Home Is What We Build Together

Posted on Wed Mar 4th, 2026 @ 10:17am by Jean Grey-Summers & Maeve MacKenna

5,271 words; about a 26 minute read

Mission: Episode 7: Pathogens and Contagions
Location: Headmistresses Office - X-Mansion
Timeline: March 8, 1992

Maeve stood outside Jean Grey’s office longer than she meant to.

Not frozen. Just… stalled.

Her knuckles hovered inches from the door, flexing once, twice, as if they belonged to someone else. She could hear the house around her—footsteps down the corridor, a distant laugh from somewhere she couldn’t place, the quiet hum of electricity in the walls. All of it too clear. Too close. Like the world had leaned in and forgotten to give her space again.

She exhaled slowly through her nose.

This wasn’t a fight she could punch her way through. No ground to call up. No adrenaline to hide behind. Just words. And the awful realization that once she said them out loud, they’d stop being things she could shove into a corner and ignore.

She rolled her shoulders, trying to shake the restless energy that never seemed to leave her anymore.

Two days ago, she’d have felt the earth under her feet even in this hallway—stone floors, foundations sunk deep, everything solid and answering back. Now there was nothing. Just the echo. The absence. Like missing a tooth and not being able to stop running your tongue over the gap.

Her hand drifted to her throat before she caught herself.

The skin there was smooth. Healed. Perfect.

She hated it.

“Get a grip,” she muttered under her breath, voice low, Irish lilt thickening when she was nervous. “She’s Jean Grey, not the firing squad.”

Still, her stomach twisted.

How do you explain that something terrible happened to you… and part of you liked it?
That you missed your power so badly it felt like grief, but the thing that replaced it felt strong and sharp and hungry in a way that scared you?
That sometimes, when you closed your eyes, there was a presence—not loud, not cruel—just patient. Waiting. Promising.

She didn’t even know how to name that part yet.

Maeve dragged a hand through her hair, then dropped it, squaring her shoulders. Whatever this was, Jean needed to know. Someone needed to know. She couldn’t keep pretending she was fine just because she was still standing.

Not this time.

She lifted her hand.

And knocked.

There was a much longer pause than Maeve had expected after she knocked, one that was long enough that it made her start to question if Jean was actually in the office.

“Come in, Maeve.” Jean’s voice was a little raspy once she finally answered. As Maeve opened the door she was just in time to see Jean whisking a few tissues into the trashcan next to her desk. Her makeup wasn’t smudged but it was obvious the woman had been crying.

“Please, come in.” Jean stifled whatever she had been dealing with as her attention turned towards Maeve. “I’m free if you would like to talk.”

Maeve noticed everything.

The redness around Jean’s eyes. The way she’d moved the tissues too quickly, like if she did it fast enough they wouldn’t count. The tight control in her posture — spine straight, shoulders set — holding something together that had already slipped.

It wrong-footed her.

Jean Grey wasn’t meant to look like that.

For a split second, memories rose unbidden — her little sisters when they were small, huddled together and trying not to cry too loudly. The girls on the boat who’d gone quiet after the first few nights, learning fast that tears didn’t help. And her mam — not pale and still, not gentle — but gone, taken hard and sudden, leaving a space that never quite closed no matter how much time passed.

Maeve swallowed.

She didn’t say any of it.

She just felt that old instinct click into place — don’t crowd, don’t pry, don’t pretend you can fix it. Just… don’t make it worse.

“Oh,” she said quietly, stopping just inside the doorway. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to barge in.”

She shifted her weight, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands, and settled for tucking them into the pockets of her jumper.

“Are you—” She stopped herself, then tried again, softer. “If now’s not a good time, I can come back. Really. It’s alright.”

She glanced at the bin and then away again, deliberately giving Jean the dignity of not being stared at.

Maeve hesitated, then added, careful and respectful, “I just didn’t want to walk off like I hadn’t noticed.”

That was all.

No stories.
No comparisons.
No attempt to be wise or comforting.

Just a quiet offer of space — the only kind she knew how to give.

She stayed where she was, waiting to be told whether to step forward… or leave.

