In the weave of dreams, they all found themselves watching the same forgotten day. The early days of the X-Men—The first generation had bonded no more than three years. The calendar marked the end of 2003, and the mansion was alive with laughter and sparkling lights. Christmas had come, and with it, a mountain of presents for the young mutants.
They thought it would be a simple, festive day. But for one child, it brought a different kind of gift—one she never asked for.
In the wide open hall near the Christmas tree, Jean Grey, barely thirteen, hugged her visiting parents tightly. John Grey and Elaine Grey held her in their arms, faces beaming with pride and joy.
A large, brightly wrapped present was placed into Jean's eager hands. "Thanks, Mom! Thanks, Dad!" Jean said brightly, her eyes shimmering. Around her, the other kids tore into their gifts—laughter and excited chatter filling the air.
Jean smiled as she pulled at the wrapping paper—when suddenly—A flash. A tearing sensation in her mind. Her head snapped up, her pupils dilating unnaturally. Thoughts. Not her own. Everywhere. Flooding her.
The excited thoughts of the children opening their toys. The secret guilt of a teacher about a forgotten gift. The bittersweet longing of another child wishing for their lost family. The swirling, uncontrollable storm of dozens of minds—all crashing into her at once.
Jean cried out, her hands flying to her temples. Her half-opened gift tumbled to the ground. John Grey, alarmed, caught her falling body.
Across the hall, Charles Xavier, sensing the rupture even from a distance, immediately rolled toward her. In a flash, Charles reached her side, placing steady hand on Jean's trembling forehead. His mind pressed against hers—shielding, suppressing, trying to cage the wildfire that had broken free.
Nearby, John Proudstar stepped forward, worry in his voice. "Professor! What's happening?"
Elaine Grey, panic rising in her throat, stammered. "We—we don't know! She just—just collapsed!"
Charles didn't answer at first, his entire focus locked on calming Jean's chaotic mind. With one deep breath, he finally drew back his hands. "John," he said, voice strained but calm, "Carry her to the medbay. Gently." John Proudstar nodded, scooping Jean into his strong arms as if she weighed nothing.
The room fell into a hushed murmur—the festive spirit crushed by confusion and fear. The children started to crowd forward, faces scrunched with worry, questions ready to spill out.
But Piotr Rasputin stepped up, raising a calming hand. "Stay calm, everyone. Go back to your presents. Let the teachers handle this." His heavy Russian accent softened the blow, but even he could feel the tension vibrating in the air.
At the doorway, John and Elaine Grey clutched each other, their faces pale and tight with fear. "What happened to her, Professor?" Elaine asked, voice shaking.
Charles took a deep, quiet breath. "It seems," he said carefully, "that Jean's mutation is more extensive than we first thought. Her telepathy has awakened... uncontrolled and overwhelming."
Elaine's hands trembled. "Will she be okay?"
Charles met her eyes, his voice steady and sure. "I will make sure she's okay." Without wasting another second, he turned his wheelchair toward the medbay, his wheels humming against the mansion floor.
Ororo Monroe gently guided the Greys after him, the festive lights behind them flickering like uncertain stars.
…
All across the mansion, the Christmas tree still blinked cheerfully. The kids returned to their presents. The music continued to play. But something heavy and unseen had begun to settle in the air. And none of them—not yet—knew that this was the beginning of the memories they would one day lose.
At a corner near the great windows, Alex Summers crouched over his unopened present, his bright blue eyes glancing uneasily toward the direction of the medbay.
Beside him, his older brother Scott Summers held his gift—but his attention was elsewhere, his brows furrowed in quiet worry.
Alex nudged him with an elbow. "Brother... do you know what happened?"
Scott, still distracted, shook his head. "How could I? I'm right here with you."
Alex leaned closer, his voice dropping into a low whisper. "Well, you're closer to her than I am... Is it true? The rumors? That her power's uncontrollable?"
Before Scott could reply, a sharp jab landed on Alex's side. Lorna Dane, her bright green hair gleaming under the Christmas lights, glared at him playfully. "Hey! Don't say that. We're all in this situation together."
Alex winced, rubbing his ribs. "I didn't mean it like that! I just meant... she's always been kinda... lone-wolfy, you know? It makes her more mysterious."
Lorna softened, but her gaze stayed firm. "Still... We don't abandon our own. Not now. Not ever."
