Despite the fact that the clock on the wall—which had ticked loudly in the otherwise empty kitchen—had read that it was almost two in the morning on a school night, you still stood facing the coffee machine, waiting for the coffee pot to finish coming to a boil. It wasn't exactly your plan to stay up all night, but you wanted to finish getting through the rest of the small pile of papers that you had left on your desk, and then after that, you could go to sleep, even if it was only for an hour before you had to be awake again. Hank had always hated it when you stayed up late into the night, and into the early hours of the morning, because he knew just how crappy you would feel throughout the rest of the day, considering as he was also one to do the same some nights. When a yawn escaped passed your lips, and the coffee machine clicked, signalling to you that the coffee was now ready to be poured into your mug, the door to the kitchen slowly pushed open. As you turned to face the door, Jean's dark red hair peaked through first before you saw the rest of her face. Her tired eyes quickly found you in the badly lit room and she stepped inside, closing the door behind herself.

     "Hey, Jean," you spoke softly, watching as she hesitated coming closer to you. "Is everything alright? What are you doing up so late?"

     Jean's lips parted slightly and she shrugged, not being able to fully trust her own voice. She closed her mouth and wrapped her arms around herself, no longer making eye contact. "Couldn't sleep," she finally answered, and her voice came out unsteady. It wasn't the first time that she had sought you out late at night or in the early hours of the morning, and you knew it wouldn't be the last.

     "Do you want to go to my office and talk about it?" You stepped closer to her, leaving your empty mug on the side, no longer needing coffee to stay awake, when your concern for Jean had the same effect.

     "Please." She nodded quickly and allowed you to wrap an arm around her shoulders to guide her out of the kitchen, flicking the lights off as you left, before steering her towards the direction of your office.

     The rest of the mansion was silent, which was expected, and only the sound of Jean's bare feet softly tapping against the wooden floorboards could be heard, as yours were muffled by the thick fluffy socks you wore to keep your feet warm during the winter. The hallways were dimly lit from the light of the moon that managed to make its way passed the tall, thick trees outside and passed the panels of the stained glass arches from the windows. As you both turned down one of the hallways and to a closed-door on your left, you removed your arm from her shoulders and pushed the door open. When you motioned for her to walk inside, she shuffled into the middle of the room, glancing at your desk, where the only source of light was coming from your old desk lamp, which hummed faintly, preventing the room from being completely silent. The moment you closed the door behind yourself and stepped closer to Jean, she turned away from your desk and wrapped her arms around the middle of your waist, tightly, tucking her head underneath your chin.

     "I've got you," you spoke softly, holding her close, allowing her to find some comfort in your embrace. It wasn't something that you normally would have done, considering as you were her teacher, but you knew that she needed it. Jean had always been hard on herself since she arrived at the mansion, and you had picked up on her habits rather quickly, even the ones she thought she had hidden well. You had also picked up on the other students at the mansion, the ones who would ridicule or turn their backs on her because of her abilities, and the control she had been struggling with, while they seemed to have relatively more stable control than herself.

     "I hate it," she whispered, pulling her head away from your body. Jean looked at you, and you couldn't help but notice, even in the badly lit office, that the whites of her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks were flushed red, but she had yet to allow herself to cry. Her body trembled lightly, which told you that she was close to breaking down.

     "C'mon, let's sit down, and you can let it out," you told her, pulling her to the small sofa that you had in the corner of your office that you used when you took a break from work to read.

     When you sat down on the sofa, and the plush cushions sunk under the weight of both your bodies, she leaned into you, resting her head on your shoulder. "I can't take it anymore," she sighed, her voice finally breaking. "I just can't."

     "What did they do?"

     "They keep looking at me like I'm a freak, like I'm not as good as them... like there's something wrong with me."

     "There's nothing wrong with you, Jean."

     "Then why do they keep acting like there is?" She pulled her body away from yours and moved to sit facing you, crossing her legs. "There must be something wrong if they all do. If they all think that there is." Her hands swiped at her cheeks when the tears that stung her eyes began to roll down them.

     "Things, which people don't fully understand, scare them, and when people are scared, they act out in ways that they wouldn't normally." You turned to face her, tucking only one leg on the sofa, while the other remained touching the ground. "Your abilities, your incredible abilities, are still being figured out, they are still being learned, and so they aren't fully understood yet—but they will be, and that will take time, as much time as you need."

     "So, they're scared of me?" She frowned.

     "No," you were quick to reply, "they just don't understand what it is that you can do, but, one day, they will, and they will see that it's okay, that everything is okay."

     "But what if I never figure them out? I can't handle the voices anymore, I—"

     "Don't listen to the voices, Jean. You're more than what they think or say that you are. I know that you know that. They don't define you, only you can decide who you are. Their opinions, their words, their actions... they don't make you who you are. It's what you choose to do, and how you choose to act on them that do. You could either give in, and be what they think you are, or you can show them your real worth, and I, for one, know that you are worth so much more."

     "And what if you're wrong?"

     With a small smile and a faint shrug, you replied, "I might be, but something tells me that I'm not, and I know you feel that way too."