The standard disclaimer: Recognizable places belong to Marvel or Fox, but in general not to me.

Notes: This was supposed to be a one-shot Christmas story. That... didn't exactly happen.

December 10, 1963

"Today we are going to learn about Abraham Lincoln and how everything you think you know about Abraham Lincoln is nonsense. Who knows something about Abraham Lincoln? No shyness. Anything. Anything at all!" Ruth declared.

She was a mutant in her late twenties and a history teacher at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. She spoke English fluently, but with a thick accent.

"Who's Abraham Lincoln?" The question came from Ororo Munroe, thirteen years old and as keen on sitting still as she was on algebra.

"Um. The President?" Doug Ramsey knew that much, at least, and the nervousness of giving Ruth the wrong answer was overpowered by a need to point out the obvious.

"Hey." Scott Summers shook his head. He wasn't the oldest student, but he had been there the longest and was the only big brother, both responsibilities he took seriously.

"Oh—right. Sorry, Ororo."

Ororo shrugged. She had a history of almost no formal schooling until the past few months. She was learning not only to speak English but to read and write it. Not knowing an American President wasn't the sort of thing to be surprised by.

It was not the sort of thing that embarrassed her, either.

"I thought Johnson was the President," she said.

"Yeah…"

Everyone else had a look of sadness at the mention. Three weeks ago, John F. Kennedy was the President. It didn't bother Ororo—of course she was sad for the man whose head burst like a too-ripe melon, but the greater impact of this death was lost on her.

"Abraham Lincoln was the sixteenth President of the United States," Scott said. "He was President during the Civil War and delivered the Gettysburg Address. And then an actor shot him. Right, Ruth?"

Ruth confirmed that all of this was correct. "Does anyone know the Gettysburg Address?" Only one person nodded, so she said, "Scott. Let's hear it."

He delivered the speech in a considerably less impressive manner than one imagined Abraham Lincoln would have used. Abraham Lincoln hadn't mumbled or bit at his cuff, for example, and probably spoke with more passion.

When he finished, Doug jumped in, "Abraham Lincoln wanted to free the slaves. He initiated the Civil War for this purpose."

"Did he?" Ruth asked.

"Yeah?" It was a question more than an answer.

"Not so much. The South initiated the Civil War," Ruth explained, "and President Lincoln was willing to let slavery endure if that would keep the union intact. So in a way one might say that it was the South that ended slavery."

This drew surprised looks from Doug and Scott, who had learned about the Civil War before—but never in those terms.

"Where was he shot?" Ororo asked.

Scott supplied, "In the theatre," and everyone laughed.

Doug mimed shooting himself in the head.

"Oh, like-"

"Ororo." Ruth shook her head. It was too soon for a joke about President Kennedy.

"Sorry. Why is history class in the kitchen?"

It was a fair question.

Ruth had informed them that morning that history class was optional today, as she would be busy by that time in the afternoon. Anyone still inclined was welcome. Scott, Ororo, and Doug chose to attend and had all been handed potatoes to grate. It was a cold day, but the windows were steamed thanks to a very warm oven and the room had a smell that made everyone's mouth water.

Every night but pizza night, Ruth controlled the kitchen. More than once, she had been asked if she minded being the only woman on staff and also the cook. She had a three-pronged response. She would point out the respect and appreciation she was given, that every other person in the house assisted with the cooking and cleaning, and then challenge whoever said it to arm wrestle.

So the kitchen was Ruth's domain, but this was earlier preparation than usual.

"Because tonight is the first night of Hanukkah," she replied.

The kids exchanged uncertain looks. It was Doug who asked, "Isn't that a religious observance?"

Ruth shrugged. "Not so much. Cultural. There are religious aspects but this I do in private."

"Good," Scott grumbled, "because I don't pray."

There was so much resentment in that statement, the others paused to stare at him.

"No," Ruth assured him. "No one would ask you to."

"Good."

"But you do eat."

Scott was a fifteen-year-old boy and ran several miles a day. His metabolism called for more fuel than a train out of Newcastle.

