[Emma Frost's POV]
Red ink bleeds across the page as I slash another D+ onto a truly abysmal essay about Shakespeare. The diamond skin covering my body catches the morning light, fracturing it into rainbow prisms that dance across my office walls. A pretty distraction from the ugliness of human thought.
I shift in my leather chair, adjusting my pristine white blazer out of habit rather than necessity.
Christmas carols drift through the mansion's halls, sickeningly cheerful reminders of a holiday I've never particularly enjoyed. I could be anywhere else today, my penthouse in Manhattan, the Alps, even bloody Genosha would be preferable to this almost empty school with its skeletal staff and pathetic decorations.
Yet here I sit, grading mediocre papers that could easily wait until January, wearing my diamond form not because these students' juvenile thoughts might overwhelm me, but because the silence it provides is the only gift I truly want this Christmas.
I reach for my teacup, and take a sip without tasting it. The grandmother clock in the corner ticks relentlessly, marking each second Jack isn't here with me where he belongs.
"Ridiculous," I mutter to myself, slashing another red mark across a particularly egregious grammatical error. "Absolutely ridiculous."
Since that broken fool joined X-Factor, I've felt his absence like a physical wound. A cavity where something vital used to reside. It's pathetic, really. Emma Frost, the White Queen, reduced to pining over a man with more trauma than sense.
The Massachusetts Academy students would never recognize me now. Their fearsome headmistress, sitting alone on Christmas morning, pretending paperwork matters more than the hollowness expanding in her chest.
I pick up another essay, this one so poorly written it makes me consider changing careers entirely. Teaching was meant to be my salvation after the Academy fell. Those children's screams still echo in my nightmares, their bodies scattered like broken dolls across smoking rubble.
At least I still have my Stepford Cuckoos. The quintuplets remain loyal to me, even when others have abandoned the school. Their perfect blonde heads and unwavering devotion, that's something even this wretched holiday can't take from me.
A knock interrupts my brooding. I straighten my posture instinctively.
"Enter," I command, not bothering to look up.
The door creaks open to reveal Harriet McCoy's massive blue form, her fur meticulously groomed. She's clutching something in her oversized paws.
"Hello, Ms. Frost," she says with that infuriatingly formal tone she always uses with me. "There's a package here for you."
I raise an eyebrow. "Someone delivers mail on Christmas?"
"I guess so," she shrugs, placing a small, crudely wrapped box on my desk. "This was at the front entrance."
My eyes immediately lock on the handwriting on the label. Jack Crackwell. I feel my diamond form melting away involuntarily, a response I can't control. My pulse quickens, a human weakness I despise showing in front of colleagues.
Harriet's golden eyes widen slightly behind her glasses. "What is it?" she asks, leaning forward with scientific curiosity.
"I don't know," I snap, pulling the package closer possessively. "And it's absolutely none of your business."
A knowing smile spreads across her bestial face. "Yes, well... happy holidays, Ms. Frost."
"Happy holidays," I reply automatically, already dismissing her from my thoughts as she retreats from my office.
The moment the door clicks shut, I tear into the package with embarrassing eagerness, all pretense of dignity abandoned. Inside are two objects.
The first is wrapped in tissue paper. I unfold it carefully to reveal a ceramic mug with "#1 Therapist" emblazoned across it in garish lettering.
A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me, dangerously close to becoming a sob. Oh, Jack. My clever, broken boy. He understands me better than he should. He knows that expensive trinkets would be meaningless to me. But this... this cheap, ridiculous mug referencing our sessions together...
I run my finger over the lettering, remembering how delicious it felt to peel back his layers during our therapy. To make him squirm under my gaze. To watch that beautiful blush spread across his cheeks when I leaned too close. The way his pulse quickened when I touched his arm, a response he couldn't hide from me.
I set the mug aside, turning my attention to the second object in the package. It's heavier, wrapped in plain brown paper. I tear it open and stare in confused silence.
A brick. An ordinary, weathered brick sits in my palm, its edges chipped and surface stained with ash. Nothing remarkable about it whatsoever.
I cock an eyebrow, perplexed. "What on earth...?"
Then I notice a folded note tucked beneath it. My fingers tremble slightly as I open it, recognizing Jack's messy handwriting immediately.
Emma,
This might seem strange, but this brick is from the Massachusetts Academy rubble. Magik helped me retrieve it. I know that day took so much from you. The place you built, the people you taught, the life you had there. No one should have to carry that burden alone. I thought you deserved to have a piece of it back, not to reopen wounds, but as a reminder that even from destruction, something can be salvaged.
Thank you for all the help this year.
Jack
Something hot and wet slides down my cheek. I touch it with numb fingers, shocked to find myself crying. The brick's rough texture under my fingertips suddenly carries the weight of the world.
"Oh, Jack," I whisper, clutching the brick to my chest. "You perfect, beautiful boy."
He understands. He truly understands what I lost.
"Fuck!"
The scream tears from my throat, echoing off the walls of my pristine office. I stare at the brick in my unsteady hands, this precious fragment of my past, and something inside me shatters like glass.
