Thanks to Melissa hearts fiction, hippiechick2112, and feathered moon wings for reviewing!

It had been a long day for everyone and a glance confirmed for Ruth and Charles that both were ready to head to bed. Of course, being physically alone did not mean they left their concerns behind them.

"Was everything all right, at the hospital?"

Ruth's expression said it was not. She paused halfway through unbuttoning her shirt to express sufficient disgust by throwing her hands in the air. "People are idiots, but it is a clean break. The doctor said four to six weeks with the cast."

"How long do you suppose until she realizes how tough it is?"

They both knew this was not about the toughness of the cast. It was about when Ororo would try to hit Scott—and realize that hurt her broken bone more than his healthy ones.

Ruth just laughed.

"Ororo wasn't too upset?"

"About which, her arm or the idiot nurse?"

"Either."

Ruth thought for a moment. Ororo had been in pain about her arm, but upset? "Neither. She was afraid of the x-ray machine."

"X-ray machine?" Charles was quite pleased that his voice sounded normal. He felt self-conscious. "It's entirely possibly that x-ray radiation has no effect on mutants, she has nothing to be afraid of from an x-ray."

Although Ruth officially had her own bedroom, she rarely used it and both were happy with that arrangement. Only, Charles still felt that twist of anxiety when changing into his pajamas. He didn't have the concerns most men might feel about taking off their pants—it was his legs. Atrophied and useless.

But Ruth didn't comment, never did, and she didn't say anything more on the x-ray machine. She began brushing out her hair, then pulling it into a braid.

"Why do you do that?" Charles wondered. "Braiding your hair like that?"

"Because otherwise it will be more tangled. You like my hair," she observed.

"I like it loose."

"But this is the problem, hair that is thick and curly tangles easily. And then the brush breaks because I am too strong. So I braid my hair before I sleep."

He couldn't argue with that. Charles thought back on what Ruth said the hospital and he sighed. "I only wish there were doctors for Scott's… situation."

Ruth gave him a sharp look. "I do not want those Freudian monsters near my boy."

Charles responded with an steady gaze. He wasn't intimidated. "Neither do I," he said, "but if there were someone who could help him…"

"And you want me to do this."

"How do you do that? I thought I was the telepath."

"You are. And I am a Jewish mother. You think I do not know guilt when I see it? I think your people say 'do not bullshit a bullshitter'?"

"Guilt is bullshit?"

"Guilt is effective. But you are Christian."

"I'm a scientist," Charles objected.

When he was first adapting to the wheelchair and to his useless legs, he hated getting into bed. He would do an awkward pushing/flopping motion, pull the covers over himself, and fall asleep. Now he maneuvered into bed easily as Ruth explained,

"Your culture is Christian. Guilt is for church. And by the way, you are spoiling him."

"I'm not—no, I don't see that," Charles objected. "I'd like to, but he's never been comfortable being given things. He thinks he's spoiled because he has a coat."

"Charles, this is not a goal, you are not supposed to spoil them," she said, tying off her braid. Already strands flew free of it.

"That's ridiculous. Why have all this money if you can't spend it on the people you love?"

"We never should have gone along with this Matthew business. A day or two, maybe, but for how long will Chris be here?"

"All right. I'm not thrilled with it. But to tell the truth now—Scott's not ready."

They were quiet for a moment, both thinking about the past weeks and neither sure what to do. The fact was, Chris Summers was here—and he hadn't done anything wrong. He had been polite and friendly, and everyone besides Scott liked him. They did not want to ask Chris to leave, but didn't know how to fix things between him and Scott, either.

And Charles did not wholly want to.

Finally he sighed and changed the subject. "You said church is for guilt."

"What, with the confessions and your many sins, you think it is not?"

"No, it is. But not synagogue?"

Ruth chuckled. "Temple, darling. Synagogue is Orthodox. I am… not."

"Temple, then."

"Temple is for learning. Church…"

Charles had been to church, of course. His mother would go and he went with her as a boy. The talk bored him and the pews were uncomfortable, but he liked some of the songs. He wanted to like the stained glass windows, but that was complicated. His family had paid for them.

Church never interested him.

Ruth smiled in a way that sent a jolt of delicious, shivery energy through him.

"You know the story of Adam and Eve? I think they like this story very much, Christians."

Charles nodded. "Original sin." He remembered that well.

"So church is about this," Ruth reasoned. "Church is about the wicked thing a woman did…"

It was a lot less boring coming from Ruth. Or maybe that was the feeling of her breath against his neck, her fingers unbuttoning his shirt.

"…and the man who could not resist her…"

He was listening. He just wasn't thinking about church.

"You see, you are told this is a woman's fault," she murmured, shrugging out of her top. "But I think it is a woman's power. There is a sort of…" she paused, kissing his neck. "…power…" hands traveling lower, really challenging his focus, "…which women have."

"Oh, I am in agreement with you there."

4:17 a.m.

Charles's telepathy never truly stopped. He was always aware of the tone of others' thoughts, like hearing a conversation but being unable to make out the words. Potent fear woke him that morning.