"So, uh, our part in this?" Doug asked.

"Hanukkah food—food is a big part of Hanukkah. We are making latkes. Hanukkah was the miracle of the oil lasting for eight nights. Oil… fried food. Latkes tonight." Ruth thought for a moment, then, with a grin on her face, "Maybe sufganiyot this weekend. They are like, ah, donuts! Strawberry filling."

Doug lit up. "Can we have churros? Please?"

"What are churros?" Ororo asked.

"Seriously?" Doug looked for support from Scott, then Ruth. Neither showed recognition of the word. "Delicious sweet cinnamon-sugar fried dough. Like doughnuts, but better. Ruth, please?"

"If I can find a recipe," Ruth agreed. "Nothing is better than sufganiyot, but, I like you." She stood and retrieved three onions from the freezer, then began to slice into them. "Are we finished discussing Mr. Lincoln?"

"He was tall," Scott offered.

"Gargantuan," Doug added. "Massive—scrawny, but monumental."

He laughed at a joke no one else had heard.

The discussion of Lincoln continued. It was educational for Ororo and even Doug and Scott picked up some new information. They knew they were free to leave whenever they wished and after a while Doug and Ororo went to play cards. Scott helped Ruth wash the dishes.

"Does it bother you?" she asked. "The Hanukkah meal?"

Scott shook his head.

The kitchen felt quiet with the others gone, only their voices and the water running in the sink.

"If this is a problem for you—"

"No one else is Jewish," Scott interrupted. "No one."

"Hanukkah is not about being Jewish. Hanukkah is about being with family and being happy and remembering. Charles, Hank, you—you are my family. Grilled cheese? Instead?"

Scott gaped at her.

"You and me. Grilled cheese, Oreos…"

The woman knew him.

"But… but… all this?"

"I want you to sit and have dinner with everyone else. If you are not comfortable with it, though—and why should you be? Hanukkah is about family. Besides, if I drove you away, then I would need to know that you are not alone."

Scott stared for a moment. It was true that he had never had a family, but rare that someone stated it so matter-of-factly. That was like calling out the Professor for his wheelchair.

Then again, she mentioned the wheelchair plenty.

"I'm not Jewish."

"I know. This is for me. Hanukkah for me means good food with people I care about. There are prayers, yes, and candles, but this is more like… the Easter egg hunt. You know of this tradition? Easter eggs have nothing to do with Christ and yet are associated with his resurrection."

All of this was met with a blank stare, communicated in the way only a teenager can. When Scott wanted to, he retreated into himself, became unreadable. Other times he showed precisely what he meant to in spite of his dark glasses, and this was one such time.

Worst of all, Ruth was right. Scott had never considered that before, but he wasn't sure how the Easter Bunny and Jesus knew each other. They both just were—although he assumed the Easter Bunny came about in a more traditional way.

Scott was fifteen years old. He bit his lip to keep from laughing at the allusion to mating. That would ruin his glowering, too.

Outside, Ororo watched the rain whip around. It battered the trees and stones. If she concentrated, really concentrated, could she make rain hard enough to leave pocks in the driveway?

That wasn't what she wanted.

In Arabic, her first language, she said, "Tell me again."

Doug stood beside her, watching the rain. Neither of them wore a raincoat or carried an umbrella. Ororo kept them dry, her power commanding the rain to swirl around them.

"It's like ice," he replied, "only lighter, fluttering to the ground rather than crashing like hail. It melts when it touches your hands and clings to everything. It's very cold, colder than rain, and more solid. It's cohesive—clings to everything, even itself, especially itself. Hides things when it falls, muffles sounds…"

Doug trailed off when he saw Ororo's shoulders tense in frustration. His answers were not the answer she wanted and the only other answers in his mind were those Professor Xavier would give about being patient and appreciating her power as it was.

Could Doug help it if Professor Xavier was right? But catch Ororo accepting that for an answer.

"Again."

Doug shook his head. "I don't know what else to tell you," he admitted. Everything he knew about snow she had heard several times now, but he knew nothing scientific beyond what he learned in second grade and most of that he had forgotten.

