"I just wish they'd come and eat with us at dinner! I mean, it's not as if we force everyone to eat breakfast and lunch with us; just dinner. It's like they don't even live here, we see them so rarely." Scott grasped Jean's hand sympathetically, pushing the porch swing with his foot and listening to the creaking of the suspension chains. "On the other hand," Jean continued in a softer tone, "I'm not sure I want to know them better, you know?"

"Yeah. They're pretty… intimidating, to say the least."

"I'm just tired of them always coming down in the middle of the night and grabbing the food I make and taking it. The least they could do is sit and have dinner with the rest of the Institute! By the way, how's Wufei treating you?" Scott sighed, rolling his eyes and letting his head loll comically onto Jean's shoulder as he grumbled,

"If I had a dollar for every time he calls me an 'idiotic besotted male who expects everyone to support him in his delusions of grandeur,' I'd be nearly as rich as the Professor."

"Oh, poor baby. At least you didn't get the constantly scowling, homicidal short kid who answers everything in grunts. He's like a mini-Logan!" Scott began to thrash dramatically, clutching his chest. "Oh dear God, take that horrible vision from mine eyes!"

"You're silly. It's time for dinner, anyway. Come on, I promise I didn't burn the rice this time."


Trowa sat uncomfortably in one of the old chairs that were placed around the long, stained walnut table, staring at the chestnut paneling on the walls blankly. The old man and Ororo sat on either end, with all of the pilots and Logan lined up on one side and Scott, Jean, Rogue, Kurt, Kitty, and Evan facing them. Duo and Rogue were discussing the meter of Poe's 'The Raven' in hushed tones, the former Deathscythe pilot shoveling pork dumplings into his mouth with one hand while gesturing frenetically with the other, nearly slapping Heero in the head.

Trowa glanced at Quatre, who blinked dazedly, smiling at him for a moment before turning to stare at the heaping plate in front of him with an expression of nausea. Trowa empathized; he and Quatre both disliked eating now. While none of the pilots were 'well-fed' by any stretch of the imagination, Quatre and Trowa, who had been subjected to starvation rations for most of the war, were nearly unable to survive on a conventional diet.

Heero ate quietly and mechanically, chewing each bite precisely twenty times, swallowing it, and then moving to the next dish. His meal consisted entirely of rice, pork dumplings, and rolls. He needed the carbohydrates desperately; the price of the healing factor was a vastly faster metabolism, and he burned energy away with the efficiency of a reactor. Wufei, meanwhile, was sampling each offering with an expression of disdain, nose wrinkled in disgust at the way Jean had made the dishes his family had so prided themselves on.

"Guys, do you, like, not want to eat it?" Kitty said. "I can go get you some cereal or something, if you want?"

"Oh no, we're fine," Quatre said reflexively, sticking his fork into the rice and gingerly chewing. Trowa followed his lover's lead, looking up in alarm when Kitty continued blithely, "Oh, by the way, I think it's so cute how you two mirror each other! Are you guys together?"

There was silence at the table. The clink of silverware paused, the original mansion inhabitants staring at Trowa and Quatre, waiting with shark-like intensity for an answer. Heero turned his head to meet both their gazes, his expression silently saying, 'Say what you will.' Trowa, who had always been so quiet and retiring, preferring to let Quatre speak, found himself opening his mouth and saying,

"Yes." The proud and loving smile Quatre gifted him with at that moment was worth all the prejudice he was sure was to come. He looked covertly around the table, noting the reactions. The old man still appeared blandly friendly; Kurt seemed to shrug and continue eating; Evan's face morphed into a look of revulsion, which he quickly tried to hide by glancing downward; Kitty squealed with glee and clapped her hands; Rogue thought it over for a moment and then continued to argue with Duo, and Scott and Jean's lips curled in unison, before they turned and began to whisper frantically to each other.

It was no better a reception then he expected.


"Eeew!" Evan said as soon as the original X-men had congregated in the living room. "I mean- that's disgusting! Two guys, kissing and stuff? Ugh!"

Kitty, who lounged on the floor in front of the TV, rolled onto her back and shrugged, "I think it's cute."

Kurt added in from his position on top of one of the bookcases, "If they love each other, I don't care."

"But Kurt," Scott argued, "You're Catholic!"

The teleporter tilted his head, adjusting his boxer shorts as he said, "And? To love your neighbor as yourself means to accept them for who they are. I mean, mein Gott, haven't you seen the pain in their eyes? They deserve to have whatever happiness they can. They are mutants, just like us, and we deserve to be able to live in peace, accepted for who we are."

Rogue interjected, "I think it's hypocritical to say that you fight against bias and discrimination and still discriminate against them for being who they are."

Evan whirled to face her, retorting, "And you think I haven't seen you getting all cozy with them? They're dangerous, Rogue! Didn't you see them in the Danger Room? Who's to say they're not going to unleash themselves on us? Hell, we don't even know where they came from!"