Just as it had so many mornings previous.

He shook Ruth awake: "Another nightmare."

So much of Ruth's life had been spent in or preparing for military situations. She could be up and ready for battle in four minutes. In seconds, she was in the hallway, pulling on a dressing gown.

When she reached Scott's room, she tried to open the door. Privacy was well and good when nobody was upset. But the door was locked and while Ruth could have pulled it off its hinges, she did not.

"Matthew!" she called.

When she called twice and received no answer, she put aside her mom voice and snapped commands in Hebrew.

The whimpering from inside the room stopped. Sniffling, hiccuping noises replaced it; he was crying. She spoke to him through the door, eventually coaxed him into knocking to acknowledge her.

When she returned to bed, Charles was still awake. He didn't ask if everything was all right—he already knew—just mumbled something incoherent and settled against her.

8:00

Before, Charles used to think that if someone lost the use of their legs, that person effectively had no legs. The legs were like plastic bits stuck on as an afterthought.

He knew better now.

His legs were still appendages that could be injured or damaged, only more dangerous because he wouldn't feel it. So he was careful and, although it made him feel terribly old, tucked a blanket over his useless legs before making a cup of tea and heading outside.

He was surprised to find himself not alone. "Good morning, Chris."

"Charles. How are you?"

"I'm fine."

Chris's expression called his bluff.

Charles sighed. "All right. I'm a bit tired. How's your ship coming along?"

"Oh, well. Very nicely."

"What do you plan to do when you're finished repairing her?"

Chris understood the question. "When I first landed, well, crashed on your lawn, I thought it simple. I would repair my ship and leave. My companions expect me to meet with them in a few months' time and if I fail to do so, they'll come looking. Nothing you need to be worried about," he added hastily, "unless you plan to kill me."

"I shall re-evaluate my plans for the coming week," Charles responded.

Chris laughed, but quickly became solemn again. "I had no idea Alex was here."

"Would you take him with you, if he wanted to go?" Charles asked. He knew something Chris did not, though. Alex didn't stay here because it was safe, because he was a mutant.

"I hoped he would want to. All the galaxies he can imagine, what boy would refuse that?"

One with a brother here on Earth.

"But more than that, Alex's brother. I thought neither of them survived. I understand you're the man to speak to in the way of finding people."

Oh good God. Had Chris just asked…?

He had.

He wanted Charles to help him find the boy who was sleeping not 100 feet away.

Well, more than 100 feet, but it was a very large building. And likelier reading than sleeping (and likelier reading than studying, which he ought to do).

Charles hesitated. "If you found him," he asked, "if, hypothetically, this person had been adopted and raised by a loving family, perhaps had no knowledge of any prior parents, if he was happy and whole, what would you do?"

"Nothing. I won't disturb his life. From what Alex has told me, there are times he needed a hand. I only want to know that Scott isn't in the same situation. That he's alive and well."

"And Alex suggested you ask me to do this?"

Chris shook his head. "No, it was my idea. When Alex told me how you found him and all the others, I thought you might be able to find Scott, too."

His voice was raw, almost desperate, and Charles had no idea what he could do. Someone had come to him for help, someone with nothing in his heart but good intentions and the ache of a missing child. And Charles could not say no to that person.

"It's an inexact process, but I'll see what I can do."

10:25

When Ruth turned away for half a minute, Ororo peered into the mixing bowl. She squinted, pushed back her hair, and asked, "Why does the pancake mix look funny?"

"It's not mix," Scott replied, "it's batter." He sat at the table, reading one of his library books. "And anyway it's not for pancakes, it's for waffles. Isn't it, Mom?"

"You are such a brown-noser," Ororo informed him.

Scott shrugged.

"Goody-two-shoes."

"Barefoot," he retorted, poking her in the shin with his toe. "But we're having waffles, aren't we?"

"Yes."

Scott left his book on the table. He dug the syrup bottle out of the fridge and ran hot water from the tap.

Ruth knew that it would help nothing to point out that call it what you will, Scott was useful to have around. Ororo would complain if you asked her to clean the dishes; Scott would not need to be asked.

She had found the waffle iron pushed to the back of a cupboard. After washing it out thoroughly and being sure it was safe, she decided to try the thing out. After all, who didn't love waffles?

Apparently everyone agreed.

That much was made clear at breakfast.

"Waffles?!" Alex cried. "I love waffles! And Ruth. I love you, Ruth."

"Careful, Alex," Charles warned. "We can't have that, I'm a jealous man."

Alex snickered and reached for the syrup. "I love you like a big sister who could crush my balls into raisins with her bare hands," he amended.

"For God's sake!"

Ororo and Scott bit their lips to keep from laughing.

"And in front of your father."

"Ah. My fault, I'm afraid," Chris said. "That's the Summers charm Alex must've inherited."

For a few moments, waffles seemed more interesting than Alex's balls. Then Scott asked, "Wouldn't that require your balls to be bigger than raisins to begin with?"

