A/N : Hope you enjoy this one. Obviously I'm still working on the prompts I have. If you'd particularly like to see the viewpoint of a character I might not think of covering, feel free to suggest it. Thanks as always!

POLL : The winner of my favourite OC poll is Angela Goldsmith (Spark), a runaway winner - thanks for voting and I'm glad you like her!

1 : Jean

Headaches, again. Thundering, throbbing pressure behind her eyes that even laying down in a dark room would do nothing whatsoever for, and no aspirin or Tylenol would touch. A single drop of blood fell down from one nostril, ran over the leg of her pants, but she was in too much pain and confusion to worry about it overly. The new boy was just…. Oh, far too much. Too fast, too enthusiastic, too energetic, too nervy, too emotional, too everything. Keeping her telepathy under control was hard enough, without feeling like someone was screaming inside her head – and not just screaming, but doing so hard and so loud that she felt the bones of her skull vibrate with it.

She could barely focus on her surroundings, too occupied with putting two fingers to her temples and rubbing firmly as if that might relieve the pressure somehow. Struggled to throw up some kind of defense. A hopeless task – it was like trying to stem a roaring waterfall with a single sheet of tissue paper. Somehow when they had been out in the desert, trying to pull the rag-tag band together into enough of a team to take down the most powerful group of Mutants on earth, she had been so focussed on keeping the Professor safe, on doing her job, on standing up against those impossible odds that the boy's mind hadn't even bothered her. Been aware of an insistent, nagging hum in the background of her thoughts, but never realised how bad it could get until they had helped him back onto the Blackbird.

He'd helped them so much, thrown himself straight into danger without a thought for his own safety – although, Jean considered, if she had a mutation like his she'd probably do all sorts of foolhardy things knowing she could get away in time. Nonetheless, she could feel the goodness and bravery in him, giving the lie to his cocky bravado and studied cool. Sensed from the outset that as much as he was here for his own reasons, he would not see harm come to innocent people.

She'd not heard the first few screams, when he'd taken those injuries that now had him writhing against restraining arms. As soon as they had been away from the clamour of battle, however, they had risen like sirens in her mind, resonating around her perception like fire until her whole thoughts had been alight with his terror and agony. Wanted to scream back at him to stop, to keep quiet, to somehow muzzle his thoughts before they deafened her – but one look had told her that he could not. The angle of his arm, held tightly across his chest, was all wrong, bones protruding from a tear in the leg of his pants. She could feel the pain, but more clearly feel the panic and fear and desperate need to break free from the arms that held him tightly pinned.

Then her eyes did not see the man in his mid-twenties who had fought beside them, but a frightened child with long silver hair hanging around sharp, painfully prominent cheekbones. Clinging not to their former enemy but to a red-haired girl who tried in vain to comfort him, sobbing against her body inconsolably. Felt the longing for that girl and for his mother and his own room and his own bed, and for this pain and fear to end now.

Hank had set his leg with a wrench that pulled at Jean's own tendons with unbearable sudden pressure, glad that her own muffled moan of reflected pain was buried in his screaming. She could not look, buried her head between her knees and crushed her arms tightly against her stomach, suddenly sick and lightheaded. Then the screams had stopped, both inside and out. Their enemy was reaching for a towel to clean the bile from his clothes, the boy unconscious in his arms. Scooped into a blanket, remaining out cold for the rest of the journey. Jean's mind was blissfully, wonderfully quiet after that.

She learned defences, built walls that stopped his thoughts from bleeding into hers, though it still felt as if he were shaking at the foundations of those walls every time she was around him. Grew to know him as a prankster and a general pain who delighted in mischief and was rarely to be found out of some sort of trouble. Caught herself missing him for those few weeks after Hank had finally removed the cast from his broken leg and sent him home for a while to fully recuperate. That had been unexpected – she had thought she would never miss the buzz of his thoughts leaching through her defences, the cheeky grin and troublemaking nature. Once he had gone however, she had realised she liked him after all. Never mind that he was their enemy's son, that he was volatile and moody and a whole heap of trouble, she could not forget the fragile boy she'd seen on the jet. Could not help but feel he needed the protection of the Academy, with such power and vulnerability packaged into one body. Welcomed him back when he had returned with a warmth she had not anticipated, even kissed him gently on the cheek and returned the enthusiastic hug he had given her.

That moment, she held precious in her most private thoughts. Not because he was handsome – though he was, he just wasn't her type at all. Too wiry for her tastes, and striking though it was, that silver hair just wasn't for her. Grew fond of him not for any shallow reason, but because just for one moment, she had looked up at him and seen how happy he was to be back there, how the fragile boy had found strength in their numbers and some sort of safe haven where he could learn to control the chaos of his own mind. Seen that like her, there was a darkness and a power in him that only the goodness the Professor offered could ever hope to tame.

Jean was solitary by nature, an early riser who enjoyed the peace of the Mansion in the mornings, rarely disturbed by anything more than a student who could not sleep, or had woken from a nightmare. They all had them, some more frequently than others. He had them a lot. Sometimes, she would allow her barriers down just a little when she would be up early enough to catch him returning from his morning run, watch him when he thought nobody could see him leaning against the balcony where he liked to be alone. Those early-morning thoughts were rarely pleasant, coloured with remembered terror from awful dreams, with memories of suffering and with the ache of missing his family. He would catch her looking on occasion, quickly think of something cheerful or mundane – at that time, usually breakfast – to draw a veil over the sadness and emptiness that lay buried deeply under his bubbly exterior personality.

It never worked very well. That was why she kept an eye out for him.