Thanks to hippiechick2112, ladygris, and ellie for reviewing!

Notes: In researching this story I came across something of a brick wall. While I found information about 1960s adoptions, everything related to babies. If anything is totally off, I apologize for that.

The following morning, Scott washed his face twice, trying to scrub the raw feeling from his eyes. Maybe keeping them squeezed shut wasn't helping, but it kept him from exploding the bathroom.

He dried his face and placed his glasses over his eyes again. The world appeared again, its usual rainbow of reds upon reds.

Scott had never been one to worry about appearances. One wasn't, growing up with clothes that didn't fit properly and more interest in hiding bruises and avoiding attention. So he hoped he looked okay. He had combed his hair and found the button-down with all his t-shirts—nothing but jeans to pair it with, but he did his best. He had ironed them.

Today was important.

He found Alex in his bedroom, a textbook open in front of him. He did feel a little sorry for some of the things he had said, but seeing Alex actually studying, Scott wasn't sure how much of it he could rightfully take back.

"Dude, I'm working on it," Alex said, like he was preempting an argument.

Scott approached the bed, hesitated, then took a seat. "Can we talk for a minute?"

"You realize that means not studying."

"I realize."

Alex turned away from his book. "I'm sorry about Artie. I know that doesn't make it better."

"It's okay."

"Scott."

"It's okay."

Scott had wanted to talk to Alex about this for some time. The problem was that Alex spent so much of his time drunk lately, having a serious conversation was just not an option.

He took a deep breath. Somehow in resolving to talk to Alex about this, Scott never thought about how, exactly, to talk to him. Finally he just said it: "Professor Xavier wants to adopt me."

There were a lot of responses Scott would have understood from Alex. Getting adopted meant being part of a new family and Alex was all Scott had left of his biological family. This might feel like a betrayal.

Alex laughed. "About damn time!"

"You're not mad?"

"Why would I be mad?"

Scott wasn't sure why Alex wouldn't be mad. "'Cause… it's like I'm abandoning you."

"You're not abandoning me, twerp," Alex shot back. "You're still gonna be here. Scott, you're fifteen. You're not supposed to be taking care of me. You should have the chance at a family."

"I'm sixteen."

"Oh, well, never mind then, you're too old."

"You can't see, but I'm rolling my eyes at you."

Alex flicked a pen cap at him.

Scott left Alex working on his math assignment.

He wasn't much use for the rest of the morning, wandering around, occasionally spending fifteen seconds being still, and biting his nails until Ruth sat him down at the kitchen table. She put a drink and a plate of toast in front of him and told him, "Eat. You are nervous about today, but you can eat."

"I'm not nervous."

"Then eat because you are hungry."

Scott wanted to say that he wasn't hungry, either, but Ruth's expression told him she had no interest. She was right. He took a bite of toast and suddenly remembered that he was ravenous. He was through a slice and a half before his throat demanded liquid. The glass Ruth gave him looked like milk, but it was warm and tasted different.

"You gave me this when I was sick."

She nodded. "I did."

"What is it?"

"Milk and honey."

Honey. That was the other flavor.

"Ororo reckons you were a spy in Israel."

"In? No. For," Ruth explained. "After my mutation manifested on the kibbutz, they did not have me working so much with the trees. We grew tangerines. But I was training more for defense now and then I knew: I am not going to serve my country here."

Scott nodded. He understood that. Before coming here, he always assumed he would go into industrial work in Omaha, but sometimes he thought about the military. Mr. Milbury told him it was foolish—he was too weak, too prone to illness, not to mention his eye condition—but a person has to dream sometimes.

It was the 1950s and the Army was the best, most American thing a boy could do. You could make something of yourself.

Scott no longer believed he would join the Army. His power definitely made him ineligible. Besides, he could make something of himself in other ways (according to Professor Xavier). Nevertheless he understood how Ruth would see military service as an honorable pursuit. He certainly saw it as such… for people whose eyes weren't laser cannons.

"What was it like to be the only woman though?" he wondered. He took a good look at Ruth. He was so used to her, he didn't do this often, and he was surprised at how soft and gentle her face was. Of course she was still tough in every possible way. "I guess it's different for you. You're confident."

"All Israeli women serve."

"Really?"

"Well, there are exceptions, there are the Orthodox or old women or mothers, but most women serve. Still I was different, I was a mutant and they were not, and I was recruited into—well, it is like the CIA."

While she talked, Scott had finished the rest of his toast and milk. He swallowed. "I am nervous, you know."