Ororo's hands flew to her mouth as she laughed out half-chewed waffle.

Charles objected almost inaudibly under the laughter that resulted from Scott's comment. Only once it had died down did he remind Scott, "Alex is beyond my control; you I can ground."

"I'm sorry."

The contrition earned a nod.

"I'm sure Alex's balls are bigger than raisins."

"Matthew Brian Xavier!"

Scott looked genuinely sorry but far too pleased with himself. The amount of laughter didn't hurt, either.

It was Hank who turned the conversation to another subject. "Will you tell us something else about what Alex was like as a baby?"

"He was a good deal smaller," Chris replied, "but very much the same in some ways. He once managed to get into the crawlspace under the house—I tore up half the floor bringing him out! Of course, Alex thought this was a game and kept crawling away."

"Seriously? Wow, I was an awesome kid!"

"And an unholy terror, son."

"Must be that Summers charm I inherited."

"Did he do that stuff a lot?" Ororo asked. She pushed her hair behind her ears, though it swiftly fell forward again. "Like the crawlspace thing?"

"All the time."

Scott focused on his waffle and tried to hide a sense of annoyance—how would Chris know, anyway? He barely spent time with Alex! He was away. Then he was gone.

"Did you do the middle name trick?"

"The middle name trick?"

"Like Professor Xavier just did. Where you say their middle names to control them. Like, Alexander Co—"

"Hey," Alex interrupted, rapidly swallowing his mouthful of food, "you're not allowed to do that!"

"Unfortunately, he was too young for that," Chris added, "but his mom had a secret weapon. Alex more or less listened to us about half the time, but he always watched his brother. We made it through half our meals as a family because Alex was watching Scott blow bubbles in his chocolate milk."

"What's that?" Ororo asked.

"You know what chocolate milk is," Ruth said.

"Yeah—"

"Yes," Charles interrupted.

"Yes, but bubbles? Is that fun?"

"The best," Alex replied. "It's… okay, it's hard to explain, but—"

"May I explain?" Scott asked, but he wasn't looking at Alex. He was looking at Ruth.

She grinned. "I suppose you had best do this."

"Thanks Mom!"

He darted away from the table and disappeared into the kitchen. Alex eyed the half-eaten waffle on his plate.

"There are plenty of waffles, Alex," Ruth said.

"But his is already gooey with syrup."

"I will middle name you if I have to," she warned, clearly joking.

"Aaw!"

But when Alex looked at Scott's plate again, it was empty. Ororo had taken advantage of their distraction and nabbed the syrup-soaked waffle for herself.

"Gnat," Alex sniped.

She gave him a wounded look. "I have a hurt arm!"

"And a stomachache is gonna help?"

Alex reached for the waffle.

Ororo shoved him away, one-armed and all.

"I'm helping!" Alex insisted.

"No! Mine!"

"Sheesh, you try to be nice…"

She bent and licked the waffle from one edge to the other.

"Ugh. All yours," Alex decided.

Ororo stuck out her sticky, syrup-coated tongue.

A moment later Scott returned, carrying a glass of chocolate milk. He looked at his empty plate and Ororo's grin, then reached for another waffle.

"Syrup and chocolate, is that necessary?" Charles asked.

Scott hesitated.

"It's sugars and carbohydrates," Hank offered. "Based on his age and behaviors, it actually is necessary if you consider his likely metabolic rate."

Charles sighed. "Thank you very much, Hank," he said, in a tone that communicated no thanks at all.

Scott turned to Ororo and explained, "It's like this." Then he stuck a straw into his chocolate milk and blew. Bubbles puffed up, filling the glass and threatening to fall onto the table.

It wasn't really the bubbles so much as the looks exchanged, the awareness of how foolish this was and yet how enjoyable anyway. Even Charles could not help smiling at the way Ororo giggled and Scott struggled to blow more bubbles because he couldn't get the air.

No one noticed the look on Chris's face.

Soon enough the conversation turned. It was almost July and Alex asked, "Does anyone want to do 4th of July this year?"

Awkward glances were exchanged. The 4th of July meant something to Alex and Hank. But Charles was English, Ororo was Egyptian, Ruth was Israeli, and Scott hadn't many happy holiday memories. As casually as Alex tried to mention this, even he knew there wasn't much chance.

"Could be fun," Scott said.

"What is it one does for the 4th of July?" Charles asked. The holiday meant little to him. Although he spent plenty of time in the United States even as a child, he thought of himself as English—and not British, English. His family never did anything special for the 4th of July. But life wasn't just about him and if everyone else wanted a 4th of July celebration, he supported the idea.

"Um." Apparently Alex had not thought that far ahead. "Usually there's fireworks. And you have a barbecue and… someone else wanna jump in here?" He looked hopefully around the table, then realized that only Hank and Chris were likely to have anything to say.

"There's a grill in the garage," Scott offered.

"Really?" Alex asked.

"I didn't know that," Charles chimed in. Of course, he rarely went digging through his garage.

"Mhm. Kind of near the back. We could use it for a 4th of July."