Hello all! This update is less than a week - you proud of me? ;) Thank you to my faithful reviewers, I love you guys! Real quick, this is going to be part of a three-chapter set of the same day/night from three different points of view. Well, technically two days, because the whole thing stops at like five in the morning of October 28, so... yeah. Can't say anything else, I will spoil it!

On that note, I have a favor to ask. I got a review asking if this was, indeed, a Cherik story. It is, and I'm sorry if that wasn't clear, but... Considering it is Cherik... please do not send me any nasty reviews. I can take criticism, I might get pissed if you're rude about it, but I can take it. But I will not tolerate any extremely homophobic reviews. Your opinions are your own... but do NOT post anything hateful on MY story. I will report you, and I don't want to do that, but frankly, I don't want to hear that either. This is a work of fiction, and is meant for enjoyment, not for bigotry. If you do not like Cherik, don't read. Don't leave me reviews, don't PM me, just stop reading. I haven't gotten anything like that - it was a genuine question, and I'm sorry that I didn't state before now that it's a Cherik story - but please, do not send me anything like that.

That was a little... forceful, wasn't it? I'm sorry. Anyhoo, nice sweet chapter... with a much better cliffhanger for the sweetie who liked the last one! ;) Please enjoy and review!

Chapter Seven: Anything You Want (October 27, 1967)

Anya looks so cute when she sleeps. Quite adorable in fact. Over the past year she has become even less of a girl and more of a woman. A continuing growth spurt, one that has only just barely stopped, left her with striation bruises and growing pains, but an enviable height at five-foot-ten. Taller than me, even if I could stand, I'm afraid. The sharp angles she inherited from Erik no longer look out of place on her; less mysterious and elfin and more regal. The freckles seemed to only grow, a dusting across her face and body clashing with her silvery skin, reminding me every day of the eleven-year-old girl with the wild red curls and the trembling peach lips I met in a Florida hospital. Her lower lip became fuller, plumper, softening the harsh edge of her jaw. While not particularly… curvaceous… she has a willowy body with tight, sinewy muscles that more than once I've caught young men at her third high school gawking at. A ballerina's body (though truthfully her not-so-secret runs and sparring sessions with Jesse are what gave them to her). Her hair darkened over the past five years to become a thick auburn, which can be set aflame int a scarlet as red as blood in the sun. Usually she is quick with a retort, a sly grin on her peachy lips and a spark in her cat-like green eyes. But when she's asleep she looks young. Sweet. More like the young woman I know who still has nightmares occasionally and will stay up into the early morning hours just to talk with me. Everything, nothing, the war in Vietnam, the possible mutant-human war, her brothers, her lack of mutation (which Hank confirmed three months ago, although he still gets quite twitchy when he mentions the tests. I wonder why but I don't pry)... Erik's daughter, my daughter, has become a beautiful woman with an even brighter, more precious mind.

And today my little girl turns sixteen.

I gently brush the curls away from her face, smiling when her long lashes flutter against the sharp angle of her cheeks before she subsides, tilting her head into my hand. The book still loosely held between her fingers tumbles to the side, catching on the edge of the couch before falling to the ground in a disarray of pages. She breathes deeply and evenly, each slow breath measured. If I didn't know better I would believe she was faking sleep. But no, Anya doesn't quite cuddle the couch cushions when faking the way she does when she truly is asleep - she doesn't seem to realize how borderline aggressive she is in her effort to burrow into the warmth of the leather. Loathe as I am to wake her, she has a long day ahead of her.

"Darling wake up," I murmur. She lets out a loud groan and curls in tighter to herself, away from me. My smile widens and I move my hand to her shoulder, shaking lightly. "Darling," I croone.

"Mm-mm," she mumbles into the leather. I chuckle and tap her shoulder twice.

"Come on darling, it's time to get up." She was awake the second I spoke, but she resolutely clings to the last vestiges of sleep with a playful stubbornness. She flaps a hand at me before pillowing her cheek against her arm. Her eyes are stilled closed but a smile tilts her mouth into a bow.