Lightning snapped overhead and clearly not naturally.

"It'll snow soon," Doug tried to reassure her. When it did, Ororo would understand what snow was rather than trying to force rain to match her expectations.

She lived most of her life in Cairo and later in the Great Lakes region of Africa. Although she had spent several months in New York, she had yet to see snow. Surely she would during the winter. She wasn't quite patient enough to simply wait, though. If she could make rain and lightning, why not snow?

"The air feels wet here," she said. "Back in the village, when I took the water to make rain, it was truly taking. I used it and others could not."

"It wasn't your fault," Doug replied. He spoke English and because of his training was able to recognize that Ororo was speaking in Arabic, but he heard the words as English, as the language he knew. "It was unintentional. You were learning."

"I know that," Ororo snapped, like asking how he could dare to imply otherwise, but Doug knew it was a front.

Doug shrugged and scratched at his neck. It really wasn't her fault. He heard the Professor say to Ruth—not that he was eavesdropping, he just heard—that it was deeply unfair, what happened to Ororo, that so young a child should have so heavy a power. He doubted saying that would help her much, since Ororo tended to dislike being considered a child.

Lightning flicked once more, punishing a patch of sky, and Doug could not help thinking that for someone who hated being considered a child Ororo sulked awfully like one.

He scratched at his neck again. Scott's cat must have brought in fleas. That or Doug was just downright uncomfortable knowing how tough this was for Ororo and not sure how to help her. He wasn't sure why the snow mattered so much—besides, if he had Ororo's power, he would be content. If he had any real power he would be content.

"Would you be bothered if I left you alone?"

"No," Ororo replied. She sounded perfectly content now. "I'm fine."

Doug stood, stretched, and headed indoors.

He knew who he wanted to find. He passed Hank, who nodded his furry blue head in greeting, and nearly bumped into Laurie as they both turned a corner. The fourth and final student at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, Laurie was sixteen years old with blond hair and a severe look on her face most of the time.

"Hey Dougie."

"Hey Laurie-ie. You missed history class."

"Yeah, Ruth said it was optional. I figured everyone else would, too."

"We talked about Lincoln. He had stepsiblings—isn't that strange? Of course everyone knows the President was a child once, but one rarely considers his actual childhood."

Laurie nodded, although she was clearly less fascinated by Abraham Lincoln's childhood than Doug was. "That's interesting," she placated. "Do you want to do something? I mean—I was going to study—I really should, um, for that science test?"

Doug understood. "I should study, too. Maybe later?"

"Sure."

Laurie continued on her way and Doug on his. Soon enough he stopped and knocked at a closed door.

"Come in."

Doug liked a lot about the school. He liked his peers; he liked the other teachers, Ruth and Hank; he liked Alex and Sean, who were not students but felt quite a like friends. He liked a place where they could talk openly about mutation and the almost magic of the others' abilities.

However, he appreciated no one and nothing more than Professor Xavier. The man knew everything, always, but would listen even though you were telling him old news.

Doug did precisely that after settling in the Professor's office: "I've been wondering if I should return following the, uh, adjournment."

Professor Xavier regarded him steadily, offering nothing.

"Professor," Doug reasoned, "I'm not a mutant like anyone else. I can't do anything. I like this place but I'm afraid I don't belong here."

For a long moment, the Professor said nothing. There were few mutants in the world at this time—more than one might think, but not enough for a real school, either. There were few enough that the Professor and Ruth worked with each of the students individually.

"You truly believe that you can't do anything?" he asked.

He clearly disagreed and oozed pity. Doug stood by his statement: "Not like the others."

"Do you remember the day Ruth and I first spoke with you?"

"Yes, of course."

It had only been a few months ago. Doug had been grounded for a plummeting grade in French; it was the summer after his first F. He didn't know what happened. Everything just stopped being in French. He didn't understand how that happened or why there was suddenly so much tension in the house.

"You're here because you needed to learn to control your gift," the Professor said, "and we have more work to do toward that end."

Doug nodded.

