Thanks to hippiechick2112, ladygris, ellie, and feathered moon wings for reviewing!

"You were three years old the last time I saw you."

Alex wasn't a toddler anymore. Looking at the man his son had become, Chris tried to see the years in between. He couldn't. The rambunctious child they had known Alex would become, the years of sports and girls and school…

Katherine always worried Alex would have trouble in school. He had too much energy. He only ever sat still through meals because he had someone to entertain him with by making faces and blowing bubbles in his chocolate milk.

It was sweet, looking back. Chris had not appreciated it at the time.

"Yeah," Alex said. He didn't know what else to say.

"You're grown now—24 next month."

Alex nodded. "Yeah," he said again. "You're here."

"I'm here."

"Mom's not with you."

"No. Your mother passed several years ago."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry."

Alex just nodded. What was he supposed to say? His mom died decades ago for him, there was no reason to be upset she was dead now.

He was, but there was no reason for it.

"From what I hear, you're in school?"

He nodded again. "I'm studying geology. When I say that I still want to give myself a wedgie, I didn't do academics for a long time. But it's actually interesting."

"I worked with my hands all my life; I never imagined I would have a son in college."

"Community college."

"Still college."

"I'm hoping to pay my own way next semester," Alex offered. He did not feel proud of himself for getting to college, because he didn't feel like he had really done it. He went to class, did the homework, took tests, but it had been Scott who came up with the idea, found the school, even filled out Alex's registration forms and made him go to class, riding along half the time.

At the very least, though, Alex had that.

"Last semester Charles helped, but I'm working as much as I can this summer."

"Where are you working?"

"Part time at the drug store, part time at the garage in town."

He wanted to talk about being one of the X-Men. It was the most impressive thing Alex had ever done—ever—and he wanted his dad to see him that way. He wanted to be someone who did things. But what could he say?

There had been a few missions, a few skirmishes with Erik, but he was now in government custody.

Alex barely understood what had happened that day in Cuba. He got the Commies were the enemy. He was a little fuzzier on what 'Commies' were. Mostly, he thought of that day as when half his friends walked away and Charles was crippled.

Darwin was dead because of him.

Sean was gone.

He hadn't been here when the school was attacked.

Was being an X-Man really that impressive?

Alex sighed. "Look, I'm—"

"I'm proud of you," Chris interrupted. "Alex, I know there's things you're not telling me and that's okay. You haven't seen me in twenty years. This, right now, you're doing so well."

"I've screwed up a lot."

"Everyone does."

Scott, he realized, would know what a Commie was. That was a difference between them. When Alex didn't know something, he faked knowing or acted like he didn't care. Scott owned up. Then he went and asked Charles, Ruth, or Hank.

"I was in prison," Alex said. He watched Chris carefully. To the man's credit, he did not visibly react. "For assault. That's where Charles found me. Before I learned to control my power, it… Charles said that until I could control it, it would control me."

Alex chose not to mention that Charles had been completely right.

"My power can be dangerous. When I felt myself losing control, I would start a fight. My fists are just regular fists, it seemed like the least bad option."

Alex knew now that he hadn't been doing the right thing, but he had been young and alone. He did not know there were other people out there like him. Nobody had tried to help him until Charles. Until then, Alex did his best to do the least damage possible.

To his surprise, Chris still did not look angry or upset.

"I was in prison."

"I know. It's okay."

"You're not disappointed? Nobody wants his son to grow up to be an ex-con."

"Alex, losing you and your mother almost destroyed me. To have you here, alive—I wanted you to grow up and you have. You seem to be doing well. That matters to me. I just wish she were here to see you."

Alex nodded, not sure what to say, because the truth was that he had no memory of his mother. He recognized his father from an old photograph—a picture of a mom, a dad, and a toddler he used to think was him. He would have recognized his mother. Nevertheless, both were strangers.

"Before I can leave, I'll need to repair my ship," Chris observed. "I can do that on my own, but I'd rather do it with you. If you're interested."

"I—yeah, sure. Of course."

Except that he did not know the first thing about spaceships, but he could only assume his dad knew that.

As little as Alex knew how to talk to his dad, Chris knew less about talking to his son. Of course he was happy and shocked to see Alex, but he had never been a father to a grown child. He hadn't been much of a father to young Alex, either.

Every time he tried to turn the conversation to how Alex survived or what his childhood was like, Alex changed the subject. Chris didn't push the matter.

They carried on, neither of them knowing what to say, until Alex decided he needed to get some sleep.