"Sh! I'm sleeping," she grouches. I laugh and drop my hands back to my wheelchair, feeling my cheeks pull with my smile. I wheel slightly away from her, but she still doesn't move.

"Darling," I admonish. Anya rolls over and, without opening her green eyes, sticks her tongue out at me. I roll my eyes and she cracks one eye open, her lips parting over startlingly white teeth in a grin that's both cocky and sheepish.

Morning Daddy, she thinks, stretching, her back bowing and her arms above her head. Her hair is a rumpled mess of curls and there are lines along the side of her face from where she slept on the seams of the couch. And she still is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. What's wrong? she thinks, widening those large green eyes and ruffling a hand through her hair.

"You can't tell me you've forgotten again?" I demand in mock outrage. Well, partially mock. Not that I am angry with her, but every year it seems like Anya deliberately puts this day out of her mind. Anya looks confused - this year is no different. I sigh. "Darling, it's your birthday."

"Oh." She pouts a little bit and flops back onto the sofa. "You're not going to try and make me have a party again are you?"

I very carefully keep my face blank. Her fourteenth birthday I tried to… instigate a few friendships by throwing a surprise party. The evening had ended with an exploding cake that had taken days to clean off of the ceiling and counters and several very unhappy high schoolers, though a very exuberant "cake fight" between my children.

"Ah, no, not this year," I say honestly. Anya sighs and rolls to her feet, towering over me. She crosses her arms over her chest and smiles gently.

"So what have my brothers gotten up to this year?" she asks me lightly. I shrug and she quirks a brow. "Dad…"

"If I knew, darling… alright I wouldn't tell you, but I do not know what your brothers have done. Or where they've gone," I admit. "They'll be back tonight."

"Should I be scared?" she asks with a deep sigh. I smirk and nod.

"I believe so. They've been planning this, whatever it is, since you were fourteen." And have been very careful not to let me know.

"Well, shit."

"Language."

"Sorry." She flushes darkly, ducking her head. "You know, you guys don't have to do this," she hedges. I barely suppress a groan at the same argument we have had every year since she was twelve years old. "You've given me so much already, you don't have to -"

"Darling if you finish that sentence I will be forced to make you believe you are a twelve-year-old boy for the day. Complete with pimples," I say gravely. She pretends to wince.

"Yes sir. Mouth is zipped shut." She grins and mimes closing her mouth. I laugh and she bounds over to me, grasping the handles of my chair and wheeling me towards the library door. "So, what extravagance have you planned for me this year? I'm sixteen y'know - that's supposed to be the 'biggie.'"

"Shopping," I deadpan. Any normal teenage girl would squeal and throw her arms around my neck with repeated thank you's. My daughter, who I have to fight to get her to cut her hair when it reaches her waist and literally had to drag to Macy's for new jeans because hers were too small, wrinkles her regal nose and glares at me.

"Ow ew, Dad…"

"Unfortunately, Anya my darling, shopping is a part of your present. You will have to suffer through it, I'm afraid. But first, the part you will enjoy." She growls a little but wisely keeps her mouth shut. I have to hide my smile. My feisty little Tomboy… I indicate the direction we need to go and she quietly wheels me, probably turning over in her mind furiously what I have planned for her. I grin to myself.

It isn't until I have her guide me outside that she becomes a little excited.

"We're going to the garage?" she realizes in surprise. She doesn't usually go near the garage, even though I insisted she practice driving with her brothers. My scientist haunts the lab whenever possible and falls asleep reading books on chemistry when she can't. The garage has cars which are generally no interest to her.

Fortunately I did not get her a car.

Anya opens the door before hurrying back behind me to help me through. "Careful," she murmurs when I try to assist her and nearly catch the wheel on the edge of the ramp. My mouth twists a little but I refuse to let her see that. Anya has never once cared that I cannot walk properly, and grows upset if I voice disquiet with being unable to care for myself. I'm her father in her eyes and that is that - no weakness allowed.

