The usual disclaimer - if you recognize it, I don't own it.

A note - my computer was recently infected with a particularly nasty virus that decimated my documents, so I'm in the process of rewriting this one. I'll be posting more slowly than usual, but here's the story started off at least!

Scott did not cry out at the needle puncturing his skin, but he made a sound like a puppy who had stepped on a tack. He took a breath and tilted his head back. He exhaled up at the once-white ceiling, looking at the stains and trying to ignore the feeling of a metal stick under his skin. It made his stomach churn.

"Almost done," Hank said.

Hank could teach a chemistry class using the stains on the ceiling. In fact, he once had, fascinating their least science-minded student—Laurie Collins—and completely boring Scott, who saw only red.

The blood draw had nothing to do with the ceiling stains, though. Hank pulled the needle out, eliciting another wounded puppy noise. As the man responsible for the track mark-like scars on Scott's arm, Hank knew that sound quite well. He pressed a bandage over the puncture.

"Thanks."

Scott always said that. He had started it after the millionth time Hank apologized. Scott didn't like labs or needles and over the past few months he had been in here all the time.

Once, Hank used some of Scott's blood for his own curiosity-addressing research. Scott and Alex were the first pair of siblings Hank had ever met who not only were both mutants but had very similar mutations. They were even immune to one another's energy blasts—how could Hank be anything but fascinated?

He emptied the current syringe into a vial, capped it tightly, and labeled it: March 3, 1964.

Scott slipped out of his chair. He had always hated labs, but he was used to this one. It was Hank's. Scott unlatched the small metal cage and picked up a mouse. The mouse sniffed at Scott's hand and at his sweater.

"I'm going to run another test, but I believe I may have made progress."

"Progress?"

"Small progress—it's a complex situation and, well, it's also an ethically complex situation."

Scott stroked the mouse's head. The animal trembled, but then, it almost always trembled. It trusted Scott. "How so?"

"It's hard to test. I can't just inject you with this serum, no matter how scientifically sound it seems—but your situation is unique. There's no equivalency test on animals unless I can replicate the initial experiments, and that would be… unconscionable," Hank explained.

Scott aged at about half the normal rate. Like many teenagers, however, he wanted to grow up. Having friends around his age only made that desire more potent. He had known Ororo for a little over six months. That was long enough to see that she was growing much faster than he was, that she would leave him behind.

More than that, he wanted the damage out of his body. He wanted his cells to be normal, not marked by years of experimentation.

"I can take it," he insisted. "I'm much better with needles now."

Hank shook his head. "It would be at best borderline ethical. Experimentation on human subjects is the very last stage. If Porthos were like you, he would be my first subject."

Scott cradled the mouse, Porthos, closer.

"Yeah. Scott, look what happened to me. I thought my cure was ready. Exposing someone else to the same risk would be inexcusable, especially a minor."

"I'm not a—"

"Charles says you are."

Scott sighed. He couldn't argue with that.

"And, as the closest thing you have to a legal guardian, he hasn't given consent."

"Oh, come on!"

Hank shrugged.

"What about Alex?"

Alex was almost Scott's little brother, having been born three years later, but he aged normally. So Alex looked like what he was, a man in his early 20s, and was old enough to give consent for medical procedures.

"Alex is the best comparison sample," Hank responded, "but he didn't have the same treatments—if I tested the serum on him, nothing would happen. And he can't give consent for you."

Scott was clever enough to know he had no arguments. It wasn't just because breaking a telepath's rules is just silly. What Hank said was true: Professor Xavier might not have been his legal guardian, precisely, but he was more of a father than Scott had known since he was six years old. Scott didn't want to disrespect him by going behind his back.

Besides, Hank wouldn't. He was even more a rule-follower than Scott.

Scott returned Porthos to his habitat. Hank had finished storing his most recent blood sample. With the lab clean, Scott suggested, "Race you?"

"You never win."

"Maybe today's my lucky day."

"You're overdue for one," Hank agreed.

Ororo crouched low in the kitchen, bringing herself eye to eye with a plate of cupcakes. Well, she would have been, anyway, if cupcakes had eyes. They had sprinkles. That was similar if you didn't think too hard on it. She ought to know, having helped put the sprinkles on (and eaten a spoonful or six in the process).

"You have not had enough of these?" Ruth asked. She had been a teacher only slightly longer than Ororo had been a student.

"I wasn't eating them," Ororo replied. She and Sean had been helping in the kitchen and plenty of the cupcake batter, sprinkles, and frosting had not quite made it to the final product. "I was just wondering what kind of psycho," a word she had picked up from the boys, "likes vanilla over chocolate."

"A travesty," Ruth agreed. "Because clearly you do not like vanilla at all."

"Not as much."

