Thanks to hippiechick2112, Foreststar of Wind Clan, guest, and bandeapix for reviewing! And no, Ororo does not know...yet..!

Ruth commandeered the kitchen that night.

A little past seven, she and Ororo sat at the table with cups of mint tea. When Ruth first spoke to Ororo, both were surprised at how slow Ororo was to understand. She hadn't heard Arabic in a long time.

But as Ruth bossed her through mixing up a batter and they worked together on a marinade, her mind put the pieces in together properly. She remembered how to speak, how to think, how to be the girl she used to be. And now, as they chatted, she didn't know how she had ever forgotten.

"…and Sikorsky, of course he never slept, so I would wake up to him hovering over my chest or monitoring my breathing, it was actually an unnerving way to recover being watched like that. But I was taken care of."

Ruth scoffed over the rim of her teacup. "By a machine!"

"I got better, didn't I?" Ororo retorted.

"I suppose."

The clink of a teacup on a saucer, then they were quiet for a moment. Ororo felt it, the distance between then and now, but it wasn't for their surroundings. She was used to losing places. She had lost a lot of them in her short life. But…

She dipped a fingertip in her tea. "I went to Scott's room at night," Ororo said, sliding her damp fingertip in circles around the cup's lip. "Night is sort of abstract on a ship, but when the lights dimmed and they decided it was time for night, that was when I went to Scott's bed. We were close because we had to be. It's all we had. But now…"

"Ororo, I see you two together. Scott still loves you as his sister."

"But he doesn't need me anymore, and I miss him. And I don't like sharing him with Jean, and I don't like sharing Jean with him. Everyone always outgrows me. I thought this would be different! I thought, because he didn't age—but then Hank fixed him, and now…"

Ruth scooted her chair around to hug Ororo. "And now you are alone," she murmured, "I know this." She kissed Ororo's forehead. "But bati, you must stop feeling jealous."

The timer dinged before Ororo recovered the shock of the accusation. Jealous? She wasn't jealous!

Was she?

She watched Ruth open the oven, the steam dampening her face. She didn't cook like other people. Her body resisted threats and dangers. Like it was nothing, Ruth took the cake pan from the oven with her bare hand, holding it as she poured cinnamon syrup over it.

"You are helping or you are not?" she asked. "I need my ghee melted!"

Ororo scrambled out of her chair.

No one had cooked specially for her before Ruth. Well—probably her mother cooked for her when she was small. But then it was a communal pot, what could be scrounged or pinched in Cairo, what anyone else had among the Maasai, the same bland nonsense as all the other girls in the orphanage. But Ruth made her Egyptian food and Ororo's memory of the warmth and scents and specialness of kitchens were tied to this kitchen, this woman.

She watch as Ruth poured out a splash of melted ghee over a ball of ajeen awees—pale, wet dough. Ruth pushed and pulled until the fist-sized ball covered the cutting board, thin as a fingernail. Her hands were different now. The skin was not so tight and wrinkles filled the extra space. But they moved with confidence as she spread ghee between layers of dough, folding it into a package.

Since they came home, Scott had done most of the cooking. He wasn't bad at it—but he had learned that he couldn't handle too much. And everyone else had learned that you could actually make a wide variety of foods in casserole form.

Still—there were home-cooked meals and there were home-cooked meals.

Ororo looked at the table Ruth had laid out and almost burst out crying. It was the sort of table you dreamed about as a hungry child sleeping on the streets of Cairo: fteer meshaltet, flaky pastry stuffed with cheese and olives; sliced cucumbers and tomatoes; marinated kebabs; salty toasted almonds.

Jean summed it up best: "And you got off a plane this morning? Are you a robot?"

"Yes."

"I forgot how much I missed your cooking," Hank said.

"Now you are knowing it! So long he is in his lab," Ruth told Jean. "He only comes out because Charles makes him. Now he knows better."

Hank kissed her cheek. "Yes, Mother."

"Professor Xavier said we had to act like a family," Scott said.

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

"Sorry, Professor."

Scott was the most opportunistic around a meal. He was still a part of the conversation, to be sure, but mostly he was sitting at the table, munching on fteer meshaltet.

"God, you're shameless," Jean teased.

"That is true, though, I did make Hank leave his lab every day," Professor Xavier confirmed. "We were in no way prepared to care for a child—"

"Charles, that makes us sound like a couple," Hank interrupted.

"It's no less true."

"It was torture," Scott said. "I was so shy, but I was always hungry." As if to emphasize the point, he reached for another piece of pastry. "But… it was good for me," he ceded.

"What was the school really like then?" Jean asked.

"Well, this was before it was a school," Professor Xavier said.

"And before me or Ruth," Ororo added. "It was a… sausage game?"

"Sausage party," Jean corrected.

"It was really more of a bacon party…"

"Scott, when she says sausage, she means—"

"I know, Professor!" Scott interrupted, blushing. "Jeez…"

"Well, all right."

"Really, Jean, it was… kind of like this, honestly," Scott said. "Us and Doug and Laurie and Alex and Sean. None of us was at the same place academically, so mostly we had more like independent study than actual classes. Then Sean and Alex would show up when Ruth was teaching us krav maga and me and Alex would get into it."

"Like fighting?" Jean asked.

"Every time," Ruth said. "Every time they are doing this! How is Alex now?"

"He's doing really well," Scott said. "His wife's in remission and his daughter and granddaughter are living with them. He says Annie likes to think she's miserable and make all these obstacles for herself, but you can tell he really loves her. And he wants Daisy to try this contest to design a mural for the rec center."

"Of course, that might require showing up on time!" Hank replied. He, Charles, and Scott laughed—it seemed Daisy had inherited her father's general attitude toward timeliness.

It wasn't intended as a party, but it quickly became one. It was easier to talk about the past now. They were happy. Scott and Ororo learned that Ruth had returned to Israel and worked for Mossad ever since the 60s; even Hank talked more about his return to academia. Jean learned more about the school as it was, and the time Scott decided to try hiding a cat in his room.

Finally, when somehow ten o'clock had rolled around, and the table was a clutter of empty plates and a few leftover cake slices, they started leaving the table. Mostly everyone headed for their beds. Scott volunteered to wash dishes and Ruth said she would help, refusing Hank's offer to take her place.

She tossed a dishtowel to Scott. "You can dry?"

"Okay."

"I missed you, you know."

He nodded. "I know. I missed you, too."

There wasn't much to talk about. They didn't need to talk. They just needed to be nearby.

Still, there was a question Scott expected to be asked. Ruth didn't ask, so he told her anyway: "Chris did take care of us. It wasn't the same, and we missed you every day, but you should know that we were safe. He… tried."

Ruth nodded. "This is good," she said.

He had never heard her sound choked up before. It was almost alarming.

"I worried."

"And I know you and the Professor aren't so close anymore, but—thanks for being here. It means a lot."

Ruth started to shake her head, then paused to give him an even look. She stroked his hair back away from his glasses.

"You are still my son. I wouldn't miss it for the world. Now." She pulled him close and kissed his cheek. "Go to bed. Tomorrow is a big awkward day."

"Awkward?"

Ruth responded with a look.

"Yeah. It's going to be awkward."