Quick note (totally skippable)... I started this story more than three years ago and, after Days of Future Past, considered tweaking a few things. I decided against it and can only hope that when you see similarities, you know I never meant to flatout copy.

For continuity's sake, this is in the canon of First Class but the future undone by Days of Future Past.

Thanks for reading!

Well… one of those days.

You know the sort: when you fell asleep with wet hair and woke up with a frayed mop; you missed breakfast and your stomach is growling; and now you're hurtling through galaxies at hundreds of miles a minute, faster than the ship is meant to handle. It's a wall-shaking speed that has you gripping the safety belt across your shoulders.

This might just be it. This might be the day that splats you like a bug on the pavement.

Ororo Munroe was not, in general, the sort of girl who needed a hand to hold. She stood on her own two feet as she had since she was five years old. She didn't need grown-ups, she didn't need a boy, all she needed was her wits and courage.

But right now she had too much fear and not enough courage to match it. The little craft seemed to press in on her lungs, deflating her like a loaf of bread. She wasn't just holding his hand, she was throttling it.

"When I get home…"

Scott Summers had been her foster-brother before all of this, before their accidental foray out of the galaxy. Whatever he was now, it was more than that, something there was no word for in any language she knew. He was the person she trusted with everything. She was the girl leaving bruises on his hand.

"When I get home," Scott began again, flashing her a shaky smile, "I'm going to eat an entire package of Oreos."

Six months, near as they could reason. They left in August of 1964; they would be home in February 1965. An extra month or two might have passed.

It didn't matter.

They were finally going home!

The time showed more clearly on Ororo. She had grown almost two inches in height and her face had slimmed, making her look easily sixteen in her own almost-fifteen-year-old opinion. Scott did not age properly and the six months had barely changed him besides making his hair shaggy over his red-lensed glasses.

She shook her head. Really, Oreos?

"When I get home, I'm going to finally see the end of Casablanca."

Ororo felt a smile tugging at her lips, but refused to give in. He was just trying to make her happy and, on principle, she refused. It wasn't about their shaky transport anymore. It was on principle, and that principle was rivalry.

"When I get home, I'm going to sleep in a real bed."

Their spaceship home had accommodations, but even Ororo didn't think they were great—and she had slept on the floor for most of her childhood.

"When I get home, I'm going to recycle."

She couldn't help it: she laughed. "You're going to recycle?"

"Yup. Going to recycle."

It wasn't something done in space, although that may have been because there were so few plastics and glass items in use.

"Okay, what are you going to recycle?"

"I don't know. I'll fix up my bike and go into town, and keep collecting until I have a whole bag of Coke bottles, then I'll turn 'em in."

"You have nerdy goals."

"You have nerdy friends."

Ororo rolled her eyes. As she did, she noticed that her hand was no longer attempting to shatter the bones in his, only holding on lightly, like a habit. This time she did smile.

"Yeah… but I have the best nerdy friends."

For a while, they watched the blurs of worlds passing by.

They had dressed in their old clothes, their Earth clothes, and the shaking kept making her skirt ride up. Ororo was tired of pushing it down. So what if the bright plaid collected over her lap? At least she wasn't wear flares, unlike some people!

Flares. Every planet they had visited and she'd not once seen another pair of flares! (Nor plaid, but that wasn't the point.)

"If we land on the wrong one…"

"We won't," Scott replied. "We won't. My dad programmed in the coordinates, he said we might be a little off, but—I remember Westchester. If we need to, we walk home, but we'll get there."

He said it with so much determination, she didn't question him. After all, determination got them this far, to this horrifying, shaking place between home and home-away-from-home. They couldn't go back now. They couldn't quit. But then, neither of them was known for quitting.

She didn't know how much time had passed before she said, "When we get home, we'll see them again."

"I hope Alex is okay."

Ororo nodded. She got it. Scott wasn't ready to talk about their parents, about Ruth and Charles. Alex was easier: he had never stopped worrying about Alex.

"And Hank," she said. It was her turn to make someone smile, even if he hadn't moved to a death grip on her hand. "Do you think he's still blue?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

She started to say something else, then gasped. "Is that it?" she asked, pointing.

That was certainly something, a thing that grew bigger instead of passing as the craft around them began to slow, forcing them back in their seats.

"I think so!"

Scott wrapped his hands around the controls again. They knew this would get to be a much bumpier ride soon.

Once they punched through the clouds, the ship barely held course. Scott's knuckles turned white and sweat beaded on his forehead. Ororo, without the same experience flying, gripped the seatbelt. It was thick and viney, and she tried not to remember that it was only a plant. The proto-organics mixed plant and metal and sure, they had a good reputation, but… but.

They could make out the East Coast now.

The skyscrapers of Manhattan.

"Hold on."