"I can't and won't tell you what to do—well, I can. But I won't. I believe you have a place here and belong here, that it's a benefit to you and to the other students. It's your choice, but I hope you'll choose to return."

"Thank you."

"Your ability, Doug. You have the gift of understanding others. That's a very powerful thing."

He still wondered whether he truly belonged here, a moment's reassurance could not fully repair those doubts, but he felt a little better. Not having a power with a physical manifestation made him feel like a half-mutant. He was neither human nor fully not.

Doug's sense of discomfort faded at dinner. He found himself distracted in part by Charles and Ruth. Neither talked much, but the occasional moment when their eyes met brought out a rare part of the Professor. How was it possible anyone missed that yearning?

Doug tried not to think about it, not to think about his teachers that way. Besides, it's difficult to sulk around so many boisterous people, particularly when there were… um… "Ruth, what are these called again?"

The question came not from Doug but Sean.

"Latkes."

Sean rolled the word around in his mouth, murmuring it, then shrugged and settled for taking a giant bite out of another one. The potatoes the kids grated during that afternoon's history discussion had been put to good use. At the time, it seemed like too many potatoes.

Doug helped himself to another latke and decided there was no such thing as too many potatoes. And that he liked Hanukkah.

"Ow!"

Scott sat bolt upright. Doug hadn't managed to maintain a sulk but the same could not be said of Scott, who explained away his outburst, "Um… I bit my tongue."

His brother, Alex, sat opposite him with a huge grin on his face. Alex was in his mid-twenties while Scott was a teenager, but Alex picked on him like they were both kids. It was okay, good-natured. Anyone could see they loved each other.

Doug was jealous as anything. He knew it was unseemly, Scott and Alex being his friends, but he was an only child. He could not imagine having someone like that. The Summers boys played rough, but they had a way of shoving, punching, and twisting arms that was downright affectionate, and anyone who crossed one of them had the other to answer to.

As though reading his mind, Alex announced, "Scott used to be a bed-wetter."

Scott's eyebrows rose so high Doug knew his eyes were bugging behind those glasses.

"Alex, is that relevant?" Professor Xavier asked.

"I'm just sayin'," Alex offered, like that was any defense.

"So did you," Scott shot back, a terrible defense because it was an implicit admission. Realizing this a moment too late, "And like you would even remember!" but everyone was laughing. "How do you remember that?

"I don't," Alex replied, pleased with himself.

"Oh, you motherf—" Scott caught the warning look on the Professor's face and amended, "—riender." Even Doug had to laugh at that. "Friending friendbag!"

Sean swallowed a mouthful of what had to be his fourth latke that evening and commented, "Also, 'friend' isn't a verb. It doesn't make sense as a verb."

"Yes it friending does!" Alex retorted. "Haven't you ever… made a friend?"

Sean rolled his eyes. "No, I mean, literal friend, not friend-in-quotation-marks."

Ororo giggled. "That's pretty friending stupid," she remarked to no one in particular, savoring the pseudo-obscenity.

Professor Xavier didn't like swearing, even though popular speculation was that he and Ruth both swore like sailors in private. So this not-swear of a perfectly acceptable word had the younger members of the household in stitches.

"Not to mention friending redundant," Hank piped up.

Even Charles looked surprised at Hank joining in. "For God's sake, Hank!"

"It is," Hank replied, matter-of-factly like this was a science experiment. "'Befriend' is already a word."

At which point, still thinking of a certain substitution, Scott began to laugh. He pressed his hands over his mouth, but it did no good. His shoulders began to shake and his face turned bright pink. Alex turned to congratulate Hank, who seemed genuine uncertain as to the source of the hilarity.

Doug hadn't spoken, for once quiet for more than six seconds at a time. He just enjoyed the conversation around him. Perhaps understand everything he heard made him more sensitive to the voices of others, perhaps it was simply his nature. Whatever the cause, he enjoyed it. He enjoyed hearing the mirth in those familiar voices.

He still had not decided whether or not to return, not in the hour since his talk with Professor Xavier, but he had a tougher go of it now. After all, how could he leave them behind?