December 24, 1963

Ororo remembered little of her parents and if she ever had a Christmas, she didn't remember that at all. She quickly decided that she liked it, though. It seemed to be about a loving, familial defiance of the season. They brought a green, fragrant tree inside while the snow fell. The shop where they bought that tree had been hastily set up, little more than a parking lot surrounded by chain link, but nevertheless Ororo loved the perversity of a snowball fight in a place of business and the way nobody minded even when they hit a stranger by accident.

There had been a moment, at the tree store, when someone gave Ororo a strange look. Alex had put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. The look on his face scared off any comments.

She liked it. She liked the tree and the way it smelled. She liked when Sean taught her to make paper chains and they spent two hours putting them together until they were set to drown in paper.

It was Christmas Eve now. Ororo and Ruth were in the kitchen, playing with dough; even Hank had emerged from his science hibernation to join them. Ruth went for stars while Hank rolled a series of short ropes.

"…and he watches you at all times," Ruth said. She had been building up a scary story for a while. "He judges your every move. And then—the night before Christmas—tonight—he pays a visit to every home. He sneaks in through the chimney and—"

Hank cleared his throat. "You may have a few details confused."

"No, no. I think I am right."

"Father Christmas brings presents to good children. The reindeer work with him because… well, because they want to. But not from hypnosis."

Ororo shrugged. "I like Ruth's version."

Hank wound together two of his gingerbread ropes, added a ball, and pressed the form between two pieces of baking parchment. He held up the results for Ruth.

"Gingerbread man! Delightful! Show me." As he did, she added, "And the reindeer are not nice. Think of how they treated poor Rudolph."

"Who's Rudolph?" Ororo asked.

"Mutant reindeer," Ruth explained.

"That's not," Hank began. Then, "Actually, that is fairly accurate."

Ruth nodded. "His nose glows red. The reindeer all laughed at him until Santa showed them that he was useful. Then they accepted him. Although Santa took his sweet time in doing so; he might have ended this nonsense much sooner. But he did not. So, this is Santa Claus for you."

"Okay," Hank ceded, "but the purpose of the cookies is not to appease his wrath."

Ruth shrugged. "I perhaps embellished a little."

Ororo giggled. She liked the story of Father Christmas, even though she did not fully understand which pieces were Hank's version and which were Ruth's.

The smell of baking gingerbread cookies drew out the others. Alex, of course, started by biting the head off of his and chewing with his mouth open until Charles shot him a warning look. He continued to act like a cannibal with his gingerbread man, but a civilized cannibal. One who knew to put forks on the left and used a napkin to blot the guts from his mouth.

"Have you seen your brother?" Charles asked, having drawn Alex aside.

Alex shook his head. "Not in a few days," he said, looking at the others. "Since the snowball fight." Not having a brother was simpler sometimes.

"Alex, I don't know what happened between the two of you—"

"I can't take care of him, okay?"

Something softened in Charles's expression. He didn't ask, but Alex inferred the question.

"He's been riding me about forgetting our parents. I was just a kid, what am I supposed to say?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

"Or you're bein' stupid." Neither of them had noticed Ororo eavesdropping on the conversation. She could do that, sneak, and if Charles did not listen to his telepathy even he might not notice. She licked crumbs from her fingertips. "Both of you. Seems to be generic."

"Genetic," Charles corrected.

"Yeah, like I said. He doesn't want you to remember, he wants you to care."

"And how do you know?" Alex retorted.

"Who's asking?" Ororo shot back, eyebrows raised. "My parents are dead. I have dark skin here and light skin in Africa and no big brother. It would be nice for someone to understand what that feels like. And I'm not a little bitch like your brother—he said it first!" before Charles could scold her for swearing.

Had he been the type, Charles would have pinched the bridge of his nose to drive off the headache. He was used to this, though. Teenagers bickered. "That is not an excuse."

Before he said anything about the substance of Ororo's little speech, Alex nodded. He had understood, too.

"Oh—and I also know because he told me."

"Ororo, are you cold?" Charles asked. "You never take off that coat."

"I like my coat."

"Hey," Alex said. "Thanks, gnat."