Those were not encouraging words from a pilot.

They zipped over the town, over a familiar church steeple, and—

"That's it!" Ororo cried as they flew over the mansion they both once knew well.

The ship kept moving. It was slower now, Scott hauling back on a piece she was pretty sure controlled their speed, still gripping the controls that would keep the ship from veering and flipping—

FWUMP.

The impact sent them both thumping forward, bouncing back. It was a tooth-jarring, head-smacking sort of impact that left Ororo's eyes swimming. For a moment, she couldn't breathe.

Then the ship began to crumple.

She swore and yanked at the seatbelt.

"Ororo?"

Scott stood, stumbled, and reached out to steady himself.

"Ororo, breathe through it."

She was only a step away. His hands on her weren't helping!

"You can do this."

No, she couldn't! It was too close, too small. The ceiling would come down and the space would be so tiny around them and—

Scott had to half-haul her out of her seat.

She was shaking when he ripped through the wall and led her out of the collapsing spacecraft. He only paused for half a second, scooping a book off the floor.

"It's okay. It was my mistake, I brought us down too hard, but we're safe now," he said, gripping her hand. "We're safe. We're home."

Ororo nodded.

"Well… we're almost home."

So they walked. They left the collapsing ship behind them. A special compound would dissolve it into compost, an advantage for one-way trips and a deathtrap if you weren't careful. Scott had been just careful enough.

They walked past a pair of vaguely interested cows and climbed a rusty fence to leave the pasture. Neither needed to state a direction when they reached the road.

They just walked.

After a while, Scott chuckled. "It's almost your birthday."

"My birthday?"

"Yeah, look at those gas prices," he said, indicating a station. "That's gotta be April Fool's."

"We should stop for Twinkies," Ororo suggested, her voice only a little strained and dry.

"I thought you didn't like Twinkies."

"I don't."

They were a mess, both of them, dirt and sweat on their faces, sweat marks on their clothes. Just a couple of urchins making their slow way up the road. Scott even held that book like it was a teddy bear, though she didn't think that unkindly. It was for comfort.

When they reached the mansion, the front gate was locked. Ororo picked it with a couple of hairpins. "Cake," she decreed it. "Old and pretty and an absolute piece of cake."

"Baklava," Scott shot back, closing the gate behind them.

Ororo's heart beat more and more quickly as they made their way up the long driveway. She focused on her breathing, keeping it steady. It had been so long. Now with each step she worried she would wake up and be so far away again.

The plants were overgrown. There were stretches of trees they always let grow wild, but the grass and hedges were badly neglected.

The door was locked, so Scott rang the doorbell.

"I can pick that," Ororo said.

Scott shook his head.

"It'd be a nice surprise."

Besides, she hated that door. It stood between her and her foster-mother, and she could practically feel Ruth's arms around her, hear her swearing in Hebrew. Ororo leaned to peer through the window, but couldn't see anyone inside.

Twice more Scott rang the bell.

Twice more they waited.

It was a cool day for April and that made the decision even more than manners. Both of them tensed against the weather.

"Okay," Scott said, suddenly. "You can pick the lock."

"Finally!"

Like that at the gate, this lock only took her a few moments to outdo.

The door creaked as it swung open to reveal a dimly-lit, dusty entryway. Both looked around, surprised. It hadn't looked like this, not when they lived here. This was the warm place where they pulled off snowy or muddy sneakers, where they threw polymer goo at each other from Hank's science class.

"Hello?" Scott called.

Ororo nudged him sharply.

"What?"

"I don't know. Just—don't."

The place had an eerie, abandoned quality. Even if it was already April, could all this have happened in eight months? Was it 1965, or had they jumped all the way to 1966?

Both turned at a faint noise: the familiar whisper of a wheelchair.

But not who they expected.

For a moment, the man in the wheelchair just stared at them. And Ororo and Scott stared at the man who had to be at least sixty, old and bald and clutching a mostly-empty bottle of whiskey.

"Um…" Scott said, instinctively nudging Ororo back. "Okay. We are really, really sorry—we made a mistake, and we're leaving now."

"You're not real," the man informed them.

"No—no, we're not," Ororo agreed. Scott shot her a look, but she continued, "You've had too much to drink. You should go to bed… and think about drinking less."

"We used to live here," Scott explained, and it was Ororo's turn to shoot someone a look.

"You died," said the drunk.

"The man who used to live here," Ororo began, since Scott insisted on explaining, "Charles Xavier. We knew him."

The drunk laughed. "Of course you did."

"Oh my God," Scott whispered.

"What?" Ororo whispered back. They weren't exactly keeping secrets, but the drunk man was distracted by the bottle in his hand.

"It's not 1964."

"What are you talking about?" she demanded.

"I think this is Professor Xavier."

Yeah. Just one of those days.