Author's Note: One of my reviewers wanted to know what the Acolytes and Brotherhood are. The Acolytes were a group of mutants directly under Magneto's control. They consisted of Sabertooth, Gambit, Pyro, and Colossus, I believe. The Brotherhood was a group of teenage mutants that were the local thugs, and were under the control of Mystique. This group was made up of Avalanche, Quicksilver, the Scarlet Witch, Blob, and Toad. I hope that helps.


The strains of 'Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer' floated through the Xavier Institute for Gifted Children, disturbing Duo Maxwell's rest.

"Ugh…" he muttered, turning over in bed and squinting blearily, face drawn in the pale light from the window. A few snowflakes drifted lazily downwards, the top edge of the sun just beginning to rise over the horizon.

"All the other reindeer-" It was Kurt, his strong tenor voice ringing off the walls. Duo sighed and slithered out of the bed, careful not to disturb Heero, who slept curled at the end of the bed, a knife in his hand, and Trowa and Quatre, who slept tightly spooned together, the taller boy's arms wrapped around Quatre's shoulders possessively. Wufei was crouched on the window seat, his head resting on his knees. Duo scratched his chest twice, ran a hand through his braided hair, and stiffly pulled on a sweatshirt, leaving the room and stumbling down to the kitchen.

Ah, coffee. The precious, life-giving liquid that was required for a happy and healthy Duo. He poured it into the mug, added three cubes of sugar and a good-sized spoonful of milk, and sipped it slowly, relishing the heat of the mug on his chilled hands. Trowa and Quatre wandered in, the Heavyarms pilot's hair messy and sticking straight up in the back, customary turtleneck wrinkled and fraying at the elbows. They nodded to him cursorily, Quatre headed to the refrigerator, and Trowa opened a cabinet, retrieved bowls, went to the pantry, and got out Raisin Bran, which was the only remotely healthy cereal the Institute possessed.

In eerie synchronicity, Quatre poured milk into the bowls while Trowa poured in the Raisin Bran, and then, with one accord, they sat down and began to eat. Duo retrieved the newspaper from the counter, and handed it off to Wufei, who had just entered, and was now absentmindedly toasting a bagel while perusing the front page.

Heero slid silently into the kitchen, picked up a small apple, and sat down beside Duo, watching the Shinigami stare blankly into his coffee cup.

The silence was customary; all of them relished their early morning breakfasts, without the noise and chaos of the other inhabitants of the Institute. It served as a chance to reaffirm their bonds, since their routine hadn't changed since the wars. Wufei broke the silence,

"Microsoft stocks are down. Not like that's going to have much effect on you, Quatre," he finished, glancing ironically at the Arabian.

"What's not going to have much effect?" Kurt asked, sticking his head into the room, Santa hat tilted rakishly on his head. "Nothing," Wufei replied stiffly. "Okay," Kurt said amiably. "There's going to be a snowball fight later, if you guys want to join in. Everyone's starting to wake up, so…" he trailed off significantly.

"Thanks for the warning," Duo said, rocking the clear glass mug in his hands, watching the reflected light swing about on the tabletop. Heero glanced up as the thunder of footsteps on the main stairs reached them, the tidal wave of yelling and talking growing at a steady rate, until it overwhelmed everything else.

The gaggle of people poured into the kitchen, alarming the pilots. Duo's hands clenched tight around the mug, a spider webbing of cracks spreading across the glass from the pressure. Bobby glanced at Trowa, and Quatre, who sat on the taller boy's lap, blond, sleep-tousled head resting on the broad chest, and sneered, opening the pantry and grabbing a box of Froot Loops. Kitty began busily clattering around the kitchen, opening and slamming the wooden cabinets, slicing strawberries and cantaloupe.