Ororo, who was learning to behave American, stuck out her tongue.

Alex had a good deal to think about, but peace enough to rejoin the others. Even Hank could be good company with enough gingerbread.

Eventually everyone began to drift away. Sean and Ororo went to bed. Alex used an obscure euphemism that might have been a reference to any number of private activities and no one cared to ask for specificity. Hank returned to his lab. Ruth set to washing the dishes, which had been neglected.

Charles kept her company. Or, he meant to, but he found himself watching her more than chatting.

"Do you have Christmas traditions?" Ruth asked. "I realize, no one has asked you."

"No, I don't have any," Charles replied. He came from a rather cold sort of family, matter-of-fact people. And he had everything he could possibly want, let alone need, which lessened the gifting aspect of Christmas.

Ruth shrugged. "You have not mentioned any gifts you might like, either. Not that I plan to go shopping on Christmas Eve, even I have my limits, but…"

Charles laughed. "No," he said, "I have everything I want," and the yearning in his voice was palpable.

She turned to face him and Charles could have sworn she dressed that way just for him—but of course she didn't. There was so much about her. He loved her personality, but he was physically attracted to her, too, and the way she dressed… moved… it used to be normal for him to feel this way about a woman. Now, since, it seemed strange.

"Nothing?" she asked.

He was sure she only dressed that way because she liked to feel beautiful. (Which she was.) It wasn't for the kids or Sean and Alex, who were practically kids, and Hank wouldn't have noticed if she were naked. But it wasn't for him. He just enjoyed it.

He cleared his throat. "Ah, later, would you—"

"The tree?"

He smiled. "The tree."

"Of course. So you do not have surprise presents, that must be… terrible."

"I'm in a wheelchair," he observed, "'terrible' is relative."

Ruth shrugged like she had not noticed his paraplegia. "But no surprise presents! Is that why you do not want anything?"

"I… there's nothing."

Ruth shrugged off her sweater and that shirt did not fit her in all the best ways. She leaned into the fridge and grabbed two Cokes. There was plenty of alcohol in the house, but with the kids (plus Sean and Alex), leaving alcohol so readily available was offering it to the first comer.

Charles raised the bottle. "Cheers."

"L'chaim."

"Charles, I know you like me."

He nearly coughed Coke through his nose, managed to swallow, and, "Of course I like you. You're wonderful with the children and—"

"No," she interrupted. "You like me."

It was true and made him profoundly uncomfortable. Charles felt the beginnings of humiliation brewing. Why did they need to have this conversation? She would never see him that way and he would never ask her to.

"You like to look at me," Ruth continued. That was true. "And I believe you have feelings for me, yes?"

"Yes," he admitted. "Yes, Ruth, I have feelings for you, but you must understand, I would never act on them. It would never be more than feelings."

Sounding confused if not put off, she asked, "Why not?"

Charles met her eyes. He could not read Ruth's thoughts. Although he had studied languages—as one did—although he spoke French and read passable Latin—he could not read this woman's thoughts because they were in Hebrew. They were in the cadences and rhythms of Hebrew, a dance he could not dance even if he had legs.

He sighed. "Please, enough. I know you wouldn't look twice at me, not as I am now. Perhaps before, but—a cripple?"

The sound Ruth made could only be described as one of disgust. Charles didn't blame her. He could accept what he was all but when faced with Ruth, with how badly he wished to be a man again.

She slammed her bottle down. "You stupid, stupid man!"

He was many things, yes, but not that.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why are the pretty ones always so dumb?" she mourned.

Then she leaned nearer and, before he could infer it, before he could actually look at his surroundings and realize what was happening, she kissed him. It was not a pitying kiss. It was not a conciliatory peck on the cheek. This was an unambiguous, impassioned display.

"Ruth…"

She kissed him again.

Alex took a gasp of pride and swallowed it. Then he rapped on the bedroom door. "Scotty, it's me. Open up."

Sounds of movement told him Scott was awake. Awake and willing to talk to him? But, yes, he had to be. Even Scott wouldn't spend Christmas Eve in a sulk. Besides, Alex had distinctly told him to open the door. Scott obeyed more than he breathed.