Scott finally tore his gaze away from the hallway. "We wait," he said decisively, his voice low. "Until the coast is clear."
Across the room, teachers bustled about, trying to calm the younger children, keeping them distracted with extra desserts and Christmas games. It was controlled chaos.
Alex smirked and mock-gasped dramatically. "Oh my God... Scott Summers, the strictest rule-follower alive, planning to sneak around?"
Scott shot him a deadpan look. "I can bend the rules once in a while."
Lorna giggled, playing along. "Careful, Alex. If he's starting to bend rules, next thing you know he'll be out partying with us."
Scott rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, you married couple, don't drag me into your couple-bullying."
Lorna's face flushed lightly. "Hey! We're not a married couple!"
Alex joined in. "Yeah! You can't just flip this onto us!"
Before they could argue more, Petra and Anna Marie wandered over, catching the tail-end of the teasing.
Petra smirked, crossing her arms. "Ooh, who's marrying who?"
Scott, with a devilish grin, pointed casually. "Alex and Lorna. Planning their wedding already."
Alex and Lorna both turned beet red."Heeey! Stop saying nonsense!" they shouted in perfect unison. The group burst into laughter, the tension of the day briefly lifted. The room, despite everything, was filled again with lightness. The kind only found between comrades—between family.
But outside their bubble of laughter, in the distant medbay, a very different storm was quietly brewing.
…
The cold gleam of the medbay lights reflected off the polished metal of the machines. The faint beeping of monitors was the only noise—until a sudden, loud— "Ouch! Careful, Hank."
Warren Worthington III winced, his white wings fluttering behind him. Hank McCoy didn't even look up, pressing firmly on the bruised area. "This wouldn't happen if you actually used the Danger Room to train," Hank muttered dryly.
Warren smirked. "Oooh, what's the fun in that? Fighting real battles makes the wings tougher—ask them yourself." His large wings gave an exaggerated flap, ruffling the paperwork on a nearby table.
Hank sighed, "Stop gaslighting me into thinking your wings are separate entities, Warren."
Warren burst out laughing. "Hah! I got you the first time, didn't I?"
Hank couldn't help but let out a small, reluctant chuckle. But the rare moment of levity was shattered—the doors slammed open in a rush. John Proudstar sprinted in, carrying the limp body of Jean Grey.
Warren immediately stood from the medbay bed, his wings stiffening. Hank snapped to attention, rushing forward. "What happened?"
Behind John, Professor Xavier rolled in, his face grave. "It's her mutation," Charles said tightly. "Somehow she shattered the mental block I placed to contain her early telepathic abilities."
Hank's face tightened. "Did it rebound?"
Charles shook his head slowly, his hands tightening around his wheelchair. "I... don't know yet."
Warren, already halfway to the door, called back. "I'll get Moira!"
The sound of his running footsteps echoed down the hall.
Hank and Charles worked in silent urgency, Hank strapping small monitors onto Jean's delicate frame. Behind the observation window, Ororo Monroe gently guided John and Elaine Grey to stand back. "I'm sorry," Ororo said softly, "but you can't be inside while we stabilize her. I promise... we'll do everything we can."
Elaine clutched her husband's hand, watching through the glass with tear-filled eyes.
Minutes later, Warren returned with Moira MacTaggert, her long coat still dusted with snow. "Is the machine powered up?" she asked briskly.
"Already on," Hank confirmed, tapping the main console.
Moira moved swiftly to Jean's side, checking readings with professional detachment. "Should I call my team?" she asked, frowning.
Hank shook his head. "No time. You handle Jean. I'll monitor Charles."
Moira nodded. The machines beeped steadily. The screens pulsed in a slow rhythm, a battle of life and mind unseen.
Moira gave a quick thumbs up to Hank. "We're ready."
Hank turned to Xavier. "Charles, you can go deeper now."
The professor simply nodded once, grimly, and closed his eyes.
The room hushed. The ticking of clocks. The mechanical hum of life-support machines.
All of it faded—as Xavier dove into the swirling chaos inside Jean's mind.
Inside Jean Grey's mind—the world was muted. He floated in the vast, shifting ocean of Jean Grey's subconscious, searching for her among the layers of swirling thought and suppressed power. The surface mind was empty. No sign of Jean.
