It was nearing the end of March in Westchester and springtime was struggling to arrive. The sun was shining brighter and the temperature was rising with each passing day. The small amount of snow still clinging to the ground was rapidly disappearing. Ever since the holidays, Scott, Charles and Hank had fallen into a fixed routine. Each morning at eight o'clock, Scott would join Charles and Hank for breakfast in the kitchen. Then he would head to his first lesson with Charles.

Charles taught Scott English, history and geography in his study. In the afternoons, Scott headed down to Hank's lab for math and science classes. English was by far Scott's favorite subject. Charles had assigned him three novels to read by the end of the spring semester, but when Scott finished all three by the third week in January, Charles had handed him a stack of books from the library with instructions to read as many as he could by the end of the year. Scott struggled with math more than anything else, but Hank was a patient teacher and after a few months of Algebra, he was catching up to grade-level.

Charles' and Hank's new teaching schedules kept them busy. Charles had his lessons with Jean Grey, too. Jean was spending more and more time at the mansion. She often stayed after her afternoon lessons to have dinner with Charles, Hank and Scott. She was in her last semester of high school now and was anxiously awaiting her college acceptance letters. Charles was happy to have her there; she was progressing nicely in her lessons and he thought it was good for Scott to spend time with someone closer to his own age. Scott was still as awkward as ever around Jean, but Jean was friendly and persistent.

On one particularly gray Monday morning, Charles sat in his study, watching the clock and awaiting Scott's arrival. It was five minutes past nine. It was unlike Scott to be late. He had not joined Charles and Hank for breakfast that morning. Charles figured he had forgone breakfast for an extra hour of sleep. He was a teenager, after all. At nine fifteen, Charles sighed and headed down the hallway to Scott's bedroom. Slowly, he pressed the door open to find Scott fast asleep on the bed. He was fully dressed and laying horizontally across the bed as if he had gotten up and intended to leave, but had laid back down and fallen asleep again.

"Scott," Charles sent telepathically while gently nudging Scott's leg. Scott sat up with a jolt. He put a hand to his head, groaning.

"Professor?" he signed groggily. He looked around, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. "I'm sorry. I'm late. I didn't mean to fall back asleep . . ." He sniffed. His sinuses were clogged and his head throbbed.

"Are you alright, Scott?" asked Charles.

"I'm fine, Professor." Charles wasn't convinced. Most kids Scott's age might try to fake an illness to get out of a lesson, but not Scott. Scott was more likely to pretend to be alright so as not to miss a class. Charles reached out to feel Scott's forehead. It was burning hot.

"Scott, I think you have a fever. Why don't you go down to Hank, have him give you a quick checkup?" Scott shook his head.

"Really, I'm fine. I'm just tired. I'm ready now. Let's go . . ." He stood up quickly, and then regretted it. He wobbled a bit before Charles put out a hand to steady him.

"You're not okay. You're sick. Come on, you're going to see Hank. I'll let him know you're on your way." Charles wheeled himself out of the room and glanced back, waiting for Scott to follow. Scott sighed and followed reluctantly. Slowly he made his way down to the basement in search of Hank. He found Hank – tall, blue and furry – dressed in his white lab coat, as usual. As soon as Scott opened the door, Hank looked up at him.

"Hear you're not feeling well," he said.

"I'm fine," Scott signed, a grumpy expression on his face.

"Uh huh. Come here. Have a seat," Hank said, indicating a bench to his right. Resignedly, Scott shuffled over to the bench and hopped up. Hank walked over to a nearby cabinet, and pulled out a medical kit and stethoscope. Hank was a bit of a Jack of all trades. He had PhDs in biochemistry and genetics and had somehow also found time to get his medical degree.

"Open your mouth," he said to Scott before sticking a thermometer under Scott's tongue. "Hold it there." Thirty seconds later, the thermometer beeped. Hank pulled it from Scott's mouth. "Hmm. 102.1. Feeling fine, huh?" he said with a smirk. Scott just shrugged. Hank pulled out his stethoscope and placed it against Scott's chest. "Breathe," he said. Scott inhaled and exhaled several times.

