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Charles was rather overwhelmed with the sense that his household was wholly outside his control. He understood by now that welcoming people in did not mean controlling them—sometimes in ways so small as his inability to keep Alex from swearing near-constantly, sometimes so huge as Erik.

Seeing things spiraling out of his grip today, he resolved that if he could not fix this, he would at least understand it.

That evening, after he read to Ororo—she was far more enthralled in Thor Heyerdahl's adventures than she would ever admit—Charles asked, "Would you care to explain your behavior at dinner tonight?"

"Is that really a question?"

"No."

Ororo shrugged. She did not look at all apologetic, but then, Charles had not expected her to. Ororo's actions were deliberate and he had no doubt she stood by her reasoning.

"I knew Scott wouldn't tell the truth."

"Scott did tell the truth, Ororo."

She shook her head. "No, not really. Like that he was… er… pre, um—dammit."

"Provoked?"

"Provoked, yes. That."

"He did neglect to mention certain details on that matter, yes."

"I was there, Professor, and I watch what happened. Scott, well, you have this expression, right, that someone sees the world through rose-tinted glasses? Scott literally sees the world through rose-tinted glasses. He doesn't understand people. He understands America but he doesn't understand people."

While Charles was not certain Ororo fully understood that expression, he could not disagree with her reasoning. He rarely could. She was a very clever young woman with her own fierce perspective.

"Fair enough," he allowed, "but Scott's obscured worldview is scarcely news. Why did you say something this time?"

Her expression shifted and he knew he had asked the right question.

"Today in town, Scott didn't hit those boys because they were mean to him. He hit them because they were mean to me. I don't need someone to stand up for me, but it wasn't like that. More like… like he took it personally. People have tried to stand up for me before, but not like that."

That he could accept. Whether she realized it or not, Ororo had stood up for Scott and protected him in her own way—by manipulating those around her—like family, because that was how he treated her.

Charles kept this in mind when he went to see Scott.

These conversations were quite different from those he had with Ororo. More difficult. Ororo kept a man on his toes, but Scott… the boy didn't bleed red, he bled pure uncut pain.

"Am I grounded?" he asked, setting aside his latest favorite Steinbeck novel.

Charles sighed. "I may not like the way you handled that situation, but I can't say that I see any better solution. Has this really been going on for a year?"

"Or so, yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

There was a note of hurt in Charles's voice. It was Scott's decision of course, but Charles truly didn't understand why Scott would keep this secret. He didn't know what he could have done, but he was simply so used to Scott coming to him with problems—or at least hiding them so badly Charles easily guessed what was going on.

Scott's response was painfully logical. "What could you have done?" he asked. "I keep turning it over in my head. I… I think I might have done the least bad thing. They were either going to keep bothering me or get drafted and leave town. I could avoid the library, but that's a big thing to give up. And why should I? I didn't do anything wrong."

"No—no, you did not," Charles said. "I'm not pleased about the fighting, but I'm very impressed that you continued going for so long. And I'm not certain what else you could have done, in that situation."

"Is Ororo mad? She's hard to read sometimes."

Sometimes, Charles thought. He could not help but hear Scott's recollection of Ororo shouting his name to Chris.

"Actually, I think she was quite touched," Charles said. "You didn't hit them for bothering you, you did it because they insulted Ororo. She saw that."

Scott nodded. "That makes sense," he acknowledged. He let those boys pick on him for over a year without responding. "May I ask you about college?"

It was a common subject of conversation and Charles honestly didn't mind. He wanted Scott to feel ready for college—hopefully talking about it could bolster his lacking sense of self-confidence.

"What would you like to know?"

"Well… basically every adult I know either went to college or joined the army. I can't join the army, not with these," Scott said, touching his glasses. "What if you don't do either?"

Charles wanted to claim it was college, military, or nothing—because the military was out and that would force Scott to focus on college. But he couldn't. Instead, he said, "You would go to work, but you have the opportunity to go to college. Why wouldn't you take it?"

"I just don't want to go."

"Why?"

Scott shrugged.

Accepting that he wouldn't get more of an answer on the subject, Charles asked instead, "Are you ready to talk about the orphanage?"

Scott shook his head. "I don't know where to start."

It wasn't meant as an objection so much as a request for help. He had spent twenty years in that place, most of it being lied to and manipulated. Untangling the memories that had been scrambled and buried took help.

"There's something I'd like to explore, but it's going to be difficult."

Scott twitched. He didn't answer outright, but Charles understood the general idea. This was always difficult.

"Do you remember being there with Alex?"

Scott shook his head. "No, but I always knew about him. I had the pictures."

"Of course," Charles said, reaching out to touch the frame on the nightstand. At Scott's age, he had similar framed photos of his mother and Albert Einstein. Scott had a photo of himself as a toddler with his parents; Alex had one of himself as a baby with Scott.

"Other pictures. Mr. Milbury gave them to me. He would get another sometimes, of Alex growing up. 'You're not special. You can always be replaced. Be a good boy or I'll find someone who can…'"

Scott buried his face against his knees. Charles stroked his hair while he trembled, reflecting that on top of being pure evil, Milbury's threat had not even been logical. No one in the world was more of a good boy than Scott. And if Milbury wanted obedience, he wouldn't have been at all satisfied with Alex!

It raised an interesting question, however.

"Scott, can we follow that memory? I'd like to look into something, if it's not too much for you."

Scott raised his head and nodded.

Of course: ever the good boy.

"Do you remember when Mr. Milbury threatened to bring Alex back to the orphanage?"

Scott shook his head. "He said it a lot."

"That if you weren't good enough, he would hurt your brother."

He nodded.

"Scott… do you understand that you are good? That you always have been?"

Scott shrugged.

