X-Men Fic: Transmutation (Bobby & Scott, PG)

[st_aurafina]

Author: st_aurafina
Title: Transmutation
Recipient: wizefics
Disclaimer: Not mine! Never owned nothing.
Warnings/Rating: PG
Summary: Scott and Bobby, lessons learned. (Movieverse, pre-X1 to post-X3)
Recipient's request: I'd love a fic dealing with Scott the teacher and if it could include Bobby (Iceman), I'd be in heaven! I'd like it to be set movieverse, too, but I don't mind if it draws heavily from comic background.
Notes: Thanks to lilacsigil for beta-reading! For the summers_fling ficathon.




Water:

It was too warm in the Danger Room. Bobby could feel the moisture hanging in the air, the sluggish molecules of water swirling lazily with each breath that he and Mr Summers exhaled. He concentrated on the shallow bowl of water, while sweat pooled at the back of his neck.

"Try to relax." Mr Summers' voice was calm. Bobby eyed the most enigmatic of his new teachers from under the damp hair hanging into his eyes: well-pressed pants with a tidy crease, unruffled posture as he leaned against the far wall, and unreadable eyes on the display of the thermal sensor.

"I don't think it's working." Anyone else would have given up an hour ago. Bobby hated that he'd been in the Danger Room so long that he couldn't keep the petulance out of his voice. But the bowl of water had just sat there, being water, unchanging. He didn't understand how this was going to help with his other problem. The night-time problem.

Of all the teachers in the school, Bobby would have thought that Mr Summers would be the least approachable; he was kind of tightly wound. But for reasons that only make sense in the middle of the night, it had been to Mr Summers' room that Bobby had crept with flakes of snow melting in his hair, to tell him that he had blanketed his room in crisp, white powder.

It was to be expected, Mr Summers had told him, as the two of them stripped the bed and carried the sodden linen to the laundry. He'd been keeping his power strictly suppressed, terrified of discovery. Think of it as a good sign, he'd said, pouring hot milk from the saucepan neatly into two mugs. Bobby was letting down his guard, at some level, because he knew he didn't have to be vigilant anymore. And tomorrow, they'd start to practice.

Still, this morning, Bobby was regretting his midnight decision to confide in Mr Summers – the man was ten times the taskmaster in the Danger Room than he was in front of a blackboard. And the bowl of water just sat there, unchanging.

"Try to recreate your state of mind as you fall into sleep." Mr Summers was walking in slow, wide arcs around the centre of the room where Bobby was crouched over the still surface of the water. "Let your mind drift. Think about static, rainfall, those kinds of empty things. And relax – there's nothing to be afraid of. You're not going to hurt me."

Bobby concentrated on keeping his breathing slow and regular, thinking of the v-shaped molecules of water hanging in the air, and the density of them jostling for space in the shallow bowl. Mr Summers was still speaking, in that steady voice, but Bobby wasn't listening to the words. The perspiration gelled on his skin as the temperature plummeted in the room. His breath misted in the suddenly-chill air, and the surface of the water bloomed into solid ice.




Fire:

Bobby blew on the ends of his blistered fingers, and glared at John from across the room. John pushed the wad of tissues further up his bleeding nostril, and flipped him the bird. For a moment, the air shimmered with heat haze, and the moisture in the air writhed until Bobby leeched the excess energy, let the ambient temperature settle again.

"That's enough. For God's sake, you're not in kindergarten." Mr Summers stepped between them like a referee, both his arms outstretched. "Do I have to put you in separate corners of the room like toddlers?" He stood immobile between the two teenagers, despite the fact that either could do him significant physical damage. Bobby let his shoulders relax, as the endorphins fled and the wretchedness grew. John scowled, and dripped blood on the floor.

"John, go and see Jean, she can check if that's broken. And here's a tip for you – try not hitting on her this time; maybe she'll even use anaesthetic."

Scowling so hard that his eyes almost disappeared under his brows, John marched out of the room, and Bobby felt the temperature sink into clammy misery. He looked up at Mr Summers: behind the red lenses was a perplexed expression, which was so much worse than an angry one. Bobby rested his head in his hands, and wasn't surprised to feel Mr Summers' hand on his shoulder.

"It didn't take John long to learn to push your buttons, Bobby. I know you're not proud of that kind of behaviour."

Bobby made a noise like steam venting from a locomotive. "I'm sorry. I think he just brings out the worst in me."

Mr Summers turned a chair backwards and sat facing Bobby, crossing his arms on the back. "Well, maybe you could try bringing out the best in him?"




Earth:

Bobby wasn't sure exactly when he'd become the unofficial counsellor for the school, but when he thought about it, he was the student who had been at Xavier's the longest. He knew Miss Munroe spent as much time as she could with the students, but administration ate up a lot of her time, and she had delegated almost all of her classes. And though Bobby would trust Logan with almost any problem, he could understand why some of the newer students were a little intimidated by his gruff manner. So instead, they caught Bobby's arm after class, or crept nervously up to his desk when he was studying, or knocked on his door in the middle of the night. It worried him – he wasn't qualified to advise bereaved children, when the only experience he had with death were the losses they had all suffered together. He was discomforted by their expectation that he had all the answers. Sooner or later they would catch him out, and he didn't know if he was able to handle their disappointment as well as their grief.

One morning, after a night spent at the kitchen table with tearful twelve-year-olds, he traipsed out to the memorial garden, and sat on the newly laid turf opposite the three gravestones.

"How do you do it?" He addressed all three, although his question was mainly for Scott, who had somehow managed to help all of them without giving any indication that he didn't know exactly what he was doing. There was no answer, of course, although at that particular school, addressing those particular people, one couldn't be too certain. He sat beside Scott's marker, and watched colour bleed into the garden as the sun rose. As the dew beaded on the upright blades of the new grass, it occurred to Bobby that perhaps Scott didn't always know the answers; he preferred to help people find answers on their own.




Air:

Bobby leaned against the far wall of the danger room, and watched the girl who crouched in front of the square of paper on the floor. He didn't need any instrumentation to monitor the tiny movements of air that shifted the humid atmosphere, setting the water molecules dancing in space.

"It is no use." The girl rocked back on her haunches with a sigh. "I will never be able to move it."

Bobby pushed back off the wall and walked to the centre of the room. "Sure you can, Sofia. It's just that you're trying too hard at the moment. Your power was working just fine in the TV room last night."

The girl swished her ponytail in agitation. "It was working a little too well." She looked up at him with eyes full of worry. "Oh, Mr Drake, I am so worried I will hurt someone!"

Bobby crouched down opposite her, his voice steady. "It's okay. You're not going to hurt me. Relax – there's nothing to be afraid of. I know you can do it."