"Quatre, Trowa, Wufei, Duo, Heero, the Professor wants to see you," Jean said from the doorway, Scott hovering behind her with a strange, triumphant light in his eyes. Quatre stirred slowly, stretched, and slid off Trowa's lap, shuffling towards the staircase. The other pilots followed, Wufei folding the newspaper and tucking it under his arm. Scott and Jean shadowed them, attempting to subtly urge them to walk a bit faster. Heero, harried, flicked his wrist, a knife shooting into his hand, spinning and holding the knife up to Jean's face, the razor-sharp tip of the blade pressing delicately into her chin, his gaze cold.

No words were said. None were needed. Jean and Scott dropped back. Quatre pushed open the heavy oak door.

The suitcase that held the whiskey, LSD, tranquilizer pills, and heroin lay, unopened, on the Professor's desk, the man himself watching them calmly, fingers pressed together.

"Come, sit down," he invited, gesturing expansively at the five chairs before his desk. The pilots sat down warily with Quatre, the peacemaker, facing Xavier.

"I'm sure you know why I've called you here," he began, only to be interrupted by Duo.

"No, we have absolutely no friggin' idea and are simply sitting here to make the room look more impressive." The professor raised a brow, coughed lightly, and started over. "Anyway, we are very concerned by the contents of this suitcase. Logan said that he smelled some illicit substances in there, and his nose is rarely, if ever, wrong. Would one of you open it, please?" Trowa glanced at Heero, who had programmed the traps.

The former Wing pilot leaned forward, dragged the suitcase towards him, and began to tap lightly on the outside of the lock. The lock disengaged, a small panel flipping up to reveal a tiny keypad. A few presses of the buttons, and the keypad slid aside, exposing a fingerprint analyzer. Duo had made the suitcase; his expertise with his hands hadn't faded after the war. Finally, the suitcase opened, and Heero slid it back onto the desk.

The professor stared at the contents gravely, reaching out and holding up the small bag of heroin to the light.

"Whose is this?" The pilots stared back in stony silence. The professor sighed.

"Very well. I'll be confiscating the drugs; if we find more in your possession, the consequences will be severe. Each of you will have mandatory therapy with me, starting today. Duo, why don't we begin with you? You'll be here for half an hour, at the most. Will the rest of you wait outside until I call one of you in?" The young men rose from their seats and left the room, leaving Duo slouched insolently in his chair.

"Duo Maxwell," Charles said thoughtfully, contemplating the young man. Large, dark violet eyes stared into his own sullenly, the callused, thin hands playing with the frayed end of the braid. "You're seventeen and were born in New York City, according to your testimony. You have no family, which matches the stories of your friends. I believe this whiskey is yours." He set the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the table between them, the oily swirls of liquid dancing in the light. Duo nodded once, close-mouthed. Charles sighed mentally; it seemed that reticence wasn't only limited to Heero, then.

"Listen- I'm not here to hurt or humiliate you. I just want to know you a little bit better, so that I can understand why you drink. It's a very unhealthy habit, you know." Duo snorted and leaned forward, hands flat on the desk and gaze intent.

"Listen carefully, Chuck, and don't interrupt me, 'cause I'm only gonna tell you this once. Who in the hell do you think you are, preaching to me about what's healthy or unhealthy! I don't know who you think I am, but let me tell you one thing: it'll be a cold day in hell before I become one of those stupid little automatons you've turned Summers and Gray into." Charles opened his mouth, only to shut it with an audible click when Duo continued acidically,

"No! I see your little game, and I know it all too well. You want everyone to see you as their friend, as the person who can 'fix' all their little petty insecurities and problems. I don't, and neither do my comrades. We depend on no one but ourselves, and that's the way we like it!"

"Could you at least let me see-"

"What part of 'no' don't you understand, you cretin? I'll promise you something- keep digging, and you won't like what you find. You can keep the whiskey; I've known plenty of men like you," he sneered, "you probably want it for yourself." Charles massaged his temples with his fingertips, battered and worn down in the storm of Duo's relentless, furious hatred.

"Why," he murmured, "Do you and your friends find it so hard to trust in anyone? We've offered you nothing but understanding." The younger man laughed, a harsh, cracking sound, before he hissed,

"We trust no one. Trust is a weakness, and to trust is to leave yourself open and vulnerable to pain. Besides, none of you could understand, even if you tried."