“Oh my dear, it is entirely alright. When I said my door was always open to you whenever you needed me, I meant it.” Jean gave her a small smile that helped ease some of Maeve’s worry about intruding on her. “It would be wrong of me to say that I don’t struggle with my own feelings and obstacles, you just happened to catch a moment of my personal hardships but that’s nothing to be ashamed of or avoided. We are all human after all.”

Jean looked up at her with warmth in her green eyes, they were the color of leaves in spring and Maeve felt a wave of welcome and peace as Jean’s telepathic presence appeared in the back of her mind, it helped to quiet some of the intrusive memories that told her to pull back and to run away. “Please come in and sit down. We are stronger when we are together.”

Maeve lingered for half a heartbeat longer, even after the invitation. Old habits died hard.

“Right,” she said softly, like she was agreeing to step onto thin ice. “Yeah. Okay.”

She moved into the office but didn’t go far at first, hovering near the chair instead of taking it straight away. Her hands tucked into the sleeves of her jumper, fingers worrying at the cuff. Even with that warm, steady calm brushing the edges of her mind, her stomach still felt tight. Talking about things wasn’t something she’d grown up doing. You got on with it. You didn’t make a fuss. You didn’t sit in a nice room and explain how your head felt wrong.

She finally sat, perching on the edge of the chair like she might bolt if she stayed too long.

“Sorry,” she muttered automatically, then frowned at herself. “I don’t know why I said that.”

Her gaze dropped to the floor, then flicked back up, uncertain. “I just… I wasn’t sure if this was a bad time. Or if this is even—” She stopped, lips pressing together. God, she sounded stupid. “People don’t really… do this where I’m from,” she added, quieter. “You don’t usually go knockin’ on someone’s door to say your head’s a mess. You just… keep goin’.”

She shifted again, restless energy coiled tight under her skin.

“But I didn’t know who else to talk to,” Maeve admitted, barely above a whisper now. “And I didn’t want to pretend anymore.”

Her eyes lifted to Jean at last, earnest and a little scared despite herself. “So… if this is alright… I think I need help. Or at least someone to tell me I’m not losin’ my mind.”

She let out a shaky breath, shoulders rising and falling.

“And if it’s too much, you can tell me. I won’t be offended. I promise.”

“Therapy isn’t so much about talking about feelings just for the sake of it. It’s more like learning how your mind reacts under stress and getting better tools to deal with real problems.” Jean got up from behind her desk and made her way over to the couch in her office that rested in front of the large bay window that provided a view of the driveway and the large fountain that greeted everyone when they arrived. She sat down and gestured for Maeve to sit down next to her, some conversations were better with a desk between the individuals, others required a more amiable environment.

“Not wanting to talk to other people about what’s bothering you means that you were taught to be responsible and self-contained. But when people don’t talk about what they are feeling it doesn’t just disappear, it shows up in other places. As for bother to me…” Jean pointed a single, well manicured finger at the framed degree that hung up on the wall across from them, her name written in fancy, bold calligraphy across it, “I’m the one person you should be bothering with all of this, otherwise that expensive education of mine is going to waste.”

“Using therapy isn’t burdening someone, it’s taking responsibility so your struggles don’t become other people’s problem later.” Jean said with an easy, casual shrug of her shoulders, “I’m happy to listen to anything you’d like to talk about.”

Maeve hesitated, then shifted on the couch so she was sitting properly instead of half-perched like she might spring up and flee.

“Alright,” she said quietly, nodding once. “That… actually makes sense. The tools bit, I mean.”

She picked at a loose thread on the cuff of her jumper, eyes fixed on it like it might tell her what to say next.

“I’m not great at the feelings-for-the-sake-of-feelings thing,” she admitted. “But I am very good at things comin’ out sideways when I don’t deal with ’em.” A small, humorless huff of breath. “So. Guess I’m here before that happens.”

Her shoulders rose and fell as she took a breath, steadier this time.

“It started with my power,” Maeve said, plain and honest. “Or… not havin’ it anymore.” She glanced up briefly, checking Jean’s face, then looked away again. “I didn’t realize how much of myself was tied up in it till it was gone. Sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”

It didn’t, but she didn’t know that yet.

“I used to feel the ground,” she went on, fingers pressing into the couch cushion like they were searching for something familiar. “All the time. Even indoors. Even when I wasn’t thinkin’ about it. It was just… there. Like breathin’. And now it’s not.”

Her jaw tightened.

“And what replaced it?” Maeve swallowed. “Feels wrong. Not broken, exactly. Just… sharp. Loud in my body. Like I’m always a half-second from movin’ even when I don’t need to.”

She let out a slow breath, frustration creeping in around the edges.

“I miss myself,” she said, quieter. “Or the version of me that didn’t have to think about every thought and every want and whether it’s actually mine.”

Maeve paused and let out a sigh.

“And—” Maeve cut herself off, then rushed on, like if she didn’t say it fast she’d lose the nerve. “I know this probably sounds like… I dunno. Like there’s some reason for it. Like somethin’ just happens to people after stuff like this.”

She shook her head once, frustrated. “I’m not sayin’ I don’t get that things mess you up. I’m just—”

Her voice dropped. “I don’t want this to be me now. I don’t want this to be the version that sticks.”

She finally looked at Jean fully, eyes steady but tired.

“So if you’ve got tools for that,” Maeve said. “For figure-out-what’s-mine and what’s not. I’ll take ’em.”

Not dramatic. Not pleading.

Just an eighteen-year-old girl, sitting with her hands clenched together, asking for help the only way she knew how.

“And… if at some point I say somethin’ that sounds mad,” she added, almost offhand. “I’d rather you tell me than let me spiral about it on my own.”

She leaned back slightly, exhaling.

“That’s where I’m at.”

“When I was a little girl, my powers manifested after my best friend had been fatally struck by a car. My telepathy also has empathy along with it and I experienced every second of her death. Her pain, her fear, her confusion, and then the awful silence that followed. It was a brutal and tragic moment that I was not equipped to handle in any way, shape, or form. And after that moment, I started to hear the mental voices of everyone else around me. Every thought that should have remained private, every feeling that crashed into parents as they mourn the death of their child, every hard and ugly fear that appeared because I withdrew. In my early years, I absolutely hated my telepathy, it felt like a curse that only hurt me and the people I cared about.” Jean paused for a moment as she recalled those dark days of her childhood and how the only solution thought was available to her was to hide.

“But then Charles came into my life and everything changed. He taught me how to control my abilities but he also showed me that they were a gift, something that I could use to help people. I now love my mutant abilities because without them I don’t think I could have done all the good things I have accomplished. Yet at the same time… they don’t exclusively define me, they are not the only part of me that is great and worthy. There are many people in this world who do beautiful, amazing things without mutant abilities because it’s what’s in your heart that matters and that you make the choice to lead with love over hate. You know who you are Maeve, you know what you stand for.”

"I know you want to go back to your old self, I want that for you too." Jean reached out and placed her hand over Maeve's gentle touch to remind her that she wasn’t alone in any of her feelings, they all struggled with these same worries. “So, I hope that we can stop whatever the vampires have done to you and Jennifer but at the same time if you lose your mutant abilities forever, you will still be who you are, you will still be a good person who is capable of amazing things… you would still be an X-Men.”

Maeve listened to Jean, really listened, but it took her a moment to answer. Not because she didn’t know what to say — because she knew too well where to start, and that bit always caught in her throat.

She stared at her hands for a second, then laughed under her breath. Not funny. Just… habit.

“Right,” she said quietly. “Okay. So… my powers didn’t show up like yours did.”

She shifted on the couch, knee bouncing once before she forced it still.

“My mam died when I was a kid,” Maeve said. Just like that. No build-up. No softening. “Not sick. Not slow. Just… gone.”

Her jaw tightened. “She fell. Cliffs. One minute she was there, next minute she wasn’t. That was it.”

She shrugged, like it was something that happened to someone else.

“And after that… things got weird.” She rubbed her thumb against her palm, grounding herself. “The ground started… listenin’. I didn’t know that’s what it was at the time. I just knew things moved when I got upset. Stones. Dirt. Walls crackin’. I thought I was losin’ it.”

She risked a glance at Jean, then looked away again.

“Everyone else thought so too,” she added. “Or worse. They thought I was dangerous.”

Her shoulders hunched slightly, defensive even now.

“I got sent away. Different places. Foster homes. People who didn’t want a girl who broke floors when she panicked.” A pause. “So I ran. A lot. Easier than explainin’.”

Maeve swallowed.

“I ended up on the streets. England mostly. Sleep where you can. Keep your head down. Don’t trust anyone.” Her mouth twisted. “Didn’t work.”

Her voice dropped, rougher now.

“A man said he’d get me to America. Said there was work. Help. A chance to start over.” She snorted softly. “You know how that goes.”

She didn’t look at Jean when she said the next bit.

“It was trafficking. Me and other girls. Younger than me. Some didn’t make it.” Her hands curled into the couch. “I don’t like thinkin’ about that part.”

There was a long breath. In. Out.

“My powers didn’t really… wake up until I had to fight,” Maeve said. “Not ‘oh wow I’m special’ fight. ‘If I don’t do somethin’, someone dies’ fight.”

Her fingers flexed, remembering.

“The earth came up. Hard. Fast. I didn’t even think about it. It just happened.” A beat. “That was the first time it felt like mine.”

She finally looked at Jean then, eyes bright but steady.

“I didn’t want power,” she said. “I just wanted it to stop. Wanted somewhere safe.”

Her shoulders dropped a fraction.

“When I got here… to the mansion… I thought maybe that was it. Maybe I could stop runnin’. Maybe I’d get that part of me back and learn how to live with it instead of fightin’ it.”

Her voice wobbled, just a bit.

“And now it’s gone again.” A frustrated huff. “Or buried. Or somethin’ worse took its place.”

She rubbed her face with both hands, dragging them down slowly.

“I know you’re gonna say I’m still me,” Maeve said, quieter. “And I know that’s probably true. I just…” She shook her head once. “I don’t wanna be the girl who survives horrible things and keeps losin’ pieces every time.”

She dropped her hands into her lap, fingers laced tight.

“I don’t wanna run again,” Maeve said plainly. “And I don’t wanna wake up one day and not recognize myself.”

“When someone says they don’t feel like themselves anymore, it usually means they’ve been surviving for a long time instead of living and that can quietly change how a person recognizes themselves. Making hard choices can feel like carving pieces away, but often what’s really happening is that parts of you are being set down, not destroyed. You’re adapting to pressure, grief, responsibility, or loss, and that kind of change can feel lonely even when it’s shared by countless others. You’re not broken for feeling this way, and you’re certainly not alone in it.” Jean attempted to comfort her, she hated how so many mutants felt discarded and alone simply for being born different. Maeve was a victim and had to survive.

“It may help to remember that who you are isn’t defined only by what you can do, tolerate, or sacrifice. I think the parts that feel missing aren’t gone; they’re resting, protected, waiting for safer ground. People don’t lose themselves by making hard choices; they lose contact with themselves when there’s no space left to listen inward. That connection can be rebuilt, slowly and gently, without undoing the choices you made to survive.” Jean placed a hand on her back, a soft touch to remind her that she didn’t have to run, there was a place and a person who would help her if she wanted it.

“Feeling whole again doesn’t mean returning to an old version of yourself. Wholeness is allowing every version of you to exist without judgment.” Jean tried to find the good in the situation, she didn’t know what fate held for Maeve but she wanted her to be okay with whatever happened. “It’s like the serenity prayer tells us… give me grace to accept the things that cannot be changed, courage to change the things which should be changed, and the wisdom to distinguish one from the other.”

She paused for a moment before she dared to bring up her next suggestion, but Jean felt that part of Maeve that was unresolved amidst all this self-reflection. “Have you considered reaching out to your father? You have two little sisters, don’t you?"

At the mention of her father, of her sisters, something inside her slipped. Not loudly. Not all at once. Just enough that she had to look away before Jean could see it properly.

Her jaw worked. Once. Twice.

“Yeah,” she said finally. Her voice came out hoarse. “I do.”

She cleared her throat and scrubbed at her face with the heel of her hand like she was annoyed at herself. “Two sisters. Both younger. Still kids, really.”

A beat.

“They’ve probably grown loads by now,” Maeve added, quieter. “I wouldn’t even recognise ’em if I passed ’em on the street.”

That was when it hit — sharp and sudden — and her eyes burned before she could stop it. She blinked fast, stubborn, but one tear slipped free anyway, tracking down before she wiped it away angrily.

“Sorry,” she muttered, immediately defensive. “I don’t usually—”

She stopped herself. Exhaled hard through her nose.

“I didn’t leave ’cause I didn’t care,” Maeve said, the words tumbling out now, messy and fast. “I didn’t just wake up one day and decide I was done bein’ their sister. I thought I was keepin’ them safe. I thought if I stayed away, it’d be better.”

Her fingers twisted together in her lap.

“But the longer it went on, the harder it got to go back,” she admitted. “What do you even say after years of nothin’? ‘Sorry I disappeared, hope you’re grand’?” A humourless huff. “Feels like an excuse no matter how you slice it.”

She swallowed, eyes fixed on the floor.

“And now?” Maeve shrugged weakly. “Now I don’t know if I’m afraid they’ll hate me… or if I’m afraid they won’t.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she hated that it did.

She pressed her lips together, breathing through it.

“I miss them,” she said simply. “All the time. I just… don’t know how to be part of their lives without blowin’ everything up again.”

She finally looked back at Jean, eyes bright and raw, no bravado left in them.

“So yeah,” Maeve said. “I think about reachin’ out. I just don’t know if I deserve to anymore.”

She leaned back slightly, exhausted in a way sleep wouldn’t fix.

“And that’s the bit I don’t know what to do with.”

“You deserve to have a family, Maeve. We all do.”
The words struck Jean harder than she cared to admit. Her groom was gone, her Manhattan apartment cold and dark, and the child she had so desperately wanted would never be. The family she felt she had earned—had deserved—was lost to her forever. Still, she refused to let that grief hollow her out, just as she wouldn’t allow it to do the same to Maeve.

“If you want a relationship with your family, then you should try,” Jean continued gently. “You aren’t the same person you were when you left. And you’re not alone anymore, you have all of us behind you.” She offered a small, reassuring smile. “It doesn’t have to start face-to-face. It doesn’t even have to be a phone call. Maybe just a letter to begin with.”

Maeve didn’t answer straight away.

You deserve to have a family.

It wasn’t the sort of thing anyone had ever said to her with that much certainty. For a moment she almost brushed it off out of habit, ready to deflect, but Jean wasn’t offering sympathy. She meant it.

Maeve swallowed and looked down at her hands.

“A letter,” she repeated, slower this time, testing the shape of it. “I could do that.”

Her knee started bouncing and she pressed her palm against it to still it. Writing felt… manageable. Not easy. Just possible.

“It’s not the same as showin’ up on the doorstep and expectin’ everything to be grand,” she went on, a faint, crooked smile touching her mouth. “I wouldn’t have to explain my whole life in one go. I could just… say I’m alive. Ask how they are. What they’re doin’. Normal things.”

She stared at a spot on the floor for a second before lifting her eyes again.

“I think I’ve been tellin’ myself that if I don’t reach out, then I’m not riskin’ makin’ it worse,” Maeve admitted. “Like if I stay away long enough, it won’t hurt as much. But it doesn’t go away. It just… sits there.”

There was still fear there, but it wasn’t swallowing her whole anymore.

“If they don’t answer, at least I tried,” she said quietly. “And if they do… then maybe I don’t have to keep carryin’ all of it by myself.”

She drew in a steady breath and let it out slowly.

“I don’t want to keep runnin’ from the things that matter,” Maeve said. “I’ve done enough of that.”

Her gaze lingered on Jean then, and something gentler shifted in it. She wasn’t telepathic, but she wasn’t blind either. She’d seen the tissues. The tightness in Jean’s posture. The way grief sat just beneath the surface, controlled but present.

“You know,” Maeve said carefully, not pushing, just offering, “you said I deserve a family.”

A small pause.

“So do you.”

Her voice was soft, steady.

“And for what it’s worth… you’ve got one. In here.” She gestured faintly toward the walls of the mansion. “Whether you like it or not.”

A faint smile touched her lips, warmer this time.

“You’re not the only one tryin’ to be brave for everyone else,” she added. “We see you too.”

“Thank you, Maeve. I promise you I am doing everything in my power to give all of you a place where you can do more than just survive.” Jean stopped short of calling Xavier’s a home. She knew too well that many of the students still had families who loved them, even if they struggled to understand their mutations. The word felt too heavy, too possessive. She blinked quickly, steadying the tears that threatened to fall. Her emotion weren't a weakness, they were proof that, unlike the ever-composed Charles Xavier, she led with her heart as much as her mind. And perhaps that difference was its own quiet strength.

“I always wanted to be a mother,” Jean admitted, her voice softening. “Even back with the boys of the First Class, I felt that instinct to protect, to guide, to care for them.” A faint, wistful smile curved her lips. “Now I have a house full of extraordinary young people to love. My heart still aches for what I’ve lost… but I can’t ignore how much I’ve gained either.”

She drew in a slow breath and gently refocused on Maeve, her gaze warm and attentive. “A letter telling your father that you’re safe and cared for would mean more to him than you might realize. It could ease his worry and open the door to something more.” Jean's smile was patient, reassuring. “But there’s no deadline. Take your time. Write when you’re ready, not before.”

Maeve hadn’t expected that.

There was something in the way Jean spoke about wanting to be a mother that slipped past all the careful composure and landed somewhere deep in Maeve’s chest. It wasn’t dramatic or self-pitying. It was simple. Honest. The kind of truth that didn’t beg to be fixed.

Maeve tried, for a second, to stay seated and respond in her usual way. A small nod. A wry comment. Something manageable. But the feeling in her chest swelled instead of settling, and before she could overthink it she was already on her feet.

The hug wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t the half-armed, awkward contact she usually defaulted to. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms properly around Jean’s shoulders, pulling her in with quiet certainty. Her cheek pressed lightly against Jean’s hair, and she held on longer than she normally would have allowed herself to. There was a tremor in her breath, but she didn’t step away from it.

“I know you don’t say it outright,” Maeve murmured, her voice thick but steadying as she spoke, “but this place feels like a home because of you.”

She swallowed, tightening her arms just slightly.

“You don’t have to call yourself anythin’ for it to count. You look after us like it’s stitched into your bones. You worry. You show up. You see things we try to hide and you don’t turn away.” A faint, shaky breath of a laugh left her. “That’s not just headmistress behaviour. That’s… somethin’ else.”

When she pulled back, she didn’t step away completely. Her hands rested lightly on Jean’s arms, her gaze open and earnest in a way she didn’t often let anyone see.

“If anyone ever had you as a mam,” Maeve said quietly, “they’d be the luckiest kid on the planet. And we’re not exactly nothin’, you know. We’re here. We’re yours in our own way.”

Her eyes shone, but this time it wasn’t only grief that made them bright. It was gratitude.

“You didn’t lose everything,” she continued gently. “You built somethin’. It might not look the way you pictured it once, but it’s real. I’m real. Rahne’s real. All of us. That’s not small.”

She gave Jean’s arms one more squeeze before letting her hands drop.

“You’ve been there for me in ways you didn’t have to be,” Maeve added, her voice softer now but certain. “So if I ever do sit down and write that letter… it’s partly because you showed me how to be braver about the things that scare me.”

A faint, stubborn smile touched her mouth.

“And if you ever forget what you are to us,” she said, warmth threading through the words, “I’ll remind you. Properly. As many times as it takes.”

“Thank you, Maeve,” Jean said, a soft smile brightened her face. “I may just hold you to that. We are better when we stand together. Some of us have families beyond these walls, some of us don’t but what we’ve built here matters. We challenge one another. We steady one another. And whether we realize it or not, we draw out the best in each other.”

Her expression gentled, warmth replacing the lingering strain in her green eyes. “If you ever feel lost, or overwhelmed, or unsure of your place in all of this, my door is always open to you.”

She let out a quiet, airy laugh. “And if I ever lose myself in my grief, you have my permission to remind me of the good that still lives here.”

Jean’s gaze lingered, sincere and unguarded. “That’s what we do in this house, we carry one another through the rough patches. No one stumbles alone and no one rises alone either.”

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