Author's Note: Apologies for not posting on Monday. My hubby and I ended up with a mild but really weird case of food poisoning, and it took two days to recover.

As always, thank you for your reviews. I can't respond to all of them right now, but I have received them all. To d: That is a wonderful idea! And really good point. I have the perfect place to insert it. Thank you for your input.

Enjoy! And don't forget to tell me what you think! ~lg

~oOo~

The rising sun woke Anne from a sound sleep, and she frowned when she realized it had barely peeked over the horizon. Rolling over in bed, an involuntary groan escaped her lips as her back, legs, and shoulders protested all of the work she had done yesterday. But the kitchen was clean, and she could cook two decent meals each day. It was enough for now, and she instantly began thinking about the dining room she had already examined while waiting for supper to cook.

That room was, oddly enough, neglected but not trashed. It looked as if Charles and Hank had not set foot in there for nearly five years, and the cleaning would probably go quicker. Which she appreciated. While the hot bath last night had helped with sore muscles, Anne hoped to get a little more reading or, perhaps, some knitting done. She'd brought her knitting bag, but the shawl she wanted finished had sat there for the last two days while she began this new job.

Where in this house would knitting work, though? Anne sat up and looked around. This wasn't a house where handmade items draped over the back of the couch while a woman wound yarn onto a spinning wheel. Was it? Charles seemed intent on making her comfortable and welcoming her into his world. But she wondered just how he was supposed to fit into her world.

Shoving away her thoughts as she pushed back the blankets, Anne stood with another groan. Taking a few moments to stretch to her fullest, she smiled when her nightgown brushed her lower legs. With the kinks of the night pulled out of her muscles, she forced herself to walk into her dressing room, shaking her head. What has just happened? I have an actual dressing room?! She could hardly believe it even while standing in the other room. A quick glance in the mirror revealed a different woman than had stood there the day before. Yesterday, she'd looked downright frumpy with her hair around her shoulders and a baggy dorm shirt over her body. Today, she wore a long white gown that hugged her curves, its tiny straps accenting her shoulders and the pristine color making her tousled hair seem attractive.

Her aching muscles reminded her that she needed to walk, and she reached for the matching robe that went with the nightgown. It was the same white satin, but the back hem hung just a touch longer. It matched the house, honestly, as it trailed behind her and made Anne feel more refined, more like she belonged.

Walking down the stairs to the main floor of the house, she smiled. Morning sunlight, bright and fresh, slanted through windows in rays that showed the work that had been done. The floors glowed from where Hank had mopped during the previous evening, and more curtains had been removed. Somewhere, a grandfather clock ticked, and several smaller clocks echoed in the silence. From her spot at the base of the staircase, she could hear the birds outside. Anne closed her eyes for a moment, trying her best to absorb the feel of crisp morning air, the quiet of the house, and the perfection of this moment.

Then, moving away from the kitchen, she crept down a hall toward the one room she would never enter without an invitation. The door was cracked as if it hadn't latched the night before, and she didn't open it any further. But the sound of rhythmic breathing and a light snore told her that Charles slept peacefully. She could barely see sunshine also pouring into his bedroom from a west-facing window, but it had obviously not reached him yet.

Thankful that he seemed to be resting, Anne turned and hurried to the kitchen. That room was bright with white paint and appliances, all of them a few years old. The cleaning she'd given it the day before made it seem less abandoned and more like an actual farmhouse kitchen. A fruit basket on the heavy wooden table added color, and she spotted a truck arriving, filled with the groundskeepers. A door led to the back of the house, an easy place to enter when bringing in the groceries. But no machines interrupted the morning just yet, and it seemed like a perfect country house. Yeah, with a very wealthy owner who can hire his friends to cook and clean for him.

The thought disturbed Anne, and she reached for the tea kettle, filling it with water and setting it on the stove to heat. Charles had never truly flaunted his wealth, even in hiring her. If anything, he had tried to put her at ease in spite of the opulence around her. He had made her arrival about him rather than her luxurious accommodations, about his need instead of her meager existence, and about how she could actually offer more than his money could buy. Thinking of him like a spoiled child would not help her to help him. Not in the least.

A soft tap on the back door brought her from her thoughts. She peeked through the sheer curtain and saw the foreman of the groundskeepers. He waited with his head turned away, smiling when she cracked the door. "Sorry to disturb you, ma'am. But this was waiting at the gate, and I figured Mr. Xavier would like it."