"Very well. Will you send one of the others in, then?"


"So, Chuck, how'd the 'therapy' go?' Logan lounged indolently in one of the armchairs, watching his leader rub his eyes in aggravation. He had known this was going to happen, and truthfully, he found it kind of funny that the great psychic had finally met people that could make him lose his fabled calm. Which he was doing now in a very spectacular fashion, the burly mutant noticed.

"Badly," Charles gritted out. "Trowa and Heero just sit there and stare at me blankly like they've never even heard of the English language, much less speak it; Quatre just merrily dances around the question while sipping tea; Duo rages and calls me horribly creative bad words, and Wufei fires back obscure philosophical quotations."

"So who'd the drugs belong to?" Charles sat up straighter and began to tick them off,

"The tranquilizer pills are Quatre's; the LSD belongs to Trowa; the heroin is Wufei's, and the alcohol is Duo's." Logan smirked humorlessly.

"Kinda expected that, to be honest. I've had the kid pegged as a possible alcoholic since day one. As for me…" he stretched languidly, taking a drink from the tumbler of bourbon on the desk, "I've been trying to figure out their pack structure. Every group's gotta have a leader, right? Well, these kids are all leaders: they seem to switch roles depending on what they're being confronted with. It's actually impressive; there aren't many teenagers who could just hand off authority like that. Summers, for one."

Charles rolled his shoulders irritably, and then looked up, saying slyly,

"By the way, I've noticed how you keep looking at Heero. Is there something going on between you two?"

"No!" Logan said. "I haven't even noticed that I, as you say, 'look at him.'" Charles smirked,

"You always sit across from him at dinner, and go out and sit with him on the roof. Besides-"

"We're just friends," Logan interrupted. "Maybe not even that. Smoking buddies, then."

"If you say so."


Heero, once again, found himself sitting on the roof, lighter and cigarette in hand. Why was he here? It didn't make any sort of logical sense for him to keep coming up here night after night. He got nothing out of it, no food, water, or energy. As a matter of fact, it drained his energy, as he should be sleeping. So then, why? His lip twitched in irritation, shaking hands fumbling with the lighter.

That was strange, and certainly not useful. He leveled his glare at his hands, until they stopped shaking long enough to touch the lighter to the cigarette. 'I'd better enjoy this, anyway,' he thought suddenly. He certainly wasn't going to get any chances to smoke when he was dealing with all of his comrade's withdrawals. A scraping noise made him tense, hand going to his gun. Adamantium claws glinted in the starlight as Logan heaved himself over the edge, brown eyes noticing the gun and lip curling in amusement. The dark brows drew together as he saw the fine tremors in Heero's hands, the man moving closer and sitting at a respectable distance.

"What's with the shaking? You cold?" Heero snorted at that, looking up at the snowflakes that fell slowly from the partly clouded skies.

"The temperature at which I will begin shivering is approximately 15 degrees." Logan looked puzzled, "But you've got a healing factor, which burns off your energy quickly, so you'd get cold faster. How does that work?" Heero shrugged.

"Classified information." Logan gave him a sidelong look,

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you just say that 'cause you don't want to tell me."

"I do not lie."

"Then what're you shaking for?" Heero glared at him for a moment; the man was persistent, as his namesake was known to be. "Since you obviously find the idea of leaving me be to be repugnant, the reason I shake is because of my Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The others have it as well, although it manifests differently for each of us. I have flashbacks and tremors." Logan sighed; the more he found out about Heero, the more he hated himself for prying.

"Flashbacks of what?" Heero's eyes closed, a whirlwind of images flashing across the inside of his eyelids.

Cold steel ran so delicately across his chest-

A waltz by Chopin played softly as a voice thick with hunger whispered, "Pretty thing, pretty toy, make you bleed, make you cry, make you DIE!" And then there was nothing but pressure and a horrible burning, pulsing agony-

"Scream, damn you! SCREAM!" He did not; in fact, he spat the blood welling from his lacerated tongue into his captor's eyes. The man's eyes, alight with mad lust, loomed closer, the blade flashing in the lamplight.