"If I have not made clear to you every day how grateful I am to have you here, that is my failing and not yours."

Which earned a raised head and a sort of sniffle-and-throat-clearing combo of someone who had not quite begun to cry and was trying nonetheless to stop.

Well. Sometimes a touch of dramatics was called for.

"I must ask you, though, knowing now that you are safe. Please try to remember."

It hit them both like a freight train.

In second grade, a policeman visits Scott's class at school. His crisp uniform and shiny shoes make him the most impressive man Scott has seen since his daddy died. He talks to the class about how if someone hurts you, you should tell your teacher.

Somehow, Mr. Milbury knows.

He was already mad. And it wasn't his fault—he wasn't the clumsy little shit who dropped the glass. The third glass this week. No, even though it hurt, even though he keeps his arms loosely over his tummy so nothing bumps the bruises, Scott knows it's his fault. He deserved it—he's bad and needs to learn to behave.

But it hurts…

Milbury doesn't ask if Scott plans to tell. He already knows. As the boy heads for the front door, ready to walk to the bus stop, Milbury says, "Do you know what the police do to bad boys?"

Scott pauses. Shakes his head.

"I only want to teach you, Scott. Am I to be blamed that you refuse to learn? The police, however, take bad boys and lock them up forever in dark little rooms."

Scott gulps. Is that true? Don't the police protect people?

"Still…" Milbury runs a hand through Scott's hair. His fingers clench and he yanks the boy's head back. "Tell," he whispers. "Tell them. I'll be rid of you—I'll have someone better…"

Another memory follows...

A soft, mechanical whirring and the cacophony of breaking glass. The clatter of metal thrown to the floor. Harsh light. Metal, tile, cold.

And fear. Afraid to cower and unable not to, Scott watches Milbury destroy equipment in the laboratory. Milbury grips sheets of paper in his hand. Something has gone wrong, or just not gone right…

"You worthless idiot!"

Milbury slams him against the wall. Scott knows better than to fight back, just lets his body go limp as the wall hits him again and again.

"Next—time—it—will—work! This time—" Milbury hisses, "—you'll remember what happens if it doesn't work."

The pictures are pinned to a bulletin board, untouched by the tantrum: school photos of a smiling blond boy. A miniature Alex. And Scott looks, drinks in the only time he sees his brother, while Milbury drops him onto a lab table.

And he tries to be good.

Tries.

Doesn't even fight when he feels the needle go in and the flames of pain spreading through his body.

Another memory follows...

At twelve, Scott breaks the rules.

He runs away.

He tells.

He is not believed. Milbury is called to retrieve him and the drive home passes in silence. Scott doesn't cry. He is too numb and too drained.

Only when they are inside does Milbury hand down the consequence.

"Pack."

"What?"

"Go to your room. Pack your things. Get out. I'm through with you; we'll see if Alexander is more capable—"

"No, please!"

"Shut up. I'm through with you—with your failure, your idiocy, your pathetic sniveling. I have been patient. No more."

"Please! I—I can do better."

"No, you cannot."

"But I will—"

"You won't! You can't."

"No, I can't."

Milbury caresses his face gently and it makes Scott's guts turn to lava, but he doesn't move away.

"You're worthless."

"Yes—I am—I'm worthless."

"How many chances have I given you for which you have been completely ungrateful?"

"A lot."

The slap makes his teeth rattle. So does the next one.

"Hm," Milbury observes.

He hits him again.

"If you cry, or scream, or whine, your brother takes your place."

Scott does not cry. He does not scream. He does not whine. Not until Milbury leaves and he is alone in the hallway, gently exploring the growing bruises, his fingers now and again discovering a patch of blood.

Milbury will never say the words again. Instead every day will bring a new reminder—to be silent. To be obedient. To ask for nothing, because he has already been given a mighty gift.

"Hank, I need a drink."

After he was paralyzed, Charles spent several weeks in a cycle of drinking, becoming deeply hungover, and fixing it by drinking. After Sean died, Alex did the same—until Scott took away his alcohol.

Charles realized now why Scott hadn't simply hidden the alcohol in his own bedroom or poured it down the sink. The smell still bothered him.

The realization only made Charles need that drink more.

"Is that a good idea?" Hank asked.

For the first time, Charles looked around. He saw the way Hank hurriedly moved something away from his arm and a glint of something that looked like a needle.

"What are you—no, not tonight—where's the alcohol?"

"What's going on?"

"I think I understand what was going on in the orphanage. It wasn't arbitrary—it would have been so much better if it were arbitrary, Hank."

Hank looked a touch blank.

And, in truth, Charles wished it were. It was a strange thing to wish, but the truth was worse. Milbury had provided Scott with school pictures of Alex, getting a year older—while Scott did not age properly. Milbury planned that torture ahead.

"Scott doesn't know, he doesn't understand, but it's clear from his memories. Anyone with any history in laboratory work can see it. This whole thing was deliberate, measured, and planned. Recorded. He wasn't just abused, he was experimented on."

Hank looked away, a guilty expression on his face.

Unfortunately, he was painfully easy to read.

"You knew?"

"I've seen the scars."

Why would someone have a scar like this?

When Ororo asked that, Charles had assumed she meant an autopsy scar. Now he realized…

"Vivisection?"

Hank nodded.

Charles laid a hand across his eyes, shaking his head.

"Charles, what happened to the orphanage?"

"I contacted authorities in Omaha, I had Milbury arrested, he's in prison now."

"Good."

"I don't understand this, I don't know how anyone can do those things to a child. To anyone, but especially to a child."

Hank gave him a sympathetic look, but the truth was that he couldn't understand it either.

"About that drink?"

"Ruth will be waiting for you, won't she?"