"I'm not going to base my entire view of them just on how they fight. They're actually nice guys. I mean, sure, most of them don't talk that much, but Duo'll talk your ear off if you give him a chance! And you know all those crappy Calculus assignments you're always moaning about? I've been asking them for help, and my GPA's gone up a point. You wouldn't believe how good tutors they are, Wufei especially."

"It's just… not right," Jean said sullenly.

"Oh, right, perfect Miss Wondergirl's going to define morality for everyone here," Rogue sneered.

"If you discriminate against them for being homosexuals," Kurt said in a serious tone, "You become no better then the Friends of Humanity."

"That's a low blow," Scott fired back.

Kurt shrugged. "Maybe. But it's the way I believe. You have the right to believe what you want."

Rogue stood from her armchair, saying, "Kurt's right. You have the right to believe what you want, but if I find out you've added one ounce of pain onto their shoulders-" Her voice dropped an octave and became threatening, "You'll find some very… unpleasant things happening to you."


Logan stared out at the ocean from his perch on the Institute's roof, hands shoved into his old jeans and flannel shirt whipping about in the stiff breeze. The moon was waning rapidly, the ocean a dark void. Only a few boats were out there, mostly yachts and recreational sailboats. He hated the water, hated the unpredictability and the deep currents that caught onto you and dragged you out screaming into the boundless ocean. From below he heard Evan grumbling about Quatre and Trowa, the window half-open to admit the breeze in order to cool Kurt off. The teleporter hated summer; his fur made it hellishly warm for him.

Logan had been surprised at dinner; he would never have thought that Trowa, one of the quietest of the new mutants, would be so- not daring, exactly, more like blunt. He had known when he first saw the two together that their relationship was much more then a simple friendship. They gravitated to each other; Quatre was always seated next to Trowa, and Trowa always had at least a finger touching Quatre. It didn't seem to be out of affection; more like they thought the other was going to be ripped away from them.

A light blinked out on the water, lighting the ocean a fathomless blue shade for a moment, the same blue as Heero's eyes when they stared into his own with a hunted expression-

"Damnit!"

The crunching of shingles made him turn, looking about until he saw the red circle of a cigarette, glowing softly in the darkness. It was Heero, obviously; no one else had that distinct scent of smoke and gunpowder. The cigarette jumped, ash trickling off the end. Logan approached and sat down at a comfortable distance from the kid, turning his Zippo over idly in his hands. Heero was wearing jeans and sneakers, a dark sweater covering his torso and blue eyes staring at him in consideration. Logan stayed silent for a few moments, and then, curious, he said,

"So, 'bout those claws…"

"Yes?" 'The kid's blunt as all hell,' Logan thought, impressed, before he continued,

"You said they and the sheaths are twisted. How'd that happen?"

Heero inhaled deeply on the cigarette, the nicotine soothing the ache of remembered trauma.

"You depend on these too much, boy-"

needlesand

a roiling tub of magma that twists and burns the jab of a needle into his palms scraping on his claws

The flick of a switch

And heat so burning that it feels cold flows into his hands and chars his flesh from the inside out.

Could he tell Logan this? The man would probably just run to the old man and they would be interrogated. But- if he could throw them off the trail of their drugs, which he knew they were suspicious of, as he had seen Gray and Summers pawing through their things- it could be worth it. Not to mention he felt a strange… kinship with Logan, both soldiers without a war to fight, without a home or family. He stared at his palm, studying the faint outlines of the claws, dark against the moon. He hated the claws. They were a strange metaphor for his own existence; a broken blade, a cracked and fragile weapon that still possessed the ability to kill.

"I made a mistake." The words issued almost unwillingly from his mouth, startling Logan. "I became dependent on them-" The other instinctively understood what Heero meant. "-to fulfill my objectives. Because of that dependence, I made an error. To rectify that mistake and teach me the folly of dependence, they melted some metal until it became molten and siphoned it into my hands. The claws melted from the pressure and reformed. My hands grew back around them."

Logan would have been horrified at the story, and he was, but the coldly clinical and dispassionate manner Heero told it in was even more frightening. He sucked in a breath and let his head fall back against the chimney, lighting up a cigar and inhaling. He blew the smoke out, watching as it twisted in the moonlight. But somehow, he understood what Heero wanted. He didn't want sympathy or pity, or a misguided attempt to 'understand' the tatters of his psyche. He understood, because it was the way he felt himself.

"So who's this 'they' you mentioned?" Heero turned to face him, a bitter smirk curling his lips. His eyes, luminous in the moonlight, glinted with a sour sort of amusement. Logan grinned in return; obviously Heero wasn't going to give up information that important.

"Okay, then."


"'Welcome to Bayville' my ass," Pietro Lensherr, also known as Quicksilver, grumbled, dragging the first of his sister's many suitcases up to the room she had chosen for herself in the rambling Victorian that their father was renting for the former Brotherhood and Acolytes to live in. He brushed back a lock of his distinctive silvery hair, cursing when he lost his grip on the suitcase and it tumbled down to ram into Fred, who stared at it quizzically.