Chris heard the sound of soft footsteps as they left the room. Mutants were one thing, but that was a little disquieting: one of the kids had been eavesdropping on his chat with Alex.

"Just one minute!" Ororo called. She hastily capped her pen and closed the book over it, then pushed the whole thing inside one pillowcase and dropped a second pillow over it. This room had altogether too many pillows when Ororo arrived. Most of them she stuffed into the closet, but she kept one because it was comfortable and another because it was an extravagance and she liked that.

Two pillows were good. You could put a book inside of one and pad the other on top of it, and no one would know you had a diary under there. (Not that Ororo did, but hypothetically, if one were to!)

"Ororo?"

"You can come in now!"

Charles did. "All right?" he asked.

She smiled and nodded, with the most docile expression most would ever see on her.

"Quite a lot's happened today."

Again Ororo nodded. "Men from space!" she observed. That wasn't something that struck every day, even in her strange world. "I want to see his ship, do you think he'd let me?"

"I have no doubt that he would, if you asked."

"I was on a plane once."

"Were you!" he said, with enthusiasm to mirror hers.

It wasn't something she often let show, but Ororo was, after all, fourteen years old in a world of wonders.

"I wanted to see the plane when they brought me here—inside, where the pilots are, I mean."

"The cockpit," Charles supplied.

Ororo bit down on the inside of her cheek and ducked her head to show how hard she was trying not to laugh. Still, something interested her more than giggling at a double-entendre: "I'd like to see Mr. Summers's plane. That would be even better."

"Well, I'm sure he would be happy to show you around if you asked. Or would you like me to ask for you?"

He made the offer in a tone of authority, reminding her that this was his. This home, this land, it was his, and Chris Summers was a guest here.

Ororo shook her head. "That's okay. I'll ask. When he first stepped out, Scott did that thing."

"What thing?"

She mimed a curlier version of crossing herself.

"Ah. Yes. Well, sometimes old habits do win out."

"Is he a Christian? I thought he was… well, he's not clever-clever, but…"

"Some people are religious," Charles said, picking his words carefully. "Whether or not Scott is a Christian is up to him to decide."

She nodded a third time. There was something else, but she wasn't ready to talk about it.

After giving her a few moments to do so, he said, "We need a new book. This is another of mine from when I was a child."

He turned past the first few pages and began, "'Dorothy'—"

"Who's Dorothy?" Ororo interrupted.

Charles gave her an exasperated look, as he usually did when she interrupted the story. "The protagonist, the main character, probably. Don't interrupt." Though she did, often.

"It's a silly name."

"Perhaps so." He returned to the book: "'Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies'—yes, Ororo?"

This time she had interrupted properly, by raising her hand.

"Is that a real thing? A prairie?"

"It's a sort of… flat grassland area," he said. "'Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas Prairies, with Uncle Henry, who was a farmer, and Auntie Em, who was the farmer's wife. Their house was small, for the lumber to build it had to be carried by wagon many miles. There were four walls, a floor and a roof, which made one room'—"

"Duh."

Without looking up from the book, Charles said, "I don't care for that word. 'And this room contained a rusty-looking cooking stove, a cupboard for the dishes, a table, three or four chairs, and the bed. Uncle Henry and Auntie Em had a big bed in one corner, and Dorothy a little bed in another corner. There was no garret at all, and no cellar—except a small hole, dug in the ground, called a cyclone cellar, where a family could go in case one of those great whirlwinds arose, mighty enough to crush any building in its path.' Yes, Ororo?"

"Is that real?" Ororo asked. "Could I really make a cyclone that would crush any building in my path? Even this one?"

"I expect you could," Charles allowed, "and there certainly are tornadoes that cause this sort of destruction, although not in this part of the country. I would take it as a personal courtesy if you chose not to change that."

He read on, describing the flat, desolate area in which Dorothy lived, how she could look and look and see nothing. He described the foreignness of Dorothy, the way her laughter shocked and hurt her aunt, how only the dog Toto saved her spirit.

The foreignness was something Ororo understood, but absolute joy registered on her face when Charles read the paragraphs describing the cyclone. He noticed, and slowed, making those paragraphs last.

"'…in spite of the swaying of the house and the wailing of the wind, Dorothy soon closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.' And with that," Charles said, closing the book, "I think it's time you did as well."

"You just don't want to keep Ruth waiting," Ororo retorted, settling down under the covers.

Charles gave her a warning look. "Good night, Ororo."

He headed for the door, switching off the light as he went.

"'Cause, you know, if she's in a mood she might not—"

"If you had a middle name you would know how unamused I am, young lady!"

Ororo was still giggling when he closed the door.