"Oh, pretty thing, we shall have so much fun together…"

"Heero? Heero!" Someone was shaking him, the deep voice ragged with fright. His fingers tensed in preparation to tear out the person's throat, the same way the officer had torn his chest apart and rooted around to search for the black, rotting heart that he no longer possessed. Oh God someone was holding him, and whispering as if they cared-

No one could care! No one could care for a broken blade, a weapon without an enemy. He had to kill them, kill the person that lied and acted as if they loved him.

Logan stared down at the frighteningly pale face, the rose-colored lips pressed together tightly, and lines of stress running a fine tracery over Heero's skin. Almost as an afterthought, he noticed the way the too-thin shoulders melded with his chest, and the long, lean form fitted easily against his own as if they were two puzzle pieces, the scarred skin alarmingly warm, as if the inferno of Dante were burning beneath the younger man's skin.

Crystalline blue eyes flickered open, a hand, fingers curled into claws, lashed upwards in the corner of his vision. Logan's hand moved instinctively to block it, callused fingers catching Heero's hand. He felt Heero's ribs expand against him, each curving bone seeming as fragile as a twig as the younger man shook in his grip.

"Let go…" Logan released Heero with a curse.

"Sorry," he said grimly. Heero laid, spread-eagled, on the shingles of the roof, the cigarette burning, forgotten, in his hand. "Don't be," the former pilot said with a tinge of bitterness. "No one ever is."


"Welcome to the Institute, Eric," Charles said, shaking his former nemesis' hand. "Jean and Scott have already gone out and acquired the Christmas tree: make sure that John doesn't burn it, would you?"

"But of course," Eric replied, smirking. "Are there any people we should avoid? I'm sure you've acquired some new projects since I last visited." Charles turned the wheelchair and ascended the ramp, saying,

"There are five new ones you should probably tell your charges to avoid: there's Duo Maxwell, who's easily recognizable: he's got a ridiculously long braid. There's Wufei Chang; he has black hair and eyes, and he pulls his hair back so tight it's a wonder his head isn't misshapen. Trowa Barton has a strange-looking bang that covers one of his eyes, and he's the tallest person we have here now. Heero Yuy you don't have to worry about: he spends all of his time shut up in their room. He has very messy brown hair and blue eyes, and he's fairly small. Quatre Winner is probably the 'safest' of them, and I use that term loosely. He's very angelic-looking: blonde-haired and blue-eyed." Eric glanced at him,

"And these men are so dangerous for what reason?"

"Highly paranoid, reactive, and violent," Charles said humorlessly. "Not to mention highly skilled in martial arts, weaponry, and all-too-happy to rip people's throats out bare-handed. And they're drug addicts."

"And you're letting these dangerous men stay here for what reason, Charles? Am I to assume you've finally gone senile?" The professor made a rude gesture as he backed into the elevator, pressing the button.

"For your information, Eric, the reason I'm letting them stay is because they need to be monitored. Their abilities are dangerous, and considering their personalities, it's better to let them stay somewhere where we can attempt to help them. Quatre's a very high-level empath; so high, in fact, that there is no shielding for him, so he became addicted to tranquilizer pills. Wufei creates fire out of thin air. Trowa's a were-lion, although the lion he shifts into is huge: at least the size of a small pony. Duo's eyes glow red and he grows wings. He controls shadows. And Heero-" He trailed off, looking troubled.

"Yes?"

"Heero kills people," he said simply. "His ability is the ability to destroy life." Eric arched a brow in surprise.

"Useful. My charges should have finished moving into the guest rooms by now; I hope you don't mind that Remy brought some brandy. Christmas cheer and all, no?"

Charles murmured an assent as they entered his office, the heavy door sliding shut behind them.