Charles pressed deeper. Past the protective shields he had carefully placed years ago. And there—at the very core of Jean's mind—he found it. A shimmering blockade stood, exactly where he had left it. But now... there was something new.
A hatchling. A newborn creature. Small, yet terrifying. A tiny, fiery bird—its wings smoldering with impossible colors. A radiant ember, barely bigger than a heart. The little bird floated behind the blockade, its body pulsing like a living star. And it cawed.
The sound wasn't natural—it wasn't earthly. It was otherworldly, a ripple through the fabric of reality itself. Each caw sent shockwaves through Jean's mind. Each ripple a pain too much for her to bear.
In front of the blockade, Jean herself knelt, her small form trembling, hands clamped over her ears, as if trying to block out a sound that resonated inside her soul.
Charles' heart clenched. He knew he couldn't afford hesitation. With careful precision, he reinforced the blockade—layer after layer of mental fortification, smothering the hatchling's cries. The terrible cawing slowly dimmed, fading into a faint, eerie silence.
Only when the mindscape grew still again did Charles step forward.
He knelt beside Jean's shivering form, gently offering his hand. "Come, Jean. Let's leave this place for now. Focus. Return to the surface." Jean blinked, her eyes wide and dazed, her breathing shallow. But she saw him. Slowly, trembling, she reached for his hand. Their fingers brushed—and together they began to ascend.
As they rose through her layers of mind, the oppressive darkness faded. Jean's breathing steadied. Color returned to her cheeks. Back near the surface of consciousness, she slumped into a sitting position, gasping for air. "Professor," Jean whispered, "what... what was that thing?"
Charles hesitated, feeling the weight of the unknown pressing against his every thought. "I... I don't know, Jean," he admitted quietly, the honesty cutting sharper than any lie.
Jean closed her eyes tightly, the memory of the flood—the crashing tide of voices and thoughts—still fresh in her mind. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "I didn't mean to... it just happened. All their thoughts... they just flooded in."
Charles crouched before her, his voice gentle but firm. "Calm yourself, Jean. It's alright. We'll train you again. Together."
Jean looked up, searching his face—for reassurance, for safety. She found what she needed. A small, patient smile. Jean threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly, desperately. Needing someone to anchor her to the real world.
Charles hugged her back. He held her tightly, protectively. But unseen from Jean's view—his expression changed. His smile faltered. Fear. Confusion. A terrible uncertainty clouded his face.
Because deep down, Charles Xavier knew—whatever that hatchling was, it wasn't natural. It wasn't something he could simply contain. And it was growing.
…
Several days passed. The snow fell heavier outside the windows of Xavier's Mansion, softening the world into a hush of white.
Inside the Medbay, the sterile beeping of machines kept quiet company. Jean Grey lay curled on the medical bed, a blanket tucked gently around her. She still looked pale, weaker than usual, but her spirit—the stubborn flame inside her—refused to dim.
Sitting by her bedside were two people—Moira MacTaggert, diligently tapping notes into her clipboard, and Warren Worthington III, perched sideways in his chair like a mischievous angel who'd misplaced his halo.
Warren held a spoon in one hand, a bowl of bland oatmeal in the other. With an exaggerated swoop of his arm, he mimicked an airplane. "Foooshhh fooosh... incoming, incoming—brace for landing!"
He aimed the spoon toward Jean's mouth. Jean stared at him, unimpressed. Her face said it all. Really?Seriously?
Warren laughed, not even trying to hide it. "You don't need to be amused," he said between chuckles, "I'm doing this entirely for my own entertainment."
Jean scoffed—a small sound, but it was the most alive she had looked in days.
She opened her mouth anyway, begrudgingly letting him feed her. She chewed slowly, swallowing with effort. Then, her voice—still hoarse, but finding its strength again. "What do you mean, for yourself, Teacher Warren?"
Warren leaned back in his chair, resting the bowl against his knee. His wings, slightly unfurled, gave a soft rustle as they shifted. His tone turned serious, gentle but firm. "From the first day you enrolled here, you've always been the lone star in our little sky. But I see you, Jean. You try so hard to reach out to everyone. You listen to them. You bend yourself toward them. Because you already know what they want—even before they say it."
Across the room, Moira had paused her work. She said nothing, only watched.
Warren's voice softened. "But you don't have to do that all the time. You don't have to shoulder every wish and every fear you hear. It's okay to put yourself first, sometimes. Even if you know what others want... it's okay to choose what you want instead."
