dangerous, and definitely playing some game I don't fully understand. But another part of me wants to plow into her until I pass out and die.
Emma tilts her head, that platinum hair catching the light. "What? Are you afraid of what might happen if you join me?"
"No," I reply with a confidence that surprises even me. "At this point, it feels like an inevitability."
"Really?" Her voice drops to a silky whisper, triumph flickering in those arctic eyes.
"Yes, but..." I pause, knowing I need to be upfront before this goes any further. "I want to be clear about something. I'm not looking for a relationship right now."
Emma's expression shifts instantly, her face hardening like ice forming over water. "If we sleep together, Jack, you're mine and mine alone," she states, her voice brooking no argument.
I shake my head, standing my ground. "I can't handle a relationship, Emma."
"Why not?" she demands, anger flashing across her face.
"I still have so many issues," I explain, running a hand through my hair in frustration. "I haven't even begun to work through my nightmare childhood, my Mommy and Daddy issues, or the fact that I've been thrown into an entirely new world. Hell, I haven't even really thought about the whole mutant-human racism thing at all." I let out a humorless laugh. "I just feel like a regular person trying to keep my head above water."
Her eye twitches slightly.
"And I'm exceptionally gifted enough to help you work through all of that," she counters.
I look at her directly, making sure my words are crystal clear. "I'm not ready for a relationship," I repeat firmly.
Emma's stare turns frigid as my words hang in the air. Her lips press into a thin line. But then her eyes suddenly dart to the side, focusing on some invisible point beyond my shoulder. The tension in her face shifts, transforming into something more controlled.
"Jack, I'm sorry," she says, her voice suddenly brisk and professional. "I'm being summoned by Xavier right now."
I blink, caught off guard by the abrupt change. "Right now?"
"Yes," she replies, already standing. "We'll have to pick this up next week."
I study her face, trying to figure out if she's actually being called away or if this is just a convenient escape from our conversation. Her expression gives nothing away.
"Alright," I say, pushing myself up from the chair. No point pushing it either way. "I hope everything's alright."
"I'm sure it's nothing important," she says with a dismissive wave.
I step out of Emma's office, the door clicking shut behind me with a strange sense of finality.
The mansion hallways are quieter than usual this time of day, most students either still in class or hanging out in the common areas.
I round the corner and freeze mid-step. There, lounging in one of the window alcoves, is Gene Grey with the Stepford Cuckoos clustered around him like perfect blonde satellites. He's got a massive wine glass in his hand, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim as he gestures animatedly about something. The quintuplets hang on his every word, their identical faces lit up with rapt attention.
My stomach drops. A drunk Gene is the last thing I need right now.
As if sensing my presence, all five blonde heads swivel toward me in perfect synchronization. Their ice-blue eyes lock onto me with laser focus. There's something in their collective stare that makes my skin prickle.
Gene follows their gaze, his emerald eyes narrowing when they land on me. The wine in his glass sloshes again as he straightens up.
"Jack," he calls out, his voice carrying that slight lilt of someone who's been drinking for a while. "Come join us! We were just discussing our favorite teachers."
"Another time maybe," I say, forcing my lips into what feels like a pathetically transparent smile.
Without waiting for Gene's response, I pivot on my heel and stride down the hallway, feeling six pairs of eyes drilling into my back as I make my escape.