Disclaimer: I don't own the X-Men, don't own the church, but I do own a hoodie similar to Chris's that my mom yells at me for wearing.

A/N: I hope this chapter redeems me. That last chapter really, for lack of a better word, sucked. It'll get better, I promise. I'll probably be going through and fixing a few minor issues after my beta (go gaelicdragon!) gets her printer fixed and helps me out, just so you know.

Chapter 4 – Anniversary

"Rise and shine, children!" My mother paraded around the top story of the house, flinging open all the shades, curtains, and doors.

I groaned and turned over onto my stomach and buried my face in my pillow, trying to block out the sunlight streaming in my windows.

Mom pulled my pillow out from under my head. "Up-up-up! It's a gorgeous day, and you and Christopher have to help me cook!"

Oh yeah – today was my parents' anniversary, wasn't it? I rolled back over and sat up. After a good amount of stretching and eye rubbing, I stood up and grabbed my bathrobe off the edge of my door.

"Chris!" Mom yelled through his door as I stepped out into the hall. "Get up!" She twisted the knob, but the door was locked. "Christopher! Open the door this instant!"

We waited for a full five minutes before Chris emerged from his room, dressed, as always, in his big black hoodie.

"Really, Chris, do you have to wear that hateful…sweater?"

He stared at her. "Yes."

Mom put her hands on her hips. "You're not hiding something under that thing, are you?" she asked suspiciously.

Chris's face was just as impassive as ever. "No."

"Fine," Mom huffed. She marched off towards the stairs. "Now, we all need to go get started on making the anniversary supper for this afternoon. I expect you both downstairs in the kitchen in ten minutes. No dawdling." Then she went back downstairs.

Chris turned and glared at me. "You told her," he said flatly.

"What?" I shook my head. "Why on earth would I do that?"

He shrugged. "Dunno." Then he meandered lazily down the hall and down the stairs.

I stuck my tongue out at his back and went back inside my room to change. Since I knew my mom would want something dressier than what I usually wore, I took out my drabbest windpants and a gray hoodie over a bland T-shirt. I loved fighting back in subtle ways.

"Honey, get out of that…that horrible clothing!" Mom said as I walked down the stairs. "You look as bad as Chris."

I rolled my eyes, which was another subtle rebellion. "Well, we are related, after all. So far as I know, anyway."

Mom just sighed and turned back to the many cookbooks spread out across the table. "Theresa, you're in charge of dessert." Goodie. I got to stare at chocolate for a while. "Chris, you can do the salad." Good choice. Give him something where he had no excuse to stick his head into the oven or try to stick someone else's head into the oven.

"Pick your cookbooks, children. Let's get baking!"

Just shoot me now.

"You know, Chris, you can't just put lettuce in a bowl and call it a salad. You actually have to put things like shredded carrots and stuff like that."

Chris glared at me. "Shut up. I'll make a salad however I darn well please."

I shrugged. "It still needs something other than lettuce."

"You know what? Fine." With that, he walked over to the fridge, got out some Italian dressing, and dumped some on top of his lettuce. "Happy?"

"No."

He bared his teeth. "Fine. Gimme some of that." He pointed at the bowl where I was mixing brownie batter.

I snatched it away. "No! This is my food, not yours! Don't go messing with it, you hear?"

Chris ignored me and snatched a spoon off the counter. Before I could stop him, he grabbed a spoonful of batter and dumped it onto the salad.

"Chris," I moaned, "you just wrecked the salad. That batter's got eggs in it."

He shrugged. "They don't know the difference." He walked by me again and got some sliced carrots out of the fridge. "Here. Just to make you happy."

I snorted. "It'll take more than carrots to make me happy. You need so much stuff… Try some meat." I reached into the fridge and grabbed some sandwich meat and cheese and passed them to my brother.

"Why would someone want to put meat in a salad?" he asked, raising one eyebrow. "The point of salads is to give people their vegetables in the most painful way possible. Meat doesn't belong in a salad."

I sighed. "Here. You make the brownies, I'll handle the salad." We switched places, and I immediately rinsed the salad. After all, there was brownie batter and Italian dressing in there – neither of those items had any place in a decent salad.

When I turned back around, my eyes nearly left my head. "Chris! What the heck are you doing?"

