Thanks to ladygris, HalfSquirrel, hippiechick2112, ellie, feathered moon wings, and Melissa hearts fiction for reviewing! And a special shout-out to those who basically called me a drug dealer, because it made me laugh.

You know this story already. You've read it before.

It begins, as always, with a girl. (With a boy looking at a girl.)

She isn't very beautiful, but her eyes are soft and bright and full of life, and she smiles with all her heart and soul. She has a more neutral smile when he first spots her.

She is purposeless.

Not cruelly, not in life, simply in that moment. She sits quietly on the bench, observing her surroundings while the other young people dance and the truly daring swing their hips to the music. It's one thing to cut a rug, but that's asking a question with an answer you know'll have you standing at the blackboard.

But she does not dance, nor does she seem to watch the dancing. Nor does she sit alone with a book, a sewing piece, a snow cone—anything that might say, 'I have a purpose to my lonesomeness'.

Meanwhile the dance is in full swing around her, a mix of GIs and gals too old to be girls, too young to be women. They share the time under a clear sky while the sun sinks to the horizon. The tune from the vinyl is so new only a few among them know the words.

Not the newest of places, not the center of the scene, this little spit of a town outside Dayton, Ohio.

He leans on the bar beside his pals, sizing up the dishes.

"…not much on talk, but she's an able grable if you know what I mean. Other things she can do with her mouth!"

That's not him. Our man. He doesn't say that or groan, either, just makes a note to mention later that Henderson takes things too low and too far.

The note is pinned well beneath thoughts of the blond on the bench. She seems so… present. So conscious. Neither a part of nor separate from her surroundings, not common or aloof. A mystery.

"That redhead," says another man admiringly. And the gal has nice curves, no denying, not to forget a look on her face asking for attention. "I'd make her an honest woman!"

Our man straightens up and gives the soldier a clap on the shoulder. "Gotta be a man first, Linzer. Shaving yet?"

He leaves the others laughing and Linzer stammering an objection. Poor kid. Nineteen years old and so blond he has a face like a baby's backside. But more pressing matters arise…

"May I join you?"

"Yes, of course. Are you looking for someone?"

Up close, he can confirm: she is not beautiful. But she is alluring and that voice is so sweet it ought to be rationed.

"No one in particular, but I just might find them." When she doesn't rise to his bait, he persists, "So why's a pretty little thing like you sitting here all by yourself?"

She laughs and, for the first time, he sees how the world lights up in her eyes. "I'm not by myself," she says, "I'm with you!"

He rests his arm along the back of the bench. What a coincidence: it brushes against her back, too! And he leans in just a little closer. His eyes might not sparkle like hers, but this close he counts on a whiff of masculinity to act as aphrodisiac. It usually does.

"Say, you wouldn't like to be dancing with me, would you?"

She smiles and shakes her head. "I'd love to, but I don't know how to dance."

"Give me your glasses, Matthew."

"Mom?"

"You want to be called Matthew, yes?" Ruth replied. "Then we must practice this." She held out her hand. "Now. Glasses."

Scott slipped off his glasses and handed them to Ruth.

They stood in the bomb shelter. These blind training sessions had started a few months ago, after Scott came to Ruth and told her he couldn't be weak anymore. She told him his biggest weakness was his inability to control his power and began training him accordingly.

It was tough. She seemed to have a knack for knowing when he needed to stop and when he just really, really wanted to. He had thrown up a few times, but not nearly as many times as felt ready to throw up.

The sheer number of push-ups, crunches, and sprints she put him through leached the strength from his body. As he completed what felt like his millionth push-up, Scott reflected that he took absolutely no comfort in knowing Ruth did all of this alongside him. Her mutation made her stronger; his did not.

"Enough," Ruth announced.

Scott let himself collapse on the delightfully cool floor.

"Thirty seconds."

He nodded into the concrete.

She didn't train anyone else this way, at least so far as Scott knew. The martial arts sessions with Ororo and sometimes Alex or Hank were fun. They were hard work, too, but not exhausting.

"Five."

How had twenty-five seconds passed so quickly?

Exhausted as he felt, Scott picked himself up. In—

"Three."

—seconds, Ruth was going to throw a punch at him. He knew that. Sparring always came next. Even with his powers and his vision, Scott would never win against a woman with superior speed, strength, and training. At this point, he was pretty sure he could take on Ororo or Alex, though.

Nothing, he reminded himself.

Had he really just bragged, even in his mind, about beating up his little brother and sister? Sure, Alex's body was older than Scott's, but that didn't change the fact that Alex was Scott's little brother. Winning a fight against him was an occasional necessity, not a point of pride.

Ruth must have seen how he felt, because they spent a good deal longer than usual sparring. Several times, Scott thought this had to be the end, because he couldn't keep doing this. He was wrong.

"Okay," Ruth announced. "Good work."

Scott nodded. The world was spinning. He leaned against the wall to catch his breath.

Only when he could talk did Ruth ask, "Is there something from today you want to talk about?"

He shook his head.

"No? I hear you are going to be working in the library."

"Oh, that." His words might have been unenthusiastic, but his tone and the smile on his face said otherwise. "It's okay, isn't it? The professor said and I didn't think I needed to ask you, but—"

"This is fine," she assured him. "It is a good place for you. You will still come home sometimes, yes?"

Scott grinned. "Once or twice a week, scout's honor."

They left the bomb shelter and parted ways.

Scott went to collect his towel and pajamas. Training with Ruth left his mind refreshed, but his body was an unholy mess. Alex had once commented that he looked like the sore loser of a wet t-shirt contest, after which Scott tried to avoid Alex until he had showered—not because he was hurt by the remark, just because he had never thought up a comeback.

Today he didn't need one. Alex had something else on his mind.

"Matthew?"

It was not a request for attention; it was a challenge.

"Alex, don't."

"Matthew?"

Earlier, Alex had only thought up one major objection, besides the charade being stupid. He asked what "Matthew"'s last name was supposed to be. He had no response when Charles said that Matthew's last name was Xavier.

Scott just shook his head. "I don't owe you an explanation," he said.

Alex followed Scott into his room and pushed the door shut. "The hell you don't, Scott!" As angry as he sounded, he kept his voice down. "You're throwing away everything they gave you—you're not a Summers now?"

"I'm still a Summers."

"No, you're an Xavier."

"No, I—" Scott realized he was falling into a pattern and took a deep breath. "Alex, I had the chance to be an Xavier and I didn't take it. I am still Scott Summers, I am still your big brother and I will still kick your sorry ass if I have to."

Alex stared at him for a moment. Scott saw the wheels in his mind turning, but there was nothing for Alex to object to.

Finally he punched Scott on the shoulder and said, "Twerp."

"Jerk."

Alex turned to go.

"And don't make me remind you about that last part!" Scott called after him. He would kick Alex's ass if he needed to.

As a last resort.

Of course.

After he left, Alex went to find his dad.

It had only been a few hours so everything felt too immediate to be surreal. He hadn't thought anything through, nor did he want to. He just accepted that his father had been traveling in outer space and was back now.

A part of him felt like a kid.

Chris/Dad was talking with Charles and Ruth. Alex said hey, took a seat, and did not even try to be part of the conversation. He got the general idea: Charles had invited Chris to stay and Chris was grateful. Chris was also trying to understand mutation.

Alex understood the basics of mutation. He knew that he was a mutant, at least.

Charles, meanwhile, knew everything. "…rate was possibly enhanced by the advent of the nuclear age. Radiation affects the human genome in ways not fully understood, so it's plausible, if unproven, that radiation created or at least sped up the manifestation of abilities such as ours."

"There will be a test," Ruth said. "I trust you are taking notes? He is not a scientist."

"I am… trying to keep up," Chris assured them. "Is there reasoning behind who is a… mutant… that you know of? Why you or Alex have these abilities?"

Charles shook his head. "I don't know of any theories. Not everyone believes mutants exist so studies in the area are limited."

"In this area! For pity's sake, Charles, he does not even know what is Hiroshima and you want to talk about the 'advent of the nuclear age'!"

"Ah, I do know about Hiroshima," Chris interrupted. "I-"

He paused. They all heard the sound of footsteps. A moment later, Ororo burst into the room, looked around, and ran to stand behind Alex.

"Whoa, I'm not a part of this!" he objected.

"He's crazy." Ororo didn't mean Alex. "He's crazy and I don't know what he's talking about! He belongs in a gumhouse."

Alex figured it out first. "Nuthouse," he corrected. "Mattie belongs in the nuthouse."

She ducked behind the chair a second before Scott arrived. He scanned the room. "I know she came in here," he said.

"What is it this time?" Ruth asked. "No, wait, I will guess. Or we can take turns guessing. You are chasing Ororo because she has hidden one of your library books."

As she spoke, Scott crept around the room. He had made the right choice and aimed for Alex's chair, but a few seconds before he reached her, Ororo darted out from behind the chair and across the room. Scott didn't try to catch her. Instead he placed himself between Ororo and the door.

"I told you, I don't have it!" she said.

"Yes you do!" Scott retorted. "You don't even use that bathroom—Professor?"

Charles sighed. "Ororo?"

"He lost his stupid toothbrush," she said.

"How could I lose my toothbrush?" Scott asked. "I don't take it out of the bathroom."

"And you're sure it's missing?" Charles asked.

"It's not in the cup."

"Hey, twerp!" Alex called.

When Scott turned to him, Ororo bolted out of the room. Before he could follow, Charles said, "Matthew, a moment, please."

Scott waited.

"It might be best to use a new toothbrush, do you have a spare?"

He nodded, then paused. "I didn't check," he admitted. "Maybe she…?"

"Oh, I wouldn't think so. One was enough to get what she wanted." Softly, aware that he would be overheard but indicating he preferred no one comment on it, Charles continued, "A lot's happened today. You know where to find me if you need." What Scott might need, he didn't say. Maybe he just needed not to be on his own.

Another nod. "I'm okay, Professor."

"Good, then nothing should distract you from your math homework."

"Maybe I'm a little upset," he joked. "Good night."

"Good night."

"'Night, Mom. Mr. Summers. Jerk."

Alex glanced at his father, then settled for rolling his eyes. He had various obscene retorts… but Chris would expect better of him, surely.

A moment later they heard rapid footsteps and laughter from the hallway. Apparently the game wasn't over.

Throughout his interaction with Scott, Charles had noticed the look on Chris's face. At the moment it was one of thinly veiled aching. Chris had spent the past years believing he lost the chance to see his sons grow up. He had no idea how literally he was seeing what he lost.

They shared a mutual understanding of Chris's loss, and of their awareness of it.

"They seem like great kids," Chris said. He meant it, but that was not what he wanted to say.

"They are," Ruth said.

"You must have been young when he was born."

"Oh, she's not," Charles began, then paused, because Ruth was Scott's mom. Every way but physically, she was his mother. "That is, Ruth and I—we didn't—"

"Matthew is adopted," Ruth explained. She shook her head, laughing softly, "If I had a child at that age my mother would never forgive me. And speaking of things my mother would never forgive me for, I think Alex and Chris would like some time."

"Ah—yes, of course," Charles realized.

"Your mom wouldn't forgive you for that?" Alex asked.

Ruth smirked. "Not for what I am about to do with a gentile," she retorted.

Charles blushed faintly but with an expression suggesting he didn't mind, and Alex snickered. That snickering faded when he realized he had exactly what he wanted—time with his father.

And he had no idea what to do from here.