"I know."

"If I say the wrong thing they'll take me away."

Ruth gripped his hand. "No one is taking you away."

She was so tough and so sure that he had to believe her.

He tried to hold onto that believing when the social worker arrived.

She was older, maybe mid-forties, with a wool skirt and a hat that would make him laugh at any other time. It looked like a wastepaper basket.

To keep this from becoming any more complicated, everyone had agreed that only Charles and Scott would be present as far as the social worker knew. Ororo was in the lab with Hank; Alex was in his room studying; and Ruth was doing laundry, which, after a week of gardening, she sorely needed to do.

Charles, Scott, and the social worker sat in the parlor. Pleasantries had been exchanged, at least on the part of the adults—Scott was too nervous.

"You understand that this is a very unusual circumstance," the social worker said.

Her name was Miss Price.

"Yes, I believe that's been explained to your supervisor," Charles replied.

"It has," Miss Price confirmed. "I'll need to speak with each of you individually to fully assess the situation."

She decided to speak with Scott first. There was no way in which the conversation could be comfortable for him. He sat at the edge of his seat, gripping his knees.

Miss Price started simply. "Could you tell me your name, to confirm?"

"M-my name is Scott Matthew Summers."

"And how old are you, Scott?"

"Sixteen. Almost sixteen—I think I'm sixteen."

She nodded and made notes on a notepad as he spoke. "What grade are you in at school?"

"Tenth."

It was actually a difficult question. They didn't use those terms here. Everyone knew Doug was in his last year and Laurie had one more year, but what was Ororo, with no history of formal schooling? Or Scott, who had struggled and repeated classes?

"That's an exciting year. What's your favorite subject?"

That one was easier. "English."

It wasn't long before she progressed to questions tougher than the technicalities of grade enrollment. "Do you want to be adopted, Scott?"

He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Do you want to be adopted by Mr. Xavier?"

"Yes."

"Why is that?"

"Because… because he's like my dad."

"How so?"

Miss Price asked the question gently, but Scott still struggled to find the right answer. After all, what did he know about dads? He only had one until he was five years old and most of his early memories centered on his mother.

Finally, Scott managed, "I can always talk to him about anything, if I'm upset or confused. He gets after me about homework and keeping my grades up, thinking about college. He really genuinely wants for me to be happy and I didn't even think that was an option before I came here."

"And you're not concerned he may be incapable of caring for you?"

Scott thought for a moment. "I'm sorry. I don't understand."

"We are discussing a crippled man. Normally someone in his state would be ineligible—"

"I'm sixteen," he interrupted. "Maybe that matters with little kids. Someone being able to walk doesn't have anything to do with taking care of me."

"My biggest concern, Scott—" he was starting to dislike the way she said his name "—is that you're the one being taken care of here."

He stared. She couldn't see it through his glasses, but he was staring, utterly incredulous. Where had she been back in Omaha? When he was being hit and starved and cut open, where was this woman?

And why was she so concerned now when someone was trying to help him?

Apparently he was quiet too long because she continued, "For a single man to adopt is virtually unheard of and adoptions of children your age are uncommon. I'm here to be certain this is a healthy situation for you. That you're not being exploited in any way."

A short while later, Charles faced a similar accusation. He did so calmly, even chuckling. "I am a man of means. If I needed a caretaker of any kind, I would certain hire one."

He was the very opposite of Scott, utterly collected, his posture relaxed like he was a man who had always received what he wanted. (He had.) Although he had become somewhat less self-concerned the past few years, it was a useful habit to call up, appearing so certain.

"What do you stand to gain from adopting this boy?"

"Very little," Charles replied. "I love him like my own child. I know that Scott cares for me and I know he feels safe here. I believe that, were he removed, he would find his way home, so there is no question of his presence. This is nothing to do with passing on any sort of legacy. He wants his name to remain as it is and I have no objection to that.

"Any benefit to me would be short-lived. He turns eighteen in a few years and will be going to college." Charles had decided this. "Colleges don't care either way what the legal relationship is between their students and whoever pays tuition. Scott will be happy and no doubt will remain a part of my life, but he'll grow up and become increasingly his own man.

"I imagine this is why you question anyone adopting a boy his age. The benefit, Miss Price, is not to me. It's to the child who has spent his very short life learning that he is expendable. This piece of paper will not tell me that he is my son, nor that he is safe here—I know those things. It's for him. He needs something he can hold in his hands that promises he always has a home."