He had somehow managed to get much of the batter on the counter and his hoodie. "I'm making brownies, just like you told me to."

"We want to have batter to pour into the pan when we're done, not a mess on the counter! And you are aware that you're hoodie's gonna need to be washed, aren't you?"

Chris's eyes got wide. "Oh, crap." He started rubbing at it frantically. "Get me a washcloth, Theresa, don't just stand there!"

I considered not doing it, but he had saved me from the mud yesterday, so I owed him. I gave him a washcloth.

"Shit!" he growled. "It won't come out!"

"You can borrow mine tomorrow while it gets washed," I offered.

He shook his head. "No, I'll just wear this one until Mom and Dad force me to wash it. Then I'll pray for a quick death."

I couldn't help but worry. What would happen when they did ask him to wash it, and forced him to take it off in front of them? My first instinct said this: bad things…

"You're putting too many candles on the table, Theresa. What are you trying to do, set the house on fire?"

I stuck my tongue out at Chris. "There is no such thing as too many candles, Chris. I'm just making up for the lack of electric light that this room will soon have."

He shrugged. "Whatever."

Personally, it felt a little odd to have Chris following me about the room lighting candles as I put them down. I was a little worried he'd light my hair on fire or something. I pushed back the small worry and decided to focus on finding good spots for my remaining three candles instead. I turned around to look at the room –

And ran my nose into the tip of the long-necked lighter. Which was on.

I screamed and fanned my nose. "You moron!"

For the first time in months, something other than impassivity – sheepishness. "Sorry." That was something I hadn't heard for a while.

I ran over to the sink, stuck my face under the faucet, and ran cold water over my nose. "God, that hurt."

"Well, that oughta teach you not to run into lighters, dummy." Well, Chris was back to normal – sarcastic and emotionless. How fun.

"Children?" Mom called from the doorway. "Are you done yet?"

I set down the last candle and stood aside for Chris to light it. "Come on in!" I called, trying to sound cheery.

Mom came in, pulling Dad behind her. "It's beautiful, children." She glanced at the table: two places were set. "You're not staying to eat with us?"

"No!" we said in unison. The year before, they had gotten so mushy and disgusting that I had gotten up and left. I didn't want to go through that again.

"We'll save you some food," Dad promised.

Then I bolted. Before you could say "lovebirds" I was up the stairs and standing outside of Chris's door, which was locked.

"What are you doing?" Chris asked, coming up the stairs behind me. "No matter how much you stare at it, it's not gonna open."

I crossed my arms. "I wanted to talk to you." There were a few things that I just had to get off my mind.

He leaned against the wall. "Fine. We can talk right here. What's so important?"

"Don't be so afraid," I said quietly.

Chris bristled. "I am not afraid!"

I took a step closer. "Yes, you are. You're frightened, you're confused, and you're in pain."

"No, I'm not." He took a key out of his pocket, shoved by me, and stuffed it into the old-fashioned keyhole of his door. The lock opened with a small click, and he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Before he could shut it again, I followed him in.

"Go away, Theresa!" he snarled at me. For an instant, I felt what he must have been feeling: anger, fear, confusion, pain, and, barely existent and almost indistinguishable, a little bit of hope and love. That made me feel a little better. I was still a little bit worried about this conversation.

On some unknown instinct, I reached my mind towards his.

"You don't have to be afraid of me," I whispered as our minds touched.

I felt a flood of emotions and thoughts go from his mind to mine. There was panic there. He was afraid I would find something. Don't find them, don't find them, please don't find them…

I cocked my head at him. It wasn't like him to beg and plead. "What is it you don't want me to find?"

Now the panic was written across his face. I lost the connection to him, and my mind refused to try to get it back.

"How do you know I'm hiding something?" he hissed, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

I shook my head. "I don't know." I pressed my back against the door. "What is it that you don't want me to see?"

"Get out," he said through gritted teeth. "It's none of your business."

Before he decided I needed to be removed from his room by force, I yanked open the door and ran. The door slammed shut behind me, and I heard the lock click.

I went into my own room and sat on the bed, shaking. How could I have known what he was thinking? Could I possibly be…? No. I couldn't be.

I fell asleep with that question on my mind.