Anne blinked at the newspaper he offered, taking it with a smile. "Thank you," she said softly.

The foreman stepped back, tipping his head, and Anne almost giggled when she realized that he thought she and Charles were. . .what? Married? Dating? Either way, he mistook her for more than an employee and friend, and she flushed at the implications.

Setting the newspaper on the table, Anne pulled out the same Blue Willow teapot that she'd used the previous morning. She loved the blue and white design and wondered about its history. A small bowl of lemons, the sugar dish, and creamer went on a silver tray, and she measured out the loose-leaf tea she'd bought just the day before. Charles hadn't minded the old tea she'd made yesterday, but Anne looked forward to this cup.

The kettle whistled before she could get to it, and she snatched it off the stove as quickly as she could. Her hand brushed against the hot surface, and she glared at the light burn. A glance out the door and a momentary listen told her that no one had stirred yet, and she poured the water into the teapot and covered it with a thick towel. Then, she hurried upstairs to dress for the day.

Once back in the kitchen, she found the tea brewed to Charles's preference. She fished out the cheesecloth she'd used to hold the tea, and pulled bagels, fruit, and cream cheese from the refrigerator. She thought about making some bacon but decided against it as neither Hank nor Charles had complained about her light fare the previous day.

She had just finished toasting the bagels when Charles wheeled into the kitchen. Today, he wore a blue button-down shirt and gray slacks, his hair still a bit unkempt but obviously finger-combed. He had also put on shoes instead of his typical house slippers, and a smile touched his face as he looked for her. "You know you don't have to cook for us every morning."

Anne straightened with a grin. "If it gets you up and going on a good day, yes, I do."

Charles sighed. "Anne, I didn't hire you to be my cook. Or my housekeeper."

"No, Charles, you didn't." She settled at the table rather than getting plates, cups, and saucers for their meal. "You asked me to come help you get out of your depression, and I'm happy to do so. I'm no psychologist, but even I know that living in perpetual gloom and dust is unhealthy. So, my way of helping you initially is being here if you have a medical need and meeting those other needs that I can. Such as making certain you have a decent breakfast and supper." She sat back. "Lunch is all up to you."

Charles watched her as she went to get their plates and cups, his face scrunched up in confusion. Anne ignored him, preferring to keep busy instead of enduring his questioning glances. She'd seen them before, back when she and Franklin had been living together in Oxford. Now, she saw them again, but in a different light. Was he regretting hiring her? Was what she was doing any help at all?

By the time she turned back, he had wiped the questioning expression from his face. He thanked her for getting the plates and helped set the table. Then, he proceeded to pour both of their tea, glancing over when he noticed the lightness of the brew. "You realize I haven't eaten a proper breakfast in years."

"Why do you think I didn't load your plate with something heavy?" Anne took her cup and saucer, surprised that he'd made it just the way she liked it, and allowed herself to sit back in her chair. "I remember coming back to the States to find out I had to do things all by myself. Getting up in the morning and eating. . . ." She let her eyes lose focus a bit, her gaze not truly on him or the tea set. "Well, let's just say it's harder than people think. When you're accustomed to someone else, having a family, and never being alone, suddenly cooking for just one or eating by yourself. . .It's devastating." If you even get that opportunity. Sometimes, it's worse.

A scowl had come onto his face as she spoke. He leaned forward, his blue eyes so piercing she wondered if he really could read her thoughts. "Was it so terrible? Coming home from Oxford?"

Anne laughed, an unhappy sound that had an old pain attached to it. She had the story she told friends, the one that kept the truth hidden for a while longer. "I didn't think it would be. But my parents learned what I'd done—how I'd allowed myself to 'be corrupted,' as they termed it—and they turned me out." She reached for a cooling bagel and the cream cheese, choosing not to look at him as she answered his question. "For a long time, I lived by what I could, staying with friends until I got on my feet. But I wasn't ready. Oxford, living in my parents' big house. . . .none of it really prepared me for the world out there."

Charles listened as intensely as he had when they had been in university together. "And Franklin?" he asked softly, though she had the impression he wanted to ask something else.

Anne snorted at that. "I don't know, and I don't care." She looked up then, not afraid to let Charles see just how hurt and angry she still was at the man. "It took a long time to get up the nerve to leave him, and it was the best thing I could have done. No matter what happened after that." She felt a blush building but knew she needed to say the next bit. "I have you to thank for that, by the way."