I shake off the depressing train of thought and point towards a sheet near us. The lump underneath is too small to be a car, and far too thin. She raises an eyebrow at me but I simply smile at her. "Go ahead. It's yours." Anya sighs and strides over to the sheet, grasping it between long fingers and tearing it away with resignation.

She wasn't expecting what's beneath.

I can't see her face, but I hear her thoughts screech to a halt even as her heart begins to pound so loudly she thinks vaguely that it might possibly explode. Her hand falls limply to her side, the sheet still draped over her fingertips. I hear her swallow. See her shoulders sag with surprise. Imagine the blank features that so closely mimics Erik's whenever he experienced emotions that he didn't understand. "Do you like it?" I ask, aware of the emotional avalanche currently sweeping through her mind and burying any full thoughts into little blips of expression she is barely conscious of occurring.

I see the hand not holding the sheet reach out, trembling a little. "This is… It's my…"

"It was your father's, yes." I wheel around until I can see her face. Her eyes are raking over the glossy black paint and the shining steel of Richard Jefferson's 1959 Velocette Viper motorcycle. Her mouth is trembling as she strokes her fingers over the polished leather seat and takes in the brand new metal work. I continue as gently as possible, not sure how this present will be received. "It had suffered some damage from storage but I believe that the restoration is close enough to the original to -"

Her arms are squeezing around my neck before I can finish my sentence.

"Thank you Daddy," she whispers, her arms tightening. "Thank you so much."

I wrap my arms around her in turn and press her to me. My girl has had three fathers in her short life. One who she has no memory of and is a virtual stranger; one who is still alive and breathing and loves her; and one who loved her unconditionally while he was alive. Papa, Dad, and Vatti.

Whether she tries to deny that she has any connection to Erik, I know her. I know her as well as I would know my own flesh and blood, if I were capable of having any children that were biologically mine. I know how much she craves to remember him, if only to find her place in the world.

So, today, she is getting a present from each of her fathers. Erik included.

XXX-XXX

I never cared for motorcycles. Still don't, as a matter of fact. While I sit in the driveway and watch her come back up it on her bike, cheeks flushed and rosy and her hair wind-whipped with pieces of torn leaves, I can't help but fret. The helmet she has on doesn't look snug enough with her curls, her arms are bare in a hand-me-down Beatles shirt from Alex, her jeans are ripped already and could easily tear on the exposed engine… or catch fire… or -

"Dad, I can feel you worrying from over here," she laughs. I quell my internal complaints and smile. "I'm fine, I just went down the street."

"Do you like it?" I ask her. She beams and hops off the motorcycle, barely remembering the kickstand before tearing across the side to hug me again.

"It's just like I remember. Thank you." Earnest and honest. And happy. Perfect.

"Good. Now is the part you won't care for as much," I tell her, secretly thrilling as she groans and drops her head to my shoulder.

"Honestly Dad, I have clothes, I'm just going to fu- muck them up in the lab anyway!"

"Nice save."

"Thank you."

"Get in the car."

"Drat."

She lets go of me and wheels me to the passenger side, opening the door and waiting for me to leverage myself out of the chair and into the seat, before folding up my chair and depositing it into the boot. "You know it's illegal for me to drive without a license, riiiight?" she coaxes, even as she buckles herself in. "We should probably wait for Alex and Sean to get back so they can drive us." They might not be back until tomorrow so she would be off the hook. Not this time.

"Nice try darling," I chuckle. "Into the city. Just like your brothers showed you." She huffs but complies easily enough. She drives down from Westchester and into New York City with shockingly little mistakes. I only end up gripping the dashboard in utter terror once.

The thought that I just gave her a motorcycle flits across my mind. What was I thinking?