Remy was bored. Not just because of the god-awful morality that positively oozed from Summer's and Gray's pores, and prevented him from having any sort of fun whatsoever, but also because Wolverine wouldn't let him near his precious Harley. Not to mention that no one here knew how to play a good game of poker.

"John…" he whined. The Australian looked up from where he was carefully laying out his massive collection of lighters.

"Yeah?"

"Remy is bored!"

"Not like I can do much 'bout that," John replied, flicking a Zippo open and shut obsessively. Remy grunted in irritation, swinging his booted feet off the featherbed and taking a sip of brandy. Fanning a deck of cards open and shut, he left the room, following the trail of amusement that his empathy was feeding him. It helped, of course, that the trail was coming from the kitchen, where something that smelled temptingly like gumbo was cooking.

"Duo, no! Don't put whiskey in there!" Remy grinned when he heard Rogue's voice, the smoky tones tinged with fond exasperation.

"Come on, Rogue! Alcohol makes everything better! Come on…" A deeper voice wheedled, the sound of a spoon clinking against a bowl reaching Remy's ears. The Cajun smirked, peering around the doorframe.

Rogue's slender form, a black sweater covering her torso and brown, white-streaked hair tied into a ponytail, was standing next to the island, bowls scattered across the scratched, wooden surface and chopped pieces of shrimp littered about. A slender hand darted into Remy's field of vision, snatching a bottle of spice.

Thwack!

"Ow! Ow-wow-wow! Why'd you do that?" Rogue, spoon swinging from her hand and hands on her hips, said triumphantly, "I told you not to try and eat anything. Now come and help me chop up these peppers."

"Negative on that." The voice dropped threateningly, and Remy turned to escape while he could.

"Where are you going?" A rough hand snatched his collar, spinning him about easily and propelling him into the kitchen. "Do you know him, Rogue?" She glanced at him coolly, raising an eyebrow.

"Spying on us, Remy? How droll. Yeah, you can let go of him, Duo." The hand left his collar, a blur of chestnut and black shooting past him to the oven, where a pot was boiling and rattling about alarmingly.

"Cooking's really not my forte, Rogue. I leave that up to Heero and Trowa-" The voice flattened as the man turned, violet eyes sweeping over Remy's form.

"Oh. It's you." Remy bowed mockingly, red-on-black eyes alight.

"Remy LeBeau, King of Thieves, at your service. And what might your name be?" The braided pickpocket smirked at him, twirling a knife between his fingers.

"And what makes you think I'd give my name to a petty criminal?" Remy's eyelid twitched. The man he'd been lusting after for the past week certainly had a mouth on him.

"Oh, stop being coy, Duo." Thank God for Rogue's sensible mind. "This is Duo Maxwell," Rogue tossed over her shoulder, occupied with adding the shrimp into the bowl. Remy swept forward, and before Duo could jerk away or bring that wicked knife to bear, grasped the warm, slender hand and brought it to his lips, brushing the skin as he murmured in a low voice,

"Charmed, Remy is sure."


Searchlights swept the barren plains as a C-130 Hercules flew slowly towards the runway that had been hastily made, landing gear deploying with a great clank. A slender man, dark hair combed straight back and severely parted, stood at the end of the runway, a Jeep idling beside him. The Hercules turned slowly, lined itself up with the runway, and began its descent.

With a thump that shook the jolted the surrounding buildings, the plane's wheels touched the asphalt, roaring down the runway towards the man, who watched the metal behemoth rush towards him without fear. The beast groaned lowly as it shuddered to a stop, several people rushing out onto the runway and beginning to pull the unloading ramp open.

A small canister was rushed off the plane and handed to the man, who stood, staring hungrily at the metallic cylinder in his hand, free hand caressing it in some perverted parody of affection. Inside the cylinder was his weapon, a few spare ounces of nuclear material.

"So small a thing," Trask whispered. "Such a little thing. And with this small thing, those animals shall be destroyed!" Mad laughter rang out through the twilight, the man's shoulders shaking in hysteria and triumph as he shrieked to the wide skies,

"Now, now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds!"