Chris changes his routine, spends more time with his friends. He misses her. He has forgotten not to talk about things, about planes, about loving to fly. These are not men who talk about love beyond mothers. Flying itself is, somehow, worse. Before she was with him. Now he is alone.

He misses her. Misses someone to talk to.

Finally he seeks a chance to head into town, into Dayton, to the dusty, un-American section of the library where he squints to read between the lines. He has to ask the librarian for the books. The librarian has to check the card catalog. Only one dusty old book even mentions the subject and not directly.

Chris does foolish things sometimes, but he is no fool. He misses her smile, her laugh, the way her eyes sparkle. He misses the way she listens and doesn't give a damn either way what she ought to say.

He realizes, as he waits for her, that he is embarrassed by the terms he previously used. He no longer thinks of her as plain. He admires her callused hands and sweet nature and the way she tries, sometimes, to be diplomatic but is too passionate to succeed.

Mostly he is embarrassed that he once thought her chest an unfortunately wasted space.

But until she emerges from the hanger a little behind the other girls, two of whom make eye contact before giggling and turning away, he does not realize the most obvious thing.

She looks at him, looks away, hesitates. She walks up to him.

"You're here," she observes. It isn't good or bad. It's a fact, plain and simple fact: he is here. Here he is. She is.

The nearness taps his heart. She smells like turpentine and cherry candy. Who ever guessed he would find himself here, stared down by a woman just barely out of girlhood?

"You were right. And the one with the ringlets told me your name. Katie."

"Katherine. Marshall. Katherine Marshall, I mean, that's my name, not… um, anyway, not Katie."

"Chris Summers," he says, sticking out his hand, "absolute twit."

She melts.

She smiles.

She lets him walk her home.

12:30

"No."

"But I feel fine!"

"Good. Still no."

"Well, just Scott, then," Ororo appealed. "Let me spar with Scott. He punches like a schoolgirl, anyway."

Ruth shook her head. Then, in Arabic, she added, "Maybe you should not have jumped off a ship if this is your feeling. And maybe you should think about the way you talk to people."

Ororo huffed and went to sit on the front stairs. She watched as Ruth said something to Alex and Scott, the only two students remaining. They would spar with each other, of course. And she would sit it out, because her arm was broken.

"I got a follow-up question," Alex said.

"You have a follow-up question to 'you cannot spar with a broken arm'?" Ruth asked.

"I have a general question. What do you do if the person you're going against doesn't do krav maga?"

"I don't understand."

"I think he's asking about the usefulness of what we learn with you against other fighting techniques," Scott said.

"Yeah," Alex agreed.

Scott muttered something softly.

"What was that?"

"Yes," Scott repeated. "Not yeah—yes."

"Okay then, Professor Junior."

"That's not an insult."

"Well!" Ruth interrupted, jumping in before this turned into a fight. "I can answer the krav maga question anyway." She had noticed a spectator to this training session. Now she called him over. "Chris! Come join us."

Chris Summers had, indeed, watch his sons' martial arts training. Now he stepped away from his ship and walked over. "I hope I wasn't bothering you."

"Not at all," Ruth replied. "I understand you have some defense training, yes?"

"I was in the military," Chris said. "A handful or two of brawls since."

"Good. Fight me."

He looked around, from Alex, to the mansion, and back to Ruth. "I wouldn't feel right," he said. He felt wrong about striking a woman. It was bad manners, besides, to be a guest in a man's home and hit his girlfriend.

"Oh, do not worry, I only mean this as a demonstration of defensive tactics," Ruth assured him. In a conspiratorial tone, she added, "I will not embarrass you too badly."

Chris hesitated, then threw a half-hearted punch.

Ruth batted it away. "I said fight me. If you cannot do this, only say."

Chris looked at the boys. "I would be setting a bad example."

Scott scoffed and Ruth gave him a warning look. Charles would not like that behavior because it was rude. Ruth didn't like it because part of keeping a secret was not giving it up.

"I seem to be interrupting, I'm sure you—"

"We will compromise," Ruth said. "You will punch me slowly, to demonstrate, and I will display how I will block. This is agreeable?"

Chris glanced at Scott before nodding. "I suppose."

2:45

Hank enjoyed their visitor. Although initially offended by the assumption that he was from another planet, he had come to understand that Chris meant no harm by that—yes, he made an assumption on Hank's appearance, but it was no different from someone else asking what state he came from. But Chris not only let Hank poke around in his ship, he seemed interested. He tried to understand everything Hank said.

He was very like his son in that respect. Not that Hank would say as much.

Even better than the man himself was the technology in his ship. It was decades if not centuries ahead of the technology on Earth and just brimming with possibilities.

