The Negev Desert, Israel, 1956

Charles had never felt so tired in his life.

"I should have known this could happen," he said, again and again. "I should've done something."

"Stop," Erik would reply with an unfamiliar gentleness. "You couldn't have known. Even you can't see the future."

Which was true. Charles didn't know whether that fact was the tragedy of his life, or the only thing that made it bearable.

When they had gotten far enough from the Ben Canaan compound, and the sun was getting higher in the sky, Erik pulled over and tended to the painful cut on Charles' temple. The first-aid kit was one thing Dr. Avidan wouldn't have had to pack; it had been in under the driver's seat as long as Charles could recall, but this was the first time they'd ever had to use it. As Erik moved from washing the blood off Charles' face to cleaning out the gash itself, Charles winced and pulled away slightly.

"Hold still," Erik said gently. As Charles obediently sat still, and Erik dabbed alcohol on the wound with a surgeon's precision, a memory floated up into Charles' consciousness. He had kissed Erik. It felt like a thousand years ago, but it was just hours since -- since --

He tried not to meet Erik's eyes -- difficult, as they now sat right next to each other, and Erik had Charles' jaw in one hand, holding his face still for doctoring. He knew that Erik, at least, was thinking only of the cut's seriousness; the only emotions Charles sensed were deep tiredness and concern. The confusion and arousal were his own.

Not the time, he told himself once more. It's not the time to think about it. Later, when we -- later.

"Can you sleep?" Erik said, though he was almost as tired as Charles. "Get some rest. I can drive."

As they rolled further into the desert, the morning sun already blazing, Charles would've sworn that he could never sleep, not in the bumping jeep, out in the light and heat. But no sooner had he slumped back against the seat and shut his eyes than he felt sleep rise up to meet him; he gave into it gratefully.

Though they reached Beir Sheva before noon (Erik woke him to get some soup, wash up, change into a clean T-shirt), they agreed to keep going. There was no saying when the soldiers would come looking for them, but this was undoubtedly one of the places they'd begin. The closest port was Tel Aviv, but the soldiers would look there too. Together, they decided their chances of avoiding detection would be better in Haifa, which they could reach by nightfall.

Forever after, when Charles remembered that day, it seemed so much longer -- like months, or even years, when he and Erik fled together through the desert. He slept, when he could sleep; during the afternoon, he finally convinced Erik to give him a turn behind the wheel, allowing Erik his own chance to doze. But Erik slept restlessly, preferring instead to dig around inside the files Dr. Avidan had packed. Her theories of gene mutation were there, spelled out in language above their heads. So, too, were other kinds of records.

"A Japanese girl who could counteract gravity," Erik said, holding the papers down where they threatened to flutter free of the manila folder. "A Canadian man with the ability to heal from any wound -- he was a secret agent for the Allies, during the war. Reports of a woman in Peru who could never age. Charles, do you realize what this means?"

"We're not alone."

Erik was exhilarated by the idea, so much so that it overcame his exhaustion and became the main emotion Charles could sense. "There might be hundreds of us. Hundreds." Then a darkness passed through him. "Good thing Ben-David only got his hands on five."

"Let it go," Charles said shortly. Already, Adael Ben-David seemed like a figure from a history test he'd taken years before. Unimportant. Forgotten.

They reached Haifa near sunset. Though Dr. Avidan had put money in with their paperwork -- a surprising amount of it, in Charles' opinion -- he was reluctant to stay anyplace expensive. Then Erik pointed out, with a logic that was both very convenient and very convincing, that if anyone was looking for them, that was where they'd begin: dingy little seaside places, usually reserved for sailors. On the other hand, it was unlikely anybody would seek two young fugitives at the palatial Dan Hotel Haifa.

"We still shouldn't waste money," Charles said automatically, so that he could almost hear his mother's voice.

"It's not OUR money." Erik shrugged.

From the moment he stepped inside, Charles felt as though he'd left the real world for something more distant, ephemeral and beautiful. Their dusty shoes left no tracks on the marble floors. The air was blessedly cool, and the breezes from the harbor wafted through the hallways. Men wore the kind of suits Charles had brought to Israel in ignorance; they looked like tourists, which they were, though it was strange to Charles to think of them that way.

After two years in stark quarters in the Negev, Charles was almost taken aback by the sheer size of their room. Two full beds. A window that stretched along like a full wall of glass, revealing the harbor outlined in lights. Just enough sun remained for Charles to make out the Hanging Gardens in the distance. When he got in the shower, it was powerfully strong, with jets of water that stung his sunburned arms and cheