Title: Diamonds for Breakfast
Author: Jordanna Morgan
Archive Rights: Please request the author's consent.
Rating/Warnings: G. Beware the Fluff.
Characters: Cyclops and family, with an obligatory appearance by Wolverine.
Setting: Sometime in the future (chucking the whole Jean-is-dead/X3 thing, of
course).
Summary: To fulfill his daughter's innocently mistaken Christmas wish, Scott
Summers makes some personal sacrifices.
Disclaimer: Marvel and Fox create the characters that sell. I'm just playing
with them.
Notes: This story is a Christmas gift for a friend of mine. It was inspired by
the random memory of a jewelry-store commercial from years ago. As I recall, a
similar plot was involved there, but it failed to exploit the comic potential.
*g*



As a teacher, I've always believed a child could never be too young to learn.

Or at least, I *did* believe that until one Saturday morning in December, when
my four-year-old daughter sat poring over the newspaper at breakfast.

Don't get me wrong there—Rachel isn't a prodigy, at least not yet. Like any
average toddler, she started out playing with alphabet magnets at the age of
three; she can sing the complete alphabet with gusto, and count all the way up
to one hundred. But her spelling achievements so far have not surpassed some two
dozen words on the order of *cat* and *dog* and *tree*.

On the other hand, receiving an allowance at her tender age has taught her
something about the value of money—which was the first mistake.

And the second mistake was giving her oatmeal for breakfast.

You see, Rachel hates oatmeal. Whether sweetened with honey or spiced with
cinnamon, flavored with maple syrup or swirled with strawberry jelly, her
reaction is always the same: Oatmeal Is Gross. And her rejection of this
wholesome breakfast has, unfortunately, become the subject of her first battle
of wills with my wife the doctor. Jean flatly insists that our growing daughter
must have three bowls of oatmeal a week—and furthermore, that she must
actually consume at least half of it before she can go play.

Which is why Rachel was still sitting with me at the table after two hours,
casting baleful glances at her barely-dented serving of whole grains, and
groping for anything to do that didn't involve Eating Oatmeal.

In point of fact, I was the one actually <i
style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">reading* the newspaper. Between the full-time
occupations of teaching, parenting, and keeping mutant terrorists or rogue
scientists or killer robots from destroying the world, it isn't often I have the
chance just to sit down with the news and a cup of coffee. Not that reading the
headlines isn't almost as stressful as grading tests or saving the planet, of
course; but when there are politicians in office who think there should be leash
laws for you, it's a generally good idea to keep up with the times.

That day I had an entire week's worth of papers to catch up on, and I was about
halfway through them. As I finished browsing each one, it was carefully folded
and set aside in its proper order...

...Until Rachel lighted on the stack, purely as a distraction from the bowl of
alien slime in front of her.

With typical childlike restlessness, she ruffled through the pages and stared at
the grainy pictures (after I had quickly made sure there were no unpleasant
images from the world's latest war zones to scar her young psyche). She even
squinted at the blocks of text, occasionally reading aloud some familiar short
word. Soon the tabletop was layered with wrinkled, misfolded, and generally
disarrayed sheets of newsprint, ensuring that the papers would never again be
assembled in their rightful form.

I was a little annoyed, but not overly so. After all, in the middle of December,
the paper is almost nothing but ads for holiday sales anyway—and naturally,
those glossy pages full of toys and clothes and shiny things were what attracted
Rachel the most. She paged through the slick, full-color bonanzas of consumerism
in silent awe.

If Jean hadn't been away with Hank and the Professor at a scientific conference
in Manhattan, she would have reproved me for letting our child wallow in such
unhealthy, materialistic propaganda. But it was a lazy Saturday, and I was
reading the paper in blessed tranquility, and Rachel was at least looking at
some form of printed page instead of watching cartoons. So I let her ogle to her
heart's content... never imagining that her ideas would go beyond merely adding
a few more items to her pending letter to Santa Claus.

After a while, I felt her tugging at my sleeve.