Hank circled round Scott to place the stethoscope against his back. He lifted Scott's sweater and paused at the sight of the multitude of scars and burns that littered Scott's back. It had been a long time since Hank had seen Scott's bare skin. It was a solemn reminder of Scott's life before the mansion. There was one particularly large, raised scar which ran all the way from Scott's shoulder blade to his lower back. Hank ran a soft finger over it. Scott jumped, turning back towards Hank.

"Sorry," Hank signed quickly. "Did I hurt you?" Scott shook his head and turned back around.

"I'm fine," he signed, but he crossed his arms defensively across his stomach. Hank sighed and went back to listening to Scott's breathing. When he was finished, he faced Scott again.

"Your breathing sounds fine," he said. "Probably the flu. Take some ibuprofen, drink lots of water and get some rest." Scott nodded and hopped down off the bench. He walked out of the lab without looking back.

Later that afternoon, after finishing a lesson, Charles and Jean made their way to the kitchen. Jean was gabbing away about which colleges had the best pre-med programs. She wanted to be a doctor like Hank.

"Columbia is probably my first choice," she said as they rounded the corner into the kitchen. "I would love to stay here in New York." Charles smiled. Jean paused, looking around.

"Where's Scott?" she asked. Normally he would already be in the kitchen, ready to help Charles with dinner.

"Scott isn't feeling well today," said Charles. "In fact, I was going to heat up some soup for him."

"I could bring it to him if you want," said Jean hopefully. Charles smiled knowingly.

"Thank you. I'd appreciate that, Jean."

Twenty minutes later, Jean was carrying a tray containing hot chicken noodle soup, a chunk of bread, and a cup of tea down the hallway to Scott's room. She knocked a few times on his door before remembering that he would not hear it. Instead, she pushed the door open slightly and peaked inside. Scott was laying on the bed, but he was awake. She opened the door all the way, balancing the tray carefully as she did so. Scott looked up at the movement. He sat up quickly, surprised to see Jean.

"Hey," Jean said shyly. "Charles said you weren't feeling well. I brought you some soup. We thought it might make you feel better . . ." When Scott didn't respond, she set the tray on the nightstand beside him. Scott signed a quick "thanks."

"Okay . . . well . . . I hope you feel better," said Jean awkwardly before turning and making her way back to the door.

"Wait." Surprised, Jean came to a sudden stop. She turned around, smiling. She had never heard Scott speak before. Charles said he was self-conscious about his speaking voice, but Jean didn't understand why. Sure his "a" was a little off and his "t" a bit over-pronounced, but she thought he sounded fine.

"You can stay," he said slowly. Jean paused.

"Okay," she said. Scott slid over a bit, making room for her on the bed. With a shy smile, she sat down beside him. After a moment of silence, she picked up the soup and handed it to him.

"You should eat this before it gets cold," she said. Scott signed his thanks, and then took the bowl from her with a small smile.

Later that evening, Charles and Hank sat by the fireplace playing chess. They heard the rumble of a car outside.

"Jean's father's here," said Hank.

"I'll get her," Charles said. He reached out with his telepathy. "Jean." Nothing. "Hmm. Better go check on them," he said. He opened the door to Scott's room. He found the empty soup bowl, tea cup and a half eaten piece of bread on the tray on the nightstand. On the far side of the bed, Scott was fast asleep on his back, his head resting on his right arm. Jean was sleeping, too, curled up beside him with her head against his shoulder. Charles chuckled.

"Jean," he said quietly, shaking her shoulder gently. When she opened her eyes, he said, "Your father is here."

"Oh," she said sleepily. She looked around, taking in her surroundings. "Sorry," she said. "I guess I fell asleep." Charles smiled.

"How's Scott feeling?"

"Better, I think." She stood up, gave Charles a hug and said, "Goodnight, Charles." Then she turned and ran down the hallway to her waiting father.

Charles turned back to look at Scott, still fast asleep. He grabbed a blanket from the foot of the bed, rolled around to the other side of the bed, and laid it gently over Scott. He placed a hand on Scott's head and was pleased to find it much cooler than it had been before. Smiling, he left the room, switching off the light as he went.