"Charles? Do you have a moment?"

Hank found Charles at the window, watching Ruth and the boys in their martial arts training. Sometimes Hank joined them. Even with his superior strength and agility, he found the physical training beneficial. But usually he was too busy in his lab to remember.

Ruth had finally coaxed Chris into sparring with her. Through the open window, Hank could just hear her laughter—not cruel, only pure enjoyment. Sparring was a sport to her. And she loved it. Chris seemed to feel the same. They both sounded gleeful and they moved well together. They were both seasoned warriors.

"She seems happy," Charles remarked, "don't you think?"

"I think she certainly lets you know when she isn't," Hank said. Ruth didn't hide any of her feelings. It was something Hank loved about her. He always saw what people felt, but often didn't understand how they reacted. He didn't need to feel anxious with Ruth. She would feel, express, and forgive.

"Yes… a woman like her should be with someone…" Charles looked down at his wheelchair. Abruptly he turned to Hank. "I'm sorry, you wanted something?"

"Um… yes… well, the thing is, one of the defenses of Chris's plane is a misdirection created by an almost-genuine replica based on an advanced programming system. It's—it might be one of the most inventive processes—it's useless from an offensive standpoint but it's an almost illusion, it can even bring the plane to an emergency landing. That's what happened in the yard. Of course, an innate weakness is the requisite power source and, well, naturally, if it's damaged—the power is generated from—"

"Hank! Hank, slow down."

"Right. Sorry. He's let me look into all of his technology and I've been thinking about how to apply it here, for us. For one thing, the power supply is solar. It would take some adapting for other parts of the mansion, if you were interested, but Cerebro could easily be powered through the same means. You know we've had some difficulty keeping it linked to the generator."

Charles nodded. Cerebro was Hank's baby, created to his logical structuring in every way… which, unfortunately, was different from anyone else's logic. The power supply was often problematic.

"That sounds wonderful."

"There's more."

"Of course."

Hank's thoughts were like potato chips that way. He never had just one.

He glanced back to the window, outside where Ruth had been teaching the boys to throw each other across the lawn. "Training," he murmured. "Chris has technology to create physical illusions. Ever since the attack back in March, I've been thinking about how to modify the bunker. What if we made it both safer and a better training room?"

8:30pm

Charles spent a good deal of time trying to catch Alex alone, but Alex had become quite the social creature—and Charles was pleased with that. Not only was Alex no longer withdrawn from depression, as he had been after Sean's death, but he no longer isolated himself out of fear.

Alex spent most of his life keeping distance between himself and others to protect them from his destructive power. He no longer feared himself. That was wonderful to recognize.

But he was tough to catch alone and finally Charles settled for a telepathic approach.

Alex, don't answer me out loud please, just think.

Some reactions to having one's thoughts read were common. Most people went to the things they hoped a telepath wouldn't notice—Alex tended to call up the lyrics of a rude song when he felt Charles's mental presence.

A few lines and he had pulled himself together enough to answer, Is this good?

That's perfect, thank you. You're handy with a screwdriver, wouldn't you say? Charles asked, and immediately regretted the phrasing. But once Alex's rude jokes subsided—as Charles reminded himself that no one can control their instinctual thoughts—Charles told him, I need you to do something for me.

He actually rolled his eyes at Alex's filthy response.

Finally Alex chuckled and said out loud, "Where are you, Charles? I'm on my way."

A part of Charles always felt the need to be hospitable when someone visited his office. He usually offered a drink to an adult who stopped by. In Alex's case that seemed unwise, so Charles settled for inviting him to have a seat.

"Do you know what your father asked me for, this morning?" Charles asked.

He guessed Alex was having filthy thoughts, but his response was surprisingly serious. Alex shook his head. "I don't know."

"Apparently he's heard about Cerebro. He's asked my help in finding his missing son."

Alex groaned. He rubbed a hand over his face. "Charles, I'm sorry. I told him about how you found us, I told him about my life, I didn't suggest—but we could just tell him."

"Tell him," Charles repeated.

"He wants a second chance to be our dad."

Alex was rather like his father then. What he said was so honestly meant. It was spoken from a place of love. And it was like a punch in the throat to Charles, because Scott did not need Chris Summers to be his dad.

"He deserves a second chance."

Charles wanted to say no. Alex hadn't been around for those first months. He didn't know what Scott was like when he arrived, how anxious and defeated. He didn't understand that while Chris might want a second chance, as Charles saw it, Chris hadn't raised Scott. Charles had.

In that situation, you didn't get a second chance. You interrupted someone else's first.

"I'll think about it. Now, I asked you earlier about a screwdriver…"