"Daddy? I wanna buy Mommy a Christmas present."

"Oh yeah?" I didn't look up from the article I was reading about biomedical
company stocks. Even in this economy, those Worthingtons do alright for
themselves...

"See? It's right here in the paper. I got enough saved from my 'llowance to get
it," Rachel elaborated, her head raised proudly. "It's only three dollars an'
niney-nine cents."

I finally pried myself away from the financial section, leaning over to look at
the ad spread out in front of Rachel. It was a circular for a jewelry store at
the Westchester Mall. Her stubby finger was resting on the picture of an
elegant, heart-shaped pendant, with three colorless stones or crystals set in
it.

*Nice little trinket for that price*, I thought. *Unless it's one of those
cheap-junk-with-purchase deals*.

In search of fine print, I finally looked at the numbers printed under the
picture... and I swallowed hard as I realized there was no decimal point. The
pendant was made of real gold, and set with real diamonds. And instead of the
three dollars and ninety-nine cents my darling daughter had construed, its price
was *three hundred and ninety-nine* dollars.

"Will you take me to buy it, Daddy?" Rachel asked eagerly, gazing up at me with
melting blue eyes.

I looked at her, and somehow I managed a feeble smile.

"Well, I'll... I'll tell you what," I faltered, trying to sound casual. "If you
eat your *entire* bowl of oatmeal... then sure. I'll take you."

*There. She can't possibly live up to that*.

...And ten minutes later, I was staring down at an empty bowl with a comical
look on my face, as Rachel trotted off to fetch her piggy bank.



While my offspring was counting out her pennies on the table, I left her and
went upstairs. In our little family's suite of rooms, I took down my motorcycle
manual from the bookshelf, and removed the cluster of fifty- and twenty-dollar
bills tucked into the back cover. I counted them with a frown; then I slipped
them into my wallet, and made my way down the hall.

After a hesitation, I forced myself to knock on the door of someone who, I
suppose, must loosely be called a fellow teacher.

There was some muffled grumbling from within the room, comprised of what sounded
like terminology it was just as well Rachel wasn't there to hear. At last the
door opened three inches, and a disgruntled, half-asleep Logan glared out at me,
his stiff ridges of hair even more disshevelled than usual.

"*What*?" he asked, bluntly and irritably.

"Sorry to wake you up at..." I checked my watch. "Ten-fifteen A.M. But if you've
got it now, I need the money you owe me."

His scowl deepened suspiciously. "What money?"

"The money from our little bet—you know, the one you *lost*. The money I was
going to put toward some work on my bike."

"Oh. I thought you still had to save up for that," Logan murmured somewhat
dismissively, as he began to turn away.

I wrapped my hand around the edge of the door before he could close it behind
him. "Yeah, well—Rachel has other plans. She wants to go shopping for a
Christmas present for Jean."

Logan paused, glancing back at me. There was a gleam of devious amusement in his
eyes.

"That kid of yours is gonna make a great bookie someday. You know that, right?"

"Not if she spends as little time around *you* as I can help."

The Wolverine snorted a half-laugh. "Hey, the bet was *your* idea!"

Not exactly able to argue that point, I folded my arms and stared back at him
firmly. He shrugged and retreated into his bedroom, still chuckling at whatever
it was he thought was so funny. After some rummaging around in the bureau, he
returned to the doorway, counting through a crumpled wad of cash.

"I guess my name won't even go on the tag," he attempted wryly, handing over
several bills.

"*No*," I shot back as I took the money. "But if it's any consolation, neither
will mine. Rachel thinks she's doing this all by herself."

"I get it." Logan's lips twitched. "Not that it matters. Jean'll know anyway."

"Maybe," I admitted, as much as I disliked the idea. "But Rachel won't. That's
what matters."

"I thought you'd figure it was better for her to buy something she can afford
with her own money. You know, give her a real-life math lesson on the value of a
buck."

That thought had occurred to me—a fact that only made me feel more defensive.
I scowled and shrugged.