I direct her deeper into Manhattan than we usually go. Her interest spikes as we pass by the Macy's I usually force her to go into for new clothes. It deepens when we seem to avoid the clothing district altogether. Finally, I direct her down a blank street with mostly old grey stone walls. "Where are we?" she asks. Her eyes are wide and scanning everything with an air of excitement. I grin.

"Manhattan."

"I knew I got being a pain in the ass from somewhere."

"Would you like your present or would you like to be grounded?"

"Depends on if this a clothing store."

So like Erik.

I sigh dramatically and gesture for Anya to leave the car. She does, hurrying to the boot to retrieve my wheelchair and waiting patiently while I drag myself into it. I guide her (or rather, tell her which door to open) to a nondescript brown wooden door, set into the stone as if it isn't quite sure what it is doing in a place of lifeless stone and steel. Anya opens the door and helps me through before shutting it and finally turning around.

"Oh. My. God."

It's a bookstore, with shelves and shelves and shelves of books. There's everything here from physics to chemistry to fantasy to romance to space travel. Anya's eyes are so wide they look painful and her jaw is slack; for once she's speechless.

"Any you want," I tell her. She looks at me for a heartbeat, and then she's gone. I can't stop my laughter from ringing around the walls as I watch my daughter tear through the bookshelves. I see her for only seconds at a time, and each time she is hidden more and more by a stack of books quickly growing to be the same height as her. Chemistry books, H.G. Wells, Jane Austen, what looks to be a book on atomic theory, biology, genetics, Mark Twain. Books so thin they are barely a hundred pages long to books so large she staggers under their weight. Red, blue, black, grey, lined with gold filigree and so plain they appear boring. When Anya finally stops, her arms are shaking beneath the weight of all the books in her arms. She peeks around the stack and grins unrepentantly at me. I pretend to be aghast, but my amusement must be clear, because her smile grows wider.

"You said any I want…"

"I believe I forgot your avid love of books."

"Liar - I got it from you," she says cheekily. I almost tell her that her love of book is genetic; that her father, when he wasn't hunting Shaw or training or being a general (pleasant) nuisance, was - although he generally avoided libraries - as voracious a reader as she is. But I bite my tongue. That's for later. For this moment, this is when she is solely my daughter.

In a few hours, she will be Erik's, but for now, I am greedily holding onto this moment with my little girl.

XXX-XXX

I have to credit the young man for being patient. Jesse Winters waits until Anya has put away her new books in her already vast collection (the purple of her walls is invisible behind the bookshelves) to knock on the door. She turns her head to me and I shrug as if I have no idea about who that can be. Anya gets up, walking downstairs and slowly opening the door. Even though I can't see her, I can hear the hesitance in the way the door creaks, absolute silence reigning for the span of a few heartbeats before she feels confident enough to open the door. I feel a pang in my chest. Five years later and she is still slightly afraid to open the front door.

"Jesse! You're wearing a… a tie! You're wearing a tie!" I hear her exclaim. I repress a smile and wheel to the top of the stairs, half-hidden behind the wall. Jesse smiles sheepishly on the doorstep, his milky white orbs hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. He looks sharp in a slightly worn gray suit and a shining pair of black dress shoes, and blue-striped tie hanging loosely around his neck. He blushes to the roots of his dark hair and thrusts a bouquet of lilies and roses at a gob-smacked Anya. Two times today she has been rendered speechless… Well, three if the motorcycle is counted. Though that was more a grateful silence than absolute shock. I grin; this is definitely one of the better birthdays for Anya.

"Happy birthday Anya," the boy mumbles, shy and reticent. Around the rest of the family he is cryptic, slightly manipulative, and teasing. A good-hearted lad but a bit of a know-it-all, and more than a little infuriating with his mutation. But, while he still teases her, Jesse becomes oddly silent and bashful with Anya in the room. And if she asks he will tell her what he sees through his "eyes," albeit reluctantly. Anya though seems to suffer the same problem. She blushes and looks up at him - one of the few men she is shorter than beside her brothers - before tucking an errant curl behind her ear and glancing at the flowers in her hands.