Charles actually laughed, clearly embarrassed based on how he shifted in his chair and reached for a second bagel. "Me?"

"Yes." She pushed aside her breakfast for a moment. "Charles, I wasn't going to tell you this until much later, maybe when it wouldn't sound like I was trying to take advantage of you. And I'm not. But you've got to understand something about me." She drew in a deep breath, waiting until he looked up at her in confusion. "It wasn't me that had the courage to leave England. It wasn't anything I did. I met a young man who showed me that Franklin wasn't the only way to live, that I could be worth something and do something with my life. He showed me that men don't just take what they want from women, no matter what was taken from me then or after. And he's the one that gave me the courage to leave."

Charles chuckled again. "Anne, that was all you."

"No, it wasn't." She shook her head. "I'm here because you're my friend, and I owe you a debt. One I intend to see paid back in any way I can. If that means I cook and clean, then I cook and clean. If it means I get to slap you upside the head every now and then, well. . . ." She grinned at that, deliberately lightening the mood with the joke.

This time, Charles let out a genuine laugh. "Okay, I don't think that will be necessary." He stared at her for a moment, a smile on his face. "But thank you."

And you don't owe me a debt. Anne could almost hear his voice in her head. It was something he would say, but he didn't.

A few moments later, Hank made his way into the kitchen, still blinking in the sunshine. Charles looked at his friend and smirked at Anne. "Looks like I'm not the only person you're intent on turning into an early riser."

Hank actually growled at Charles, took his plate and tea, and left the kitchen, still more or less asleep on his feet. The pair at the table watched him go, both grinning in genuine amusement. Then, Charles noticed the newspaper. He frowned. "What's this?"

Anne shrugged. "The grounds foreman said it was delivered to the front gate this morning." She flushed then, realizing just how it looked from the outside. This morning—and yesterday, for that matter—she and Charles had sat side by side at the table, chatting and laughing about something. No wonder the guy had assumed she lived here as. . .what? The mistress of the house? Or that she was merely visiting Charles for a few nights? Anne wanted to laugh at that and chose to swallow her amusement along with a sip of tea. Still, as soon as her bagel was finished, she pushed away from the table, startling Charles from his close scrutiny of the daily news.

He frowned. "What's on the schedule for today?"

"The dining room." Anne rinsed her plate and left it sit, prepared to clean it up that evening.

Charles watched her move, clearly concerned. "Don't overdo," he cautioned her.

She stared at him. "I won't." When he seemed to doubt her, she held up a hand. "I promise I won't."

"Better." He went back to the paper, leaving her to her day. But, when she reached the door of the kitchen, he stirred again. "Oh, Anne?" He held up a hand when she turned. "These are for you. For the next time you need to go to town."

Anne automatically reached out, staring at the keys he deposited in her palm. "Charles, you don't. . . ."

"You don't have a car of your own, and I have three that are not being used." He shrugged. "Feel free to take it whenever you need, even if it is just to go for a drive."

She blinked a few times and then met his eyes. "Thank you."

And she meant it. This was just another example of the man Charles Xavier really was beneath the shaggy hair and recovering addict. He saw a need in his friends and did his best to fill that need. Even if it meant entrusting a very expensive item to them. To Charles, it wasn't about the money, and Anne found herself grateful she'd accepted the job.

A few moments later, she stood in the dining room and wondered if she really was as thankful as she'd thought.

~oOo~

That evening, Anne served rice pilaf, baked chicken, and steamed vegetables in the glittering dining room. The wood panels reflected the light of the chandelier—which she had obviously cleaned—and the dirty, moth-eaten drapes had been replaced with slightly newer, much cleaner ones. The table had been oiled from top to bottom, and the parquet floors practically glowed as Charles wheeled his way into the room. Steam rose from the plates Anne had just set on the table, and he shook his head. This was incredible. The woman had managed to take this room from dusty and unused to a welcoming atmosphere in spite of its emptiness in just one day.

Said woman waited for him to finish taking in the changes. Charles took a moment to truly study the room, seeing how she'd even dusted his mother's china and replaced it in its original positions. The china cabinet, sideboard, mantle on the fireplace, paintings on the walls, cushions on the chairs. . .everything looked just as it had the day he returned from Cuba.

Seeing the uncertainty on her face, he forced himself to smile in spite of his memories of that time. "Supper smells incredible."

