He was broken. Scott felt the tears rolling down his face as he stared out into the grounds of Xavier's Institute for Gifted Children—the grounds that he had walked for over 15 years with Jean by his side. He choked back a sob. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. He and Jean were supposed to live happily ever after. The Professor's dream would be realized, they would have children, they would grow old together… the pain rose up again. Scott spun away from the window, and immediately punched the nearest wall. The bones in his hands cracked, and small gashes opened along his knuckles. He ignored the pain, and punched the wall again. And again. And again. Only when he felt the bones in his hand break did he stop. He stared at the final product of his rage and pain. The plaster of the wall had broken away, and the gyprock below was exposed. Blood was splattered everywhere, including onto the wooden floors. Scott felt overcome by a sense of exhaustion. He leant his forehead against the mangled wall, and closed his eyes to the world around him.

"Oh, Scott." The familiar voice of the Professor offered Scott that familiar flash of comfort. The man had raised him, trained him, and had become his father in all but blood. A gentle, weathered hand grasped Scott's uninjured one, and he turned to look at his friend and mentor. " 'lo, Professor," he croaked. The familiar face was streaked with tears—tears for Jean, tears for Scott. Charles stroked the hand of his son—for Scott was his son—and then gently lead him away from the wall. The pair proceeded slowly to the elevator to the lower levels. Scott stiffened as they began to approach the medical labs. He didn't want to go there—that was Jean's domain. He tried to draw away, but Charles' hand tightened softly on his. Scott proceeded into the labs, and sat in a worn fabric chair. Charles wheeled himself closer, grabbed some bandages and antiseptic from a nearby cabinet, and began to wrap Scott's hand. Scott winced in pain, but he never made a move to draw his hand away. Finally, Scott began to speak. "I'm sorry about the wall, Professor." Charles sighed exasperatedly. "Scott, I don't care about the wall. I care about your health—physical and mental." Scott looked away in shame. Charles laid a hand on his knee. "I'll miss her, too," he said softly. That was enough to break through the dam that was holding back Scott's emotions. Scott leant forward to hug the Professor close, and began to cry… again. Charles returned the hug, his strong arms holding his son close to his body. Soft comforting words were whispered into Scott's ear as he leant his head on the Professor's shoulder. His lean frame was wracked with sobs. Charles hushed him gently, holding him until his sobs slowed, then disappeared all-together. "Come on," Charles finally said, taking Scott's uninjured hand again. "I think you could benefit with an early evening in bed." Scott nodded and wiped his face on his sleeve, struggled to his feet, and followed Charles out of the medical bay.

Charles paused at the door to Scott and Jean's room. Scott had turned unresponsive, preferring to follow Charles blindly through the hallways. Making up his mind, Charles let go of Scott's hand and wheeled himself forward. As expected, Scott didn't take the initiative to follow him. Scott and Jean's room… well, Charles thought, it's a wonder that this breakdown didn't occur earlier. The room was almost a mausoleum for Jean. Her possessions were everywhere, her pictures still on the wall… her perfume was even still lingering in the still air. There was no way Scott could sleep here. Charles wheeled himself out, shut the door… and stopped. If not there, then where? Scott couldn't sleep in one of the guest bedrooms—he needed the familiarity. Finally Charles clasped Scott's hand, and lead him down the hallway to his own bedroom. When Scott had first come to Xavier's as a broken 15-year old, he had been suffering from nightmares of his earlier life—the death of his parents, the abuse he suffered at the hands of the foster system, the discovery of his powers… enough to give his mind material for a lifetime of nightmares. Charles had found though, as Scott grew to trust him, he would sneak into Charles' bedroom at night, and curl up beside him. When asked about it, Scott confessed that the contact kept the nightmares away. So that was where they would go, and that was what they would do.

Charles hadn't changed his room since Scott had last seen it. The familiar wooden floors with the flat-carpet rug, the stacks of books (which never exceeded waist-high for him), the beautiful French windows, the wooden bed with the mahogany end-tables and the support bars… all of this was as familiar as if he had never been anywhere else. Scott sat slowly on the right edge of the bed (away from the support bars that Charles needed to get up), kicked off his shoes, and swiveled slowly so that he was lying prone on the bed. The sheets rustled, and he felt Charles settle close to him. Scott rolled so that his face was buried in the Professor's side, and in return, he felt gentle fingers stroking through his hair. The soothing motions were comforting to Scott, and he felt himself beginning to drift off to sleep. As his eyes closed, he heard Charles whisper, "It will get better. I don't know how, but it will get better."