"Thanks. I'll um… put these in water. Come in," she finally says, stepping away from the door and scurrying into the kitchen. I hide my snort. The boy practically lives here, and yet, suddenly, they are acting like strangers. Never mind the number of times they've fallen asleep together on the couch while watching a moving, or stayed up late talking and laughing, or the hours they are together throughout the week.

Young love will do that to you.

"So… um… what's with the jacket? And tie?" She seems fascinated by the tie. A part of me very much wants to clap a hand over my eyes and not see that.

"Oh, er, I was… Well I was wondering if… I-if you'd like to go out. For your birthday I mean. Not a date b-but a birthday dinner. Birthday dinner," he says, more firmly, biting his lip to stop his stuttering. Anya is a lovely shade of maroon that makes her hair look particularly dark.

"Um.. sure. Just hang on," she mutters, vaulting away from him and hurrying up the stairs. She pauses when she sees me, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Do not, under any circumstances, make him think he's covered in snakes, or dying, or no interest in me, or -"

"Darling, would I do that?" I chuckle, noting her nervous blush with faint amusement. She gives me the look she inherited from her father.

"Dad."

"Alright alright, I swear."

The look Jesse shoots me lets me know full well that he is completely aware of what I can do to him if he does anything to my daughter. Anya is back in record time, sans flowers and - my eyes practically leap from my head - in a black dress with a pleated skirt and a green belt around her narrow waist. Her normally wild curls have been pinned down into some semblance of order at the back of her head. No makeup adorns her face but that doesn't matter. She is too beautiful for words.

And still wearing her beat up Converse.

Some things never change.

Anya gives me a look again as she bolts past me, racing down the stairs and taking Jesse's hand, as if speed could stop me if I wanted to do the boy harm. "C'mon, Jess."

"You look beautiful," he whispers as the door slams shut.

I'm left to my own devices for most of the rest of the day. I idly wander from room to room, occasionally stopping and looking through paper work left, an idea for a thesis on Hank's desk, college brochures on Anya's… The house is so full of memories. Bad ones, if I let my mind drift too far back, but good ones too. Wonderful ones. Watching Sean fly for the first time. The pride I felt when Alex destroyed the dummy without killing myself or Hank. Seeing Ra - her flick through forms so fast and with so much confidence tears were brought to my eyes. Bearing witness to Hank make history in the form of a helmet for me to broaden my powers. Playing chess late at night. Board games the children forced us to play. Meals that often devolved into so much laughter that no one ever really ate anything. Harassing Moira. Becoming strong. Becoming family.

And then Anya.

Anya discovering the lab for the first time when she's eleven. Twelve and she brings two new members into the fold. Fourteen and she risks her life to save her best friend. Memories of laughing as she and Sean chase each through the woods. Staying up late to soothe her nightmares. Finding Alex brewing her hot chocolate and teasing her about boys. Movie nights with Jesse and Anya squished on the couch and everyone else sprawled in various states of slumber. She and Hank conducting experiments in the lab. Frequent trips into the city to have her hair cut from where she caused something to explode again. Long talks into the night - about mutants, about her humanity, about her human parents, about what she's thinking of doing in the future, of her worries for me. Always seeking, always eager, always passionate in everything she does.

She is so much like Erik. Sometimes, when I talk to her, I half expect Erik to respond. It's even more jarring when she says something similar to what he has in the past. There are days when I look at her, at her kindness and her fierce protectiveness of all people no matter their color or ethnicity or background or mutation or gender, and I feel a pang. Not of regret, but it's not light, either. Erik could have been like her. He could have been as bright and good and shining as his daughter. Oh, a troublemaker to be sure - Anya has been kicked out of two schools and I would not doubt that she at least gets suspended from the latest one - but a good-hearted girl who fights with everything she has for what she believes… Even if I don't agree with her methods. I sigh and rub my face at my melancholy thoughts.