Relief covered Anne's expression, and she motioned to the head of the table, where she had removed a chair to make room for his wheelchair. Hank took a spot on his left, leaving Anne to settle to his right. Charles frowned, not liking the formality of it but unwilling to make a big deal since Anne had seen fit to serve their evening meal in that room.

A few moments later, he was grateful he hadn't. She began asking Hank about how he and Charles had met, and the two men kept her entertained with modified versions of their first meeting. Nothing was said about either man's mutations, and many of the difficult times—namely how Charles ended up in the wheelchair—were avoided. Instead, they focused on the times since 1962 when laughter had all but overtaken them. The conversation moved from there to some of Charles's escapades in Oxford, and Raven was even mentioned a time or two. By the time the two men sent Anne upstairs to rest, Charles had finally relaxed for the evening.

And so the days passed. Each day, another public room of the house was cleaned, though some of them took longer than others. Anne chose to finish the work in the entrance of the home, spending hours cleaning the floor around his family's coat of arms and then finding a tall ladder to wash windows dimmed by age. Charles tried to help in his own way, wheeling through to watch her work while he tackled the library. He still hadn't started on his study, but that room had more memories than most. Instead, he spent the week slowly dusting the books he could reach and making a note to ask Hank about how he could extend his reach. Anne, sensing his desire to be helpful, entered the library only when she wanted to read a book or needed to ask him something.

A week later, the library was done save for the upper shelves and light fixtures. Charles looked over his handiwork, surprised at how much of a difference the week had made. He'd grown accustomed to Anne's thoughts throughout the day and knew when she'd slipped into "work mode." Most of the time, she had a small radio with her, listening to whatever station struck her fancy. Some days, it was news and politics, a topic that interested Charles for more reasons than simply knowing what was happening in the world. Others, she chose music. He'd learned that her mood that morning indicated the type of night she'd had, and she always greeted him with hot tea and a bagel, subtly increasing the amount of fruit she prepared as he began to eat more.

Charles also noticed a difference in Hank. The scientist seemed a little less awkward, though he still growled in the morning. But he refused to sleep through breakfast, usually joining Charles and Anne every other day. Charles knew it depended on how late Hank stayed up the previous night, working on whatever he wanted in his lab. But Anne's presence had impacted the other man as much as it had the house, and Hank seemed to be moving past his lingering grief over Raven's actions and the guilt over his perceived complicity in her betrayal.

Charles, however, found the biggest change in himself. With the house being clean, he found that he looked forward to each day in spite of his limitations. He actually dressed each morning, enjoyed the breakfast Anne made, and fought to keep from snickering every time she wondered how long it would take the groundskeepers to figure out she wasn't. . . .How did she put it? The "mistress of the house?" While a part of him wanted to correct that assumption by his employees, another part of him wondered if it could happen. He had always trusted Anne, always been drawn to her, and always enjoyed her company. Now, with his disabilities, could he find it in himself to, perhaps, love again?

Charles pushed away the thought as he rolled toward his study. He hadn't allowed Moira, a woman who had taken him by storm during his recovery from the shooting, to stay. But she had been CIA, required by law to tell her agency where he lived and what he planned to do. He couldn't have his home's location—or the safety of his students at the time—compromised because of his own desires. But Anne was different. She wasn't CIA or anyone with any contacts. If anything, she was as friendless and lost as he found himself, just with a different way of coping with the loneliness.

Something from the corner of his eye caught his attention, and Charles stopped his chair so suddenly he felt it slip on the newly-polished floor. Then, he turned to make certain he had seen what he thought he'd seen.

Anne had found a ladder somewhere and was perched precariously at the top, reaching toward the highest crystals of the chandelier in the music room. That ceiling was at least twenty feet high, and she had managed to clean almost every crystal on the light. The radio on the ground belted out a song by the Temptations, and she seemed oblivious to everything around her. But the ladder, an A-frame that she'd locked in place, rocked slightly with her movements, and Charles saw one of the feet slipping.

Waiting until she wasn't so precariously perched, he rolled into the room. "What are you doing?!" His voice echoed, and he winced when he realized how loudly he'd spoken.

Anne startled, grabbing the top of the ladder, and stared down at him. Then, she let out a deep breath, her sudden fear of falling nearly overwhelming him. She looked away, giving him a moment to force himself to breathe and clear any expression but absolute shock from his face. Then, she laughed lightly, an understandable reaction to the adrenaline coursing through her veins. "What does it look like, Charles? This needed to be cleaned, and I couldn't find Hank to ask him."