Ororo knew she was just grouching. If she wanted to complain about vanilla cupcakes she probably shouldn't have helped Sean and Alex eat an entire bowl of batter earlier.

Ruth shrugged. "Well, you have a birthday next month, if you would like chocolate cupcakes—"

"No!" Ororo replied, so quickly Ruth and Sean laughed.

"You know who has the next birthday. I think Sean prefers chocolate."

"I do," Sean confirmed. "I love chocolate."

"See, Sean likes chocolate."

Ororo nodded. "Hey, what about Scott?"

"Leave the boy alone, habibti," Ruth told her. Scott did not know his birthday, although he did prefer chocolate to vanilla. Charles had suggested that Scott pick a birthday for himself, but Scott wasn't ready and Ruth would not have him pressured about this over a chocolate cupcake.

Ororo huffed, but said nothing.

Ruth ran her fingers through Ororo's hair, fluffing it out. "Are you going to cut it?"

Ororo thought about that. She had sold her hair before, but that was back in Cairo. Now whether she kept it was a matter of fashion. And wasn't that a new concept! "I don't know," she admitted. "Do you cut yours?"

Ruth's hair was curly and wild and fell well past her shoulders. "Sometimes."

"Or does Charles prefer long hair?"

"Are your legs not burning?"

"They are," admitted Ororo, who was still crouched to stare at the cupcakes. She did not mind vanilla—not really. Vanilla was better than no cupcakes at all. It was the luxury. Not only did she have enough food to eat here, she had enough food not to eat. There was a whole jar of that gross creamy stuff she wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole!

Some American things Ororo had adapted to. Peanut butter was not one of them.

She straightened up. Ruth turned away and Sean, who had been washing dishes until a moment ago, took the opportunity to tweak Ororo's hair. She stomped on his foot.

"Sean, take this into the dining room," Ruth said, holding out a dish.

Over the past months, they had established a routine for dinnertime. Nobody but the designated kitchen assistants went into the kitchen. Nobody had tried since Ruth led Doug out by the ear and threatened to rip it off next time—not that anyone thought she would, but she sent the message quite clearly that she did not appreciate interference with her kitchen. So the others knew what time dinner was and they knew to sit at the table and not offer to 'help' Ruth and for pity's sake, Scott, your sleeve is not a napkin.

Three people arrived in the dining room at once: Sean from the kitchen, Hank through another door, and Scott scrambling through a window. Scott and Hank paused, staring at one another—then Hank vaulted across the room and Scott hauled himself through the window. Hank bounced off the wall ("Hank!") and perched on the back of his chair just as Scott threw himself at his, knocking over both himself and the chair.

They did not have assigned seats, just habits.

There were two teenage students besides Ororo and Scott. One of them, Doug Ramsey, helped Scott pick himself up. Scott didn't need help, but it made Doug feel better. The other, Laurie, who was not much good at science, just rolled her eyes. Ororo narrowed her eyes at Laurie, but they let it go after a moment's glowering.

All told, there were nine people in the house: the teachers, Charles, Ruth, and Hank; the students, Scott, Ororo, Doug, and Laurie; and Sean and Alex, who were students at the local community college and trained with Ruth and Hank. And despite the inevitable circus of so many personalities at one table, they all sat down to dinner together every weekday.

Granted, this occasionally resulted in a pepperoni-throwing incident (Alex), a verbal cat fight (which ended so ugly Laurie and Ororo were grounded for a week), or Coke laughed through someone's nose, but no one complained. The telepath could tell you they all looked forward to it.

Today was special, though.

Today Ruth lit a candle in a vanilla cupcake and Doug thought for a moment with his eyes closed before blowing out the flame.

"And now Charles is gonna eat a cupcake," Sean said, stating what at least two other people at the table were looking forward to.

Charles sighed. "Honestly?"

Sean nodded.

There was something exciting about watching prim-and-proper Charles Francis Xavier shove messy food into his mouth. He could be dignified with cake, but cupcake was another beast.

Charles, seeing how much this would amuse the students, made a show of reluctance. He didn't mind. If the past year had taught him anything, though, it was the importance of playing roles. He did what others needed from him—or small things that would amuse them. With played reticence, he took a bite.

"That was why you asked for cupcakes, right, Doug?" Alex asked.

"I just like cupcakes," Doug replied.

"Charles going frosting-face was his birthday wish," Sean added.

Doug rolled his eyes. "'Course not."

Somehow a conversation about cupcakes spiraled out of control. It had everyone laughing, so that a new arrival took them all by surprise. Charles noticed her first and fell absolutely silent. One by one, the others did, too, half of them registering recognition and others confusion at the blond standing in the doorway, looking like hell.

"Who's—" Ororo began.

Scott shushed her.

Charles's voice cracked the silence. "Raven."

And Doug, a baffled look on his face, said, "That wasn't exactly how I meant my wish."

To be continued!