Most of all I regret how Erik wasn't able to see her grow into this beautiful person, inside and out. He missed so much of her life for this bloody war he wants to start... A war his daughter, my daughter, is eager to fight in. I grimace. Part of me wonders how much of this is her trying to prove that she isn't weak because she is human. But the fire in her eyes makes me doubt that. Sometimes when she speaks of fighting for what's right I can't help but think that it is because of me - my deals, my beliefs, my hopes for humanity - that make her so eager to fight.

The perfect balance of complete serenity from me… and an unquenchable rage from Erik. If the mixture doesn't end the world it might very well go to great lengths to save it.

XXX-XXX

The boys are still absent when Anya gets back close to midnight. I'm beginning to worry about them but am trying to hide it as my daughter walks through the door with the brightest smile this side of the equator and a happy flush rising in her cheeks. She finds me in the library, curls ruffled and eyes shining. "Hi Daddy," she giggles. Her thoughts are a warm and soft wave cresting over my bruised thoughts. I glance up from the book in my lap and smile at her.

"Yo look like you had a good time," I tell her. She nods and skips into the room, falling to her knees in front of me. The black dress pools around her in a large cloud, covering her legs completely.

"I did. Jesse had a picnic set up for us - on top of the Empire State Building!" Her eyes are large and her lips are pulled into an even larger smile. "It's so beautiful up there… Did you know there's actually a lot of stars up there? You just have to be above the lights to see any."

"I'm glad you had a good time," I tell her honestly. She nods and gets to her feet to give me a hug.

"Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Anya you don't have to thank me for this." She pulls back and kisses my cheek.

"No, you're right... I have to thank you for existing. I'm pretty sure God isn't supposed to let angels walk among us mortals." I can feel the blush up to the roots of my hair. Anya's smile has gentled, and she looks decades older than her sixteen years. "So thank you for being here."

"I'm no angel, darling," I admonish her gently. If she knew some of the things I had done… She shrugs and looks down at her hands.

"You're mine. Does that count?" Her eyes are guileless as they meet mine. "You saved me. I was an orphan kid with no where to go and a biological father who is too busy starting a war to realize he has a kid. You took me in even knowing about him, knowing the kind of baggage I had - that I have - and you gave me a home. Gave me a family. Protected me. Loved me. You've never let me believe that I was anything other than me… And that it's okay to be me. You raised me to love and not to hate. You took everything that could have gone bad about me and didn't let it." There's a lump in my throat. She smiles and takes my hands. "You might not be an angel, Charles Xavier, but you're my guardian." Anya's peachy lips quirk up in a cheeky smile I know all too well. "I hope you're ready for that particular fiasco."

"Nothing you could do is a fiasco," I choke out. Damn it if she doesn't have her father's ability to make the words stick in my throat and suffocate me.

"So if I get expelled again I'm not grounded?"

"I never said that," I protest. She laughs and stands to her full height.

"I love you Daddy."

"I love you too darling. Hold on a minute," I say when she makes as if to leave the study. She turns back with a quizzical air, perching one of her slender hips on the desk. "I have another present for you."

"What? Oh no, Dad, you've given me so much already…"

"This isn't really from me. I just acquired it," I reassure her. I reach behind the desk and pull out a large box, covered with dark blue wrapping paper and with a silver bow on the top. "Had to pull a few strings, but I promise, I didn't buy this." Though I paid for it with blood and pain. Anya hesitates before taking it from me. Her skin is very pale beneath the freckles.

She's so careful as she pulls it apart, setting each piece of paper aside meticulously and neatly. Beneath the paper is a plain white box, a bit taller than an ordinary hat box. She lifts the box and frowns. Carefully, she pulls out a metal helmet, the face exposed except for a severe widow's peak down the front. The metal is a dull red with a thick silver border. It's familiar but alien, a reminder of a shift in my life I wish I could forget.

Or maybe go back to.