Charles eyed the ladder. "Something tells me you haven't asked him to clean a single thing."

"I haven't." She climbed down after determining that every crystal on the chandelier sparkled in the late-afternoon sun. "I haven't needed to, frankly." Then, she frowned. "And you can wipe that look from your face. I'm not helpless, and I refuse to act like it."

Charles sighed at the wave of determination that swept from her and over his mind. She was gearing up for a real fight, something he wasn't certain would be beneficial to either of them. Over the week, he'd seen what the house did to her, how she tried to become more refined to fit in, and how she had a need to have any reminder of her former life gone. He had brought her here to help him, but he realized now that she needed as much help, perhaps in a different way. "Anne," he began, doing his best to soften his voice rather than shouting at her, "I appreciate all you're doing here. Really, I do. But if you need help, I'm happy to hire someone to help you."

"That's just it, Charles." She began gathering her cleaning supplies, annoyance rippling toward him. "I don't need help. I am perfectly capable of caring for myself, no matter what anyone thinks. And I'm not used to having other people do for me. Not when I have two good hands that can do the work."

He was thankful she didn't add two good feet to that statement. "That's not what I'm trying to say."

"That is what you're saying!" Her voice turned forceful but soft. "I'm not some dainty flower that will wilt at the first sign of work, and you need to understand that. I put myself through school when I came home, became a nurse, and lived by that profession until a week ago. Cleaning your house, while a lot more physical than what I was doing at the time, is easy." At least I'm not being vomited on, cleaning up after people who can't hold it, people who are bleeding, or people who just think that I exist to serve them.

That last bit caused Charles to blink and frown deeply. He tried to breathe his way through the latent anger she'd unleashed on him and thought back to how he'd been treating her. Except for a few occasions, he had not limited her from doing anything around the house.

She sighed as if trying to let go of the irritation, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to attack you."

"Well, you did a very good job of it." Charles added a slight chuckle to soften that blow. Then, he leaned forward and managed to capture her hand, noting the roughness of her skin and ignoring the smell of glass cleaner. "Anne, I wasn't trying to throw money around or limit what you can or cannot do in this house. If you feel you need to clean, then clean. I'm just asking that you allow others to help when you need it. For example, have Hank clean the chandeliers." He held up a hand. "For my own peace of mind as much as anything."

She clenched her jaw as if to protest, but she stopped when he squeezed her hand gently.

Still craning his neck to look up at her, he added, "Please."

She squeezed his hand before releasing it, laughing as she shook her head. "You really know how to use those baby blues, don't you?"

Charles frowned, this time completely confused by her statement. "I'm sorry?"

"Never mind." A flush covered her cheeks, and he saw himself, at least ten years younger, staring at her with such earnest care and persuasion in his eyes. That was what she'd seen in him while in Oxford? He blinked, thankful she still hadn't turned his way to see the sheepish expression—and the slight bit of embarrassment over his current circumstances—that flickered across his face.

He watched as she moved on to the next job—dusting the old grand piano—and sighed. The argument had not been forgotten, but she felt as if it had been resolved. At least, for the moment. He waited until she looked up at him. "I'll find Hank for you and make certain he's available when you need a chandelier cleaned." Charles eyed the ladder. "Just please, for my sake, don't go climbing ladders older than I am on slick floors. I'd rather Hank lug the heavy one inside." And I'm grateful that there is a heavy one to use as cover for Hank's blue form. Because Heaven knows he won't use a ladder.

Anne held his gaze for a moment, her chocolate brown eyes showing she wanted to be mutinous but understood why he asked. "Okay," she said finally. "I'll ask Hank to clean the chandeliers, and I'll be a little more careful."

Content that he'd made as much progress as he was going to, Charles backed out of the room, shaking his head. Anne was still irritated over his request, but her thoughts weren't too irrational. Or, rather, they moved on from the irritation to her memories of him in Oxford. Did she really think he was the perfect example of a true gentleman? She was in for a sad revelation!

Heading down to Hank's laboratory, Charles let out another deep breath and rubbed his forehead. Somehow, he suspected he and Anne were going to clash over a great many things during her time here. And, for some reason, he almost anticipated the fight.

~TBC