Only, this time, he didn't.

"I'll bring you a cookie," Alex offered. "You won't have to see anyone or smile or anything."

For a moment he thought Scott might not answer. Then, "I don't like gingerbread."

No, of course he didn't.

Alex tried the doorknob.

He sighed. "You better not be wreckin' your eyesight in there," he warned. Then he pushed open the door.

Scott sat on the bed, a book propped open against his knees. He did not even look up. "Leave me alone, Alex."

"Stop sulking, it's Christmas," Alex retorted.

Scott shrugged. "Who fucking cares," he murmured.

Alex looked around the room. He could have guessed his brother would be such a neat freak. This place was not only tidy, it had been dusted recently. Library books were lined up against the wall and the photo of Scott and their parents was on the nightstand. There were no dirty clothes on the floor, no knick-knacks, no posters on the wall.

It was like a hotel room, only slightly more impersonal.

"Mom cared."

Scott looked up from his book. Then he looked back to it. "No she didn't."

"Look, I'm not exactly good at this, okay? But I'm trying to help here, so give me a break, wouldja?"

"Dad liked Christmas," Scott said. He closed his book, set it aside, and sat up straight. "I mean, Mom played along, but looking back I don't think she liked it that much."

"You know I don't remember them," Alex said.

Scott nodded. "Kinda thought I might be able to… I dunno. Jog your memory or something."

"You mind if I…?"

"Go ahead."

Standing in the doorway was starting to feel awkward. Alex took a seat on the edge of Scott's bed.

"Why do you hate Christmas so much, anyway? Is it the shopping?"

"I did my shopping ages ago."

Alex was surprised neither that Scott overlooked his joking tone nor that Scott finished his Christmas shopping probably mid-June. Instead, he asked, "Yeah?"

Scott shrugged. "I couldn't find anything for the Professor. I wrote him this letter, but it seemed dumb."

"You wrote him a letter?"

"Shut up."

"About what?"

"It's personal. Shut up," Scott repeated. "What do you buy for someone who owns a castle?"

It was rhetorical but a pretty good point, so Alex returned to his original question: "So? Why do you hate Christmas?"

"'Cause. 'Cause I never had it."

Alex couldn't help it: he laughed. "Who knew you were so petty!"

"Christmas in the orphanage was—like sometimes we had gifts, but they were all donor gifts. Then the next time you were in church you had to sit there and wonder who gave you, y'know, the sweater or whatever—it was usually clothes and you knew someone in that room was looking at you and feeling like a saint. And it was still cold, and I hate the cold. The… the lab was cold."

Although the basics of Scott's history had been made clear, Alex did not ask for more details. He tried not to think on the subject. Really, Scott was his brother, not some skinny kid with Frankenstein scars. Now he realized he should have thought a little more about it.

"I didn't know you went to church," Alex said, feeling stupid. He wanted to say something right and meaningful—something like Charles would say.

Scott nodded. "Mary Our Queen," he replied. "Choir an' everythin."

They had lived on different sides of the city, something Alex realized from the parish name. "I went to St. Mary's."

"St. Mary's on Q?"

Alex shook his head. "Mary Magdalene, on 19th."

"Oh. Huh."

"Dude." He chuckled. "Choir? With the dress and everything?"

"Cassock!"

Alex laughed. Scott punched him, but not hard and certainly not hard enough to shut him up.

Alex held out his arm. After a moment's hesitation like that wasn't exactly what he wanted, Scott shifted nearer. It wasn't enough, of course, but Alex didn't know what else to do.

"I am petty," Scott said, "I know. I should be happier for the others—"

"Screw that."

Scott chuckled weakly.

"And nothing's going to happen. I won't let anyone hurt you."

His mind flashed back to Darwin and Alex winced, telling himself that was irrelevant. It didn't matter. Scott was immune to Alex's power. Besides, Alex's control was greatly improved. If any accidents were to happen—which was unlikely—Scott would be okay.

Of course Alex knew this was not about physical well-being.

"I wasn't lying about Mom and Dad," he said. "I don't remember them. But I wish I did. Maybe we could get some cookies and you can tell me about them."