"Um.. thanks?" she says, turning it over in her hands. "Looks a little big for me to be honest." She's confused by it. I understand that. Practiced for it. But all those carefully planned words are suddenly absent, leaving the bitter taste of frustration on my tongue. "Why metal?"

"It's a special alloy that protects your mind from telepaths." Anya's eyes narrow and her hands tighten on the helmet. Bugger, where is that speech I planned?! She's upset. Suspicious. Suddenly I don't know what to say under the glare that begins to form.

"Dad, why are you giving me this? I don't need it. You'd never hurt me." I wince and rub a hand over my face.

"It's… Darling, please try to understand."

"You're making this worse."

"I know… I know." And I do. But I don't know how to tell her now that she is holding the helmet what this means. I lean forward and place my hands over hers, pressing them into the cold metal. It warms slowly, but surely, between the combined heat of our palms. "I hope there comes a day, Anya, when you are willing to give this to someone. When you trust him enough, respect him enough, to return this to him." Her hands shake beneath mine but her face and eyes are steady. "It was your father's. Erik's."

Silence.

"I don't expect you to forgive him today, or tomorrow, or even in a year." I'm babbling. I know I am, but I can't stop. "But darling, there is so much more to him than you think you know. So much more to who he is, why he is, than you've deluded yourself into believing." I'm talking to our hands, unable to meet her eyes. "He cares, Anya. If he knew you were here, he would have come. I am sure of it. I don't expect you to see him anytime soon, but until then, whatever you want to know, I will try to answer." I can feel her eyes on my face. I don't meet them.

Finally, she speaks. I look up when I hear the tears in her voice. "Are you sure about not being an angel?" There's something about the way she's looking at me, the way her face has scrunched up even as her eyes glisten with unshed tears, that reminds me of when she finally figures out a complex equation to conduct an experiment - or explode the toaster yet again. She lowers her hands until the helmet is resting on my lap before embracing me. I return it with a sense of relief. "I'll try. For you, I'll try," she whispers. "I call the right to punch him before I give it to him though."

"I'm first," I retort. She snorts and pulls away, wiping her eyes quickly and clearing her throat. My stoic little tomboy.

"Where are the guys?" she asks, taking the helmet back into her hands and holding it tenderly. "I'd hoped to at least say goodnight to them…"

"Still out I'm - oh no here they are. They're coming up the driveway now," I say. Their thoughts are muted but as soon as they enter the grounds, I can feel them. I'm surprised by the mix of emotions I feel coming from the large van they left in. Anger, fear, excitement… longing? What on Earth…?

"Crap, I must look awful. Hang on. Can't let them catch me in a dress…" Anya tries to joke. "I'll be back down in five minutes."

"Do hurry darling, I believe your brothers have gotten into trouble."

"You sure that trouble-making isn't genetic?"

"That is a fact I wonder about every time I see your school records Anya Lehnsherr." She blows a raspberry at me before she leaves. The helmet is cradled as if it is made of glass between her hands.

I wheel into the foyer and keep my eyes on the door with a frown. The fear is spiking, but more of a nervous excitement than terror per say. The feelings coming from the four people in the van are tinged with extreme exhaustion, both physical and mental. My frown deepens. What have my boys gotten up to today?

… Wait, four people?

I focus harder, not entering their minds but simply brushing against them. All are familiar. Hank is driving in the front and fretting about… Anya? Her reaction? The nerves emanating all the way across the estate are attached to an image of her. Sean is asleep next to him, too exhausted to stay awake. Alex is nervous but mostly excited, the traces of adrenaline still in his mind. He's talking to… Hank? No, no there is someone else in the van. In the back with him. Someone familiar, like an old friend who I once knew, but alien at once. Closed off. Stoic. A storm of peace and fury swirling in his mind, in a pattern I have only encountered twice before. Anya, though, is upstairs, and Erik is…

… Oh no. They didn't.

Guess whoooo?! Love you guys, I will try to update soon!