"Uh, 'tro, shouldn't we be getting this upstairs?"

"Damn right you should!" Wanda yelled from her position in the living room, where she was unpacking the first of many boxes.

"Language, Wanda!" Eric Lensherr, Pietro and Wanda's father, reprimanded from where he was trying to stuff several boxes through the old, wood-and-stained-glass door. He continued on, muttering, "Stupid neighbors, I could use my powers if it weren't for those peeping toms…"

Indeed, the neighbors were all outside, staring at the unorthodox moving operation. A few of the elderly ones were turning to each other and whispering in disapproving tones as Todd, AKA Toad, screeched,

"Buttfucker!" Mystique, in the guise of a respectably dressed, older woman with graying brown hair, lifted the box of pots and pans off of Todd's toe and carried it inside easily, leaving Lance, AKA Avalanche, to smack Todd upside the head and reprimand him for his language, a duty the older boy performed with all too much relish.

Pietro finished hauling the suitcase into Wanda's room, decorated, unsurprisingly, in shades of red, and threw it onto the bed, where it bounced once and then sat innocently.

"I hate you."


The suitcase did not respond.

Remy LeBeau had never believed in love at first sight.

He was, however, a notorious playboy, famed for seducing women and men who no one else could, and then leaving them broken in the dust. It was a form of entertainment for him, a challenge, and he adored challenges.

"Remy wants to go pickpocket," he said, hands on his hips and demonic eyes glaring into John's. The Australian thrust his jaw out and replied, "And I want to go get some wood to burn. Mags said we could, so there!" The Cajun rolled his eyes and slipped on a pair of sunglasses, saying,

"How 'bout a compromise? Remy will pickpocket, and we'll use the money to buy de wood for you to indulge your pyromania. Eh?"

"Eh." The two Acolytes left the small convenience store, Remy swiping a chocolate bar and hiding it discreetly in the folds of his trench coat on their way out. John ran a hand through his auburn hair and scanned the street, nudging him and saying, "Look over there! An easy mark." The Cajun stared over the tops of his sunglasses in consideration. A fairly heavyset man dressed in jeans and a sweater, his wallet bulging conspicuously in his back pocket. Perfect.

He permitted himself a shark-like grin as he motioned for John to wait while he broke away, angling across the street to loiter in the shadows of an alley, loitering about as he watched the man approach.

Twenty feet.

Ten feet.

Five.

Two.

Now.

He stepped from the shadows of the alley, adroitly angling his shoulder to press hard into the man's back while his left hand swooped, nimble fingers plucking the wallet out and secreting it away in one of his many pockets.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he offered, waving his hands about and pretending to appear embarrassed. "I wasn't watching where I was going. Cest la vie, hmm?" The man grunted at him and continued on his way, muttering about rudeness. John materialized by Remy's side, peering at the wallet eagerly.

The driver's license was quickly discarded and the money counted. John whooped when he realized the amount of pine wood he would be able to buy. He preferred pine vastly, as the many oils in the wood created a veritable explosion.

"I'm gonna burn it in the backyard- maybe it'll light the trees on fire, that'd be awesome- and get some marshmallows. It's nearly time for Christmas, anyway. At least, the way you Yanks celebrate it."

The two Acolytes strolled down the street, shouldering their way easily through the hurrying crowds, all anxious to finish their shopping. There was a flash of gold-brown in the corner of Remy's eye, and he felt light fingers- the fingers of a thief- dip into his pocket and flip the stolen wallet into the unknown person's hand.

Remy skidded to a stop and turned his head so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. A figure, swathed in a black trenchcoat, stood talking to the man they'd stolen the wallet from, returning the item flippantly. He was actually… impressed.

And then the figure turned.

The first thing he noticed was the amazing, thigh-length braid, a silky, luminous chocolate with golden highlights racing up and down. Then the expensive black sunglasses slid down, and Remy could see the roguish violet eye staring coolly at him, the pale, thin face framed by the collar of the coat. A woman? No- the strong, masculine jaw and slender hips were all male. The figure turned and walked away, hips moving in a swaggering, seductive stride, one hand rising to wave an insolent goodbye.

Remy gaped in admiration, forgetting even to be insulted by the fact that someone had just stolen something from him, the Master Thief, out of his own pocket, no less!

"Rems? Hey, Remy!" Remy turned, broken from his reverie.

"What?"

"You were staring."

Remy flipped John the bird, and they turned and continued to walk.

Remy was certain of one thing.

He wanted that man, wanted him with a fierce desperation that surprised even him, and Remy LeBeau always, always, always got what he wanted.


Author's Note: Done. This chapter was very hard to write, although I'm unsure why. You should probably expect my next chapter of my Star Wars/Gundam Wing crossover, When Blue Meets Gray, to be posted before the next chapter of this. Thank you for reading, and I hope I did well with focusing on the X-men Evolution characters. Please don't forget to give me constructive criticism!