Jean blinked. The words settled deep inside her, like seeds waiting for spring. She wanted to say something, but before she could—Warren grinned wickedly and swooped the spoon back into action, zooming it dramatically around her like a fighter jet. "Incoming!! Brace yourself, Jean Grey!"
Jean, startled, gave a half-laugh—half-annoyed, half-amused—and opened her mouth just in time for the oatmeal to land.
Warren chuckled, utterly delighted with himself. Across the room, Moira let out a soft, rare chuckle of her own, the sound like a snowflake melting on a warm stone.
And for a moment—inside that sterile Medbay—there was warmth. There was laughter. There was the fragile beginning of healing.
…
Time passed, the sky outside shading into deep, cold blue as night blanketed the mansion. Inside the Medbay, the fluorescent lights hummed quietly. Moira MacTaggert stifled a yawn behind her clipboard, rubbing her tired eyes.
Across the room, Warren Worthington III glanced up from the book he was lazily flipping through. Catching her yawn, he whispered with a small smirk. "Go ahead and get some sleep, Moira. We can hold down the fort here."
Moira tried to protest—out of habit more than anything—but Warren waved her off again, playful but firm. "Seriously, shoo. Me and Jean will survive a few hours without scientific supervision."
Moira chuckled softly. "Alright, alright. Call me, Hank, or Charles if anything happens, okay?"
"Scout's honor," Warren winked, watching as Moira left with a tired shuffle. The Medbay settled into a slow, peaceful rhythm once more.
Minutes passed.
Warren let himself drift back into his book, but a movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. A shadow—a sliver of movement just beyond the frosted Medbay door.
He closed the book quietly, rising from his chair with all the grace of a seasoned warrior. Slowly, he approached and cracked open the door.
Peeking through was a head of unmistakable vibrant green hair. "Lorna?" Warren said, voice lowered in surprise. "What are you doing here?"
Lorna Dane shifted awkwardly, her face half-hidden in the hallway's dim light. She sighed. "I'm worried about Jean. Everyone just... took the professor's word that she's fine. But I haven't seen her since Christmas. I just wanted to check on her."
Warren raised an eyebrow. "So you decided sneaking around during night hours was the way to go, huh?"
Lorna huffed. "It's not like that. I'm not even close with Jean—but... I saw her half-opened gift still lying in the living room. I just thought... maybe dropping it off would be better than nothing."
There was a beat of silence. Then Warren's sternness melted into a soft, understanding smile. "Alright, come in. Be quick, though. And don't wake her."
He led Lorna into the dim Medbay. Jean lay sleeping peacefully—or so it seemed—her face illuminated faintly by the moonlight spilling through the windows.
Lorna tiptoed toward the bedside table and gently placed a neatly wrapped gift box down. A simple thing—tied with a shimmering green ribbon. "Thanks, Teacher," she whispered, straightening up to leave.
But as she turned, a jarring sound ripped through the room—the sudden, jagged rustle of sheets. Jean Grey sat bolt upright in her bed. Her movements were stiff, unnatural. Both Lorna and Warren froze, caught in the sheer wrongness of it.
Jean's head twisted toward them. Her eyes—no longer the warm hazel they knew—glowed with an eerie, pulsing red light. And when she spoke, it was not Jean's voice alone. It was layered, deeper—an overlapping chorus of something ancient and angry. "You think you can cage me?"
Warren's instincts kicked in. He slammed his hand onto the emergency button beside Jean's bed—the alarm system chirping violently to life. But it was already too late.
Jean—or whatever was puppeting her—lifted one trembling hand toward them. And suddenly—an invisible force shoved itself into their minds. It was no delicate touch. It was brutal, intrusive—like rusty knives scraping across their thoughts.
Warren grunted in pain, clutching his head. Beside him, Lorna whimpered — the sheer psychic pressure crumpling her knees. One second later, Lorna collapsed to the floor, unconscious. Warren, teeth gritted, tried to stagger forward—but the assault was relentless.
His legs buckled. He crashed down next to Lorna, falling into darkness.
Across the room, Jean—or the thing wearing her skin—smiled. The Medbay lights flickered. The alarms screamed. And still, outside, the snow kept falling silently.
**A/N**
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**A/N**