"I don't like gingerbread—"

"Suck it up, choir boy."

Which is how, not five minutes later, Scott and Alex came to be camped on the floor, looking at the Christmas tree. Scott didn't seem to mind gingerbread so much, either. He swallowed a mouthful and said, "When he was gone, she was different. Like… one time she made a fort for us. She hung sheets from the couch and… I don't know. Just this really great fort. Sometimes just for fun. We would even have dinner in there. And one time there was this big storm and you were scared—"

"Of a storm?"

"Yeah—well—I remember saying you were scared."

Alex was not a cuddler. He had not been the type of boy who wanted a wriggly puppy to hug and as a man tended to express physical affection through high-fives, ruffled hair, and occasionally a fistfight. Tonight he was willing to make an exception, though, and he kept an arm around his brother.

"It was a big storm," Scott continued. "We were all in the fort—"

"Mom too?"

"Yeah. Mom too. She told us stories, sang to us… she was really patient. She was never mad, even when you peed the bed."

Alex punched him in the shoulder and Scott laughed.

"What about Dad?"

Scott went quiet. He nibbled at his gingerbread man like he wanted to eat each finger separately. "He was gone for a long time."

"Where?"

"I dunno. Germany, I think. In the war. I don't remember him so well. But he was strong. He would pick us up and throw us in the air. When he came home, I barely remembered him. I remember staying close to her—but you ran right up to him. You were never shy. You haven't changed, you know. Not from what I remember. I mean, Mom and Dad—if they could—they could step right back into our lives, they'd know you straight away."

Ruth pulled on her sweatshirt. Even being indoors called for warm clothing, but she took her time with it, tugging out each sleeve and smoothing the fabric.

"All right," Charles declared, "I no longer believe that was anything but for my benefit."

He remained under the covers, comfortably warm—although cold where he felt a ghost of her skin on his.

Ruth grinned. She turned and kissed him. "Mm. I like being able to do this."

"As do I. Ruth… I want more from you than a few hours."

Charles had been attracted to her from the first moment they met, but that was purely physical. Over the past months she had become more to him. He cared for her. Loved her, maybe. And while he did not regret the past—had it been hours already?—this wasn't like going home with some stranger in a bar.

She stroked his cheek. "I know. You are more to me than recreation. Now, where is it?"

"In the closet."

Charles had not been overly attached to the idea of Christmas—not opposed, either, but he scarcely had his heart set on it. Once he realized how much Christmas mattered to some of the others, though, he set about ensuring a few things. If they were going to do Christmas they would do it properly and that meant nobody left out.

Ruth picked up the parcels and laughed. "You wrap more cleanly than I do!"

"Do you mind, playing Santa?"

"Of course not. Charles, we have a tree in the house and are giving the children gifts. This is not a Christian holiday. This is a celebration. Just a very good celebration."

While she was gone, Charles stretched and took a moment to reflect on what had happened. Christmas seemed terribly complicated and delightful. Most of the others were enjoying the season and they seemed, as so many do, to have simply agreed to be happy. They agreed to have cookies and give gifts and smile and be warm.

He had never anticipated this, though. He looked at the wheelchair, the one he assumed precluded him from engaging in romantic relationships because who loved half a man? Not that Ruth said she loved him, but he thought she just might.

As though drawn by the thought, Ruth burst into the room.

"It is not a school," she observed, settling against him. "Not really. This is not your school, they are not your students—this is family."

She took Charles's hand and laid it against her head.

"Read my mind."

"You know I can't—"

"I have something to the surface for you. Read my mind."

Charles closed his eyes and tried. He heard Ruth's thoughts, the tones and sounds he couldn't understand, but she was right. One image she had brought to the surface and he saw that more clearly than anything else:

Alex and Scott had fallen asleep leaning against the sofa, watching the Christmas tree.

Ruth grinned. "This is your gift to yourself, you know this, yes?" And there in those six words, his world:

"Your family. Happy Christmas, Charles Xavier."

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The End!

Well, that is, to be continued in another story. I hope you enjoyed this holiday-themed, totally non-seasonal story and will keep an eye out for the sequel