What have I given him in return? Money. Just more bloody money. Another wad of ten thousand dollars stuffed into an envelope like I was paying for services rendered. As if cash could ever express what he means to me.
"FUCK!" I scream again, not caring who might hear.
I set the brick down on my desk with reverent care, my fingers lingering on its rough surface. Jack understood exactly what would reach the cold, dead place inside me that I thought nothing could touch anymore.
I pace my office like a caged animal, my heels clicking frantically against the hardwood floor. I have to see him. Now. This instant. I cannot wait another moment.
"Miss Frost?" One of the Cuckoos appears in the doorway, her perfect blonde head tilted in confusion. "We felt your distress. Are you…"
"Get out!" I snap, not even looking at her. I can't bear to see anyone right now except him.
She retreats without another word, knowing better than to question me when I'm like this.
I snatch my phone from the desk, fingers trembling so violently I can barely dial. The call goes straight to voicemail. Of course it does. He's probably with her. With that blue-skinned shape-shifting bitch who's been wrapping herself around him like a snake.
"This ends today," I whisper to myself, grabbing my white fur coat from the rack. "No more games."
I've spent too long circling him, testing him, playing these ridiculous power games when I should have simply told him the truth. That I haven't felt this way about anyone since... ever.
I stride through the mansion's halls, ignoring the startled looks from the few students who remained for the holidays. Let them stare. Let them whisper about the ice queen's meltdown. None of it matters.
*****
Manhattan's mutant district reeks of desperation and cheap takeout. I stand before the X-Factor building, a brick structure that would have been condemned years ago in any decent neighborhood, and wonder how Jack can bear living in such squalor.
I smooth down my white coat, gathering my composure before raising my fist to the door. The helicopter ride from Westchester was exorbitant even by my standards, and the limo driver practically wept when I instructed him to venture into this cesspool. But some matters simply cannot wait for more civilized arrangements.
I knock sharply, three authoritative raps that echo my impatience.
The door swings open to reveal Firestar, her copper-red hair flickering with those ridiculous little flames she can never quite control when she's emotional. Her eyes widen, then narrow with immediate hostility.
"Frost," she says, practically spitting my name.
I don't bother with pleasantries, simply brushing past her into the apartment. The interior is marginally better than the exterior, though the furniture looks like it came from a discount warehouse. How utterly depressing.
"Where's Jack?" I demand, scanning the room. The place feels empty, devoid of the mental signature I've grown so accustomed to seeking out.
Firestar crosses her arms, her posture radiating defiance. "He's not here."
I turn to face her, my patience evaporating. "What?" The emptiness in my chest expands, a physical ache I refuse to acknowledge.
She frowns, something like genuine concern flickering across her face. "I don't know... he's kind of going through something right now..."
"What do you mean?"
"Well..." Firestar shifts uncomfortably, her flames intensifying slightly. "Yesterday was pretty rough for him. Mystique went completely psycho, tried to force herself on him."
My diamond form flickers involuntarily across my skin before I can suppress it. "She did WHAT?"
"Yeah. I had to throw her out." Firestar's expression hardens with something almost like pride. "Then yesterday, Kitty gave him something that belonged to Jubilee, and he just... left. Grabbed his jacket and disappeared."
I press my fingertips to my temple, sorting through this information with growing alarm. "And none of you thought to follow him? To make sure he was alright? For God's sake, it's Christmas and the boy is clearly in crisis."
Firestar's eyes dart away from mine, guilt washing over her face. "I wasn't around when he left," she admits, her voice small. "When I found out last night, Kitty told me he needed space."
"Space?" I nearly spit the word. "The boy has trauma stacked higher than the Empire State Building!"
She has the decency to look ashamed. "I was starting to get worried this morning..."
"Starting to worry? He spent the entire night gone?" My voice rises with each word. "In a city he barely knows? During the holidays, when he's already vulnerable?"
"We thought he'd come back..." she says weakly.
I rake my gaze over her, then around at this pathetic excuse for a home. "You're a group of absolute morons. All of you. I entrusted Jack to your care, and this is how you protect him?"
Firestar shrinks back from my verbal assault, which only confirms my assessment. Utterly useless, the lot of them.
"I need to find him. Now." I close my eyes, bringing my fingers to my temples. I haven't done a city-wide scan without Cerebro in a long while. It's dreadfully taxing, like trying to listen to millions of whispers simultaneously.
I push my consciousness outward, casting my mental net as wide as possible. The sheer volume of thoughts threatens to overwhelm me immediately, families arguing over dinner preparations, lonely souls drowning their sorrows in cheap liquor. I grit my teeth and push harder, focusing on the unique mental signature I know so intimately from our sessions together.
The strain is immense. Sweat beads on my forehead as I extend my reach farther and farther, stretching my limits. I need to find him. I must find him.
There, a flicker. Something familiar yet distorted. Raw emotion pulses like an open wound in the psychic landscape. Fear. Pain. Rage. A desperate mess strung together by confusion.
"I found him," I breathe, my eyes snapping open.
Firestar steps forward eagerly. "Where is he?"
"Boston."