"Well... it's Christmas, Logan. Maybe you still don't get it, but Rachel wants
to do something special for her mother."

"I *do* get it, Scott," Logan retorted. For one brief, intriguing moment,
something in his eyes softened... and then he gave me a crooked smile. "If I
didn't, you'd be getting that money a month from now—to spend on a bike *I*
use more than you do."

Somehow, I couldn't help grinning all the way down the stairs.



The Westchester Mall was as jammed as one might expect for a Saturday two weeks
before Christmas, and the only parking spaces to be had were on the outer edges
of the lot. I managed to swoop into one just ahead of a blonde in a BMW who was
preoccupied with her cellphone. *Then* I waited to get out of the car until she
stopped glaring at me and went away.

When the coast was clear, I took Rachel from the back seat. She was fiercely
gripping a little beaded-leather coin purse Jubilee had given her for her
birthday, with all of four dollars and fifty cents inside it—and I suspected
any offer to carry it myself would only earn me a dose of budding feminine
indignance. Instead I settled for helping her tuck it securely into the inner
pocket of her pink-and-purple jacket. I pulled her hood up over her
strawberry-blonde ringlets, to protect her face from the chilly breeze; she gave
me an obstinate look, and pushed it back again.

Then she seized my fingers in her small gloved hand, and towed me off toward the
mall entrance.

When Rachel is on a mission, her single-minded determination is the equal of any
full-grown X-Man facing life or death. She pulled me straight past the toy
store, and the pet store where puppies and kittens frolicked in the display
windows, and even "Santa's Village" with the miniature train that encircled it.
She hauled me halfway across the mall in a fraction of the time it would have
taken to make the same trip with Jean—and when we reached her objective, *I*
was the one who was slightly out of breath.

Like Superman's fortress of solitude, the jeweler was a glittering arctic
palace, a maze of white-satin-lined cases beneath crystal chandeliers. I could
almost feel my wallet cringing in my back pocket. Rachel, on the other hand, was
undaunted, and she released my hand to scamper ahead eagerly. She moved from one
display to the next, pressing her nose against the glass, in search of the
bauble that had fatefully caught her eye in the newspaper.

While she was looking for her prize, I seized my chance to make the acquaintance
of a fresh-faced, dark-haired young man behind the counter.

"Good morning, sir!" I grasped his hand and pumped it vigorously. "Nice to meet
you. My name's Scott. That's my daughter, Rachel."

"Uh... hi. I'm Doug..."

With a slightly dazed expression, he pulled back his hand. He stared down for a
moment at the wad of money that had magically appeared in his palm—and then he
looked up suspiciously at me.

I quickly put my finger to my lips, then tilted my head toward Rachel. The first
flicker of vague comprehension passed through his eyes just as she started
jumping up and down.

"Here it is, Daddy! Right here!"

I went over to her. Still looking confused, Doug automatically moved down the
counter to join us. He somehow had the foresight to stash the money in his
pocket before Rachel could see it—but then, she had her face and both gloved
hands pushed flat against the glass, gazing at her Grail. There lay the
heart-shaped gold pendant with the three diamonds, resting on a white silk
pillow.

"Well, tell the man what you want," I said patiently. At the same time, I shot
Doug a significant glance that I hoped would translate through my ruby-quartz
glasses. His head wobbled slightly in a movement that was neither a nod nor a
shake, and I could only hope he understood.

"I wanna buy *that* necklace for my Mommy," Rachel explained, emphatically
pointing to the heart pendant.

Doug winced slightly and glanced at me. I gave him a slight nod, so he shrugged
and took out his key to unlock the case. Rachel watched him like a hawk as he
reverently lifted out the necklace and carried it back over to the register. He
tucked it into a little velvet jewelry case, then slid that inside a more
discreet cardboard gift box.

"And, uh—how do you want to pay for that?" he asked uncertainly, leaning over
the high counter to look down at Rachel—and making an obvious effort not to
dart any more glances toward me.

She gave him a prideful look. "*I'm* buying it. With *my* money," she said, and
went for her coin purse.

