Xavier was sat at his desk, worrying. Worry had been a constant state of mind for the last couple of months, and all Charles could do was watch the situation. Watch students sober up as soon as Scott entered the room, watch Scott gulp and try and keep his tears to himself if something painfully brought a memory back- watch Scott, loyal, dependable Scott, collapse from the inside out.

"Something I can help with?" A voice asked from a seat at the back of the class. Sat where Jubilee would normally be, Jean was leant in her chair, clutching a notepad and with her glasses just far down enough her nose to show amusement at the situation. Xavier simply smiled, and looked up from the letter he'd been writing to a friend.

"It's Scott," he replied casually, leaning back in his wheelchair.

"Oh, it's always Scott, Charles," Jean replied, taking a pen from a top pocket of her lab coat and taking the opportunity to write something on her pad. "It's been Scott since he was thirteen, Scott when he wouldn't talk to anyone for three days simply because he could, and even Scott when he was in college and you knew full well he'd be fine, but fretted anyway. What's the matter now?"

"I do love the way you attempt to sugar coat the situation," he said, looking down at his hands. "He hasn't eaten for three days and skipped Danger Room sessions for a week. Logan's furious, Storm doesn't understand, and the children are treating him like he has the plague. What am I going to do?"

"Have you tried the post-it note method?" Jean asked, twiddling her pen around her fingers and scribbling something down. Charles had the feeling that she was treating him like a patient, which he decided to ignore.

"The post-it note method hasn't worked for years, Jean, when I asked what was wrong and he wrote 'LIFE' in answer. I think I'd probably get a response of the same ilk if I attempted again," he replied hopelessly.

"Have you tried talking to him, or is he being a typical man and not wanting to give away his feelings?" she asked in good humour.

"You've hit the hypothetical nail on the head, Dr Grey," he said, somewhat hollowly. "Scott couldn't even betray himself at the funeral; he made his gum bleed to stop himself from crying. He's pulled himself into a shell, and I don't know what I'm going to do to get him out."

"Oh, Professor," Jean said, "whatever you did worked before, didn't it? Work the British charm and you'll get there."

"It doesn't work like that anymore," he said quietly. "I could hold a child and let him cry into my shoulder- I could carry him into bed and tuck him in. I didn't have a wheelchair to stop me then. Scott's older- wiser, and can build his boundaries to be stronger. I think Hank telling him he should be team commander when he got hold of that radio all those years ago did no good for him."

Jean laughed. "If anything, it helped his self esteem, which was good for a fifteen year old who believed he only existed to be the world's pooper-scooper. He also saved my behind at the time; always a plus."

Charles smiled sadly, and wheeled from behind his desk, through the chairs to sit closer to his confidant. "True, I suppose. In all honesty, the stability that Scott gained from that decision was probably the only reason I was willing to entertain it in the first place, even years later."

"Uh-huh," she replied, noting something down on her pad. "And you're fretting over Scott bottling up every feeling he possesses?"

"I've always done that, you know. I always worry he'll vent his emotion in some other way than blasting a hole in a piece of equipment and fixing it in penance," Xavier said, voice lifting slightly.

"Oh—is that what happened to the punch bag in the gym?" Jean asked, obviously amused.

"That was three months of pent up emotion expended in a one hour session," he replied. "You probably know Scott better than I do though, coming to think of it- you're his fiancée, after all."

"Scott, as you know, doesn't communicate very well, as far as his emotional capacity goes," Jean said. "If you give him a few weeks, he'll decide he wants to spill it all out and come and knock on your--" she stopped suddenly, as if contemplating. Charles waited for her to finish, but she said nothing- just sat, looking at her surroundings as if they were new, and not the place she'd lived a large chuck of her life in, let alone been sat in for the last few minutes.

"Jean?" He inquired cautiously, "are you alright?"

She turned to face him. Somehow, she looked slightly more intense, and he couldn't work out why. "Why do you care anyway?" Her voice had changed in register; it had deepened slightly.

"Jean- Scott's my son. Of course I care," he replied, feeling hurt.

"But he's not your son, Charles," she said, almost spitting his name. "Scott is the son of some air force major who got himself killed in an accident, and you, feeling the loss of your own child, needed a replacement."

Xavier suddenly felt something in the back his mind- pushing to get in. He took a deep breath to steady himself. "You have no business bringing…" however, he stopped as quickly as she had done. Of all the conversations that he had shared with Jean, he had never divulged that particular piece of information.

"Scott dreamt of it, night after night after night," the woman in front of him answered smugly, and the pressure on Charles' cranium increased slightly. "When you had that argument with Erik, all those years ago, he was listening. You left your office door open- he was eavesdropping from the stairs. You know, he cried himself to sleep that evening, knowing you'd never love him for what he is, and I've seen it all. You should be glad that Erik left, you know, despite it all. Scott might have got 'better'- as you put it- faster if he hadn't been in the way."

"Stop," Xavier said helplessly, moving backwards away from the woman- because the person in front of him certainly wasn't Jean. But she wouldn't.

"He tried to make himself perfect in your eyes, you know: he used to stay up all night reading in the library because he felt ashamed at not knowing things he thought he should have done-- he did the same in college to get his grades, because he didn't want to disappoint you. He even learnt to fix things because he felt he had to do something to help around here- to try and feel wanted, be something in your eyes. He was so proud when you let him take over field commander when Hank left the team; thought that maybe he wasn't just a ventriloquist's doll sitting on your knee." The look on her face was triumphant, as she leant back and crossed her arms.

The force was pressing harder on Charles' mind, crushing it. With that, though, she had crushed everything else- his morale and his belief. "I don't know what you are, but please, get out of my mind," he said calmly, returning to his desk and picking his pen up again.

I don't plan to. He looked up again, and the woman had changed again; her eyes had become brighter, almost too big for her face. The brown eyes Jean possessed looked like they were flaming.

"What are you?" He asked, sounding slightly pained.

"Your funeral knell," she replied, with a false smile.

Get out of my mind, he thought. Get out.

If you wish, Charles, the monster in front of him thought with relish, slipping another smile. There are better people to torment in this place- what about that son of yours?

"Professor?" The pressure stopped suddenly, and Charles looked up to see Storm poking her head around the door. "Are you alright?"

"Oh- yes… fine, thank you," he replied, and looked down at the seat again. Where Jean had been, there was no one; just an empty chair in the middle of the room.

However, upstairs, a voice started whispering in the back of Scott's head. Scott… Scott… where are you? Save me, Scott… save me…

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A brief respite from my current multi-chap as I sort out a couple of plot problems and so on. Hope you enjoyed!