While she was fumbling with the zipper of her jacket, I hastily pointed a thumb
toward Doug's pocket. He flinched and pulled out the cash I had palmed him,
quickly counting through it. He barely had time to nod at me and tuck it out of
sight again before Rachel won her battle with the zipper, and triumphantly
brought up her little pouch.

I lifted her up so she could count out her money in front of him: three dollar
bills, three quarters, and an assortment of small change to make up the balance
of ninety-nine cents. Doug goggled slightly, but he rang up the sale—by its
real price, of course—and then made a show of putting away Rachel's money in
the cash register.

He hesitated slightly, giving me another glance, then handed the box to Rachel.

"You'd better look and make sure he gave you the right necklace," I said as I
put her down—gently but deliberately turning her away from the counter.

She complied, intently pulling the boxes open to examine her treasure, and this
time Doug took his cue perfectly. With practiced swiftness he recounted my
money, then quickly took the correct change from the register.

"Thanks for coming in," he said, and shook my hand—palming off the change and
receipt to me with an amused grin.

"Oh, no. Thank *you*," I answered gratefully, almost in a sigh of relief.
"Rachel, what do you say, sweetheart?"

My daughter turned to smile up at the hapless sales clerk. "Thank you," she said
prettily.

Doug grinned, and I thought he was blushing a little. "Any time."

Rachel's mission was now accomplished. Clutching her precious box, she slipped
her hand into mine, and we went home...

...Two train rides, one Barbie doll, and half an hour of puppy-watching later.



Because Christmas Day is taken up with the boisterous free-for-all of the Xavier
School's celebrations, Jean and I have adopted the tradition of our own intimate
little family observance on Christmas Eve. After dinner we open the gifts
waiting under the small tree in our apartment, then sing carols and roast
chestnuts (or in Rachel's case, pop Jiffy-Pop) at the fireplace.

It's the reason why Christmas Eve is my favorite day of the year.

That evening, we exchanged our presents. This mostly involved Jean and I
watching Rachel as she eagerly tore through her stack of gifts—but our
daughter had saved one small, haphazardly wrapped box for last. The word *Mommy*
was scrawled on its tag in black crayon, and after she'd had her fill of
examining her own loot, she reverently set the package on Jean's lap.

"This is for you, Mommy."

Smiling, Jean shot a glance at me, then carefully peeled back the wrapping
paper. She opened the cardboard gift box, then the velvet case that lay within
it... and caught her breath at the sight of the necklace within.

"Oh, it's beautiful, Baby." Beaming, she gently touched the diamonds that
ornamented the heart pendant. "Three jewels—one for each of us."

"That's what *I* thought of," Rachel lied shamelessly. "I bought it all by
myself, Mommy."

"That was so sweet of you!" Jean exclaimed.

Then she cast a knowing glance in my direction, and I blushed. After all our
years together, it's still hard to get used to the fact that you can't hide
anything from a telepath.

She put on the necklace, and gave Rachel a tight, lingering hug. Our little girl
bore it sheepishly, and when her mother finally let her go, she scampered off to
play with her own new toys.

The pendant sparkled beautifully on Jean's neck. She fingered it thoughtfully,
smiling it me, then reached up to stroke my cheek. "And it was sweet of *you*,
too."

I felt my blush grow a little hotter. "Oh, it was just..."

"No, really. I know what you gave up to get this for me—and to make Rachel
happy." My wife kissed me. "I'll make it up to you."

"Aw... you already have." I ducked my head. "I'm just glad you like it. I wasn't
sure you'd be so happy about letting Rachel think she did this by herself."

Jean smiled. "Children deserve a chance to act on that pure faith of theirs
sometimes. Besides, by letting her believe just this once, you proved you're a
father first—and a teacher second. I'm proud of you for that."

Feeling a warm glow inside me, I pulled Jean close, and leaned my head against
hers.

Then I heard her voice again, close to my ear.

"*Now*, about that bet with Logan..."

-------------------------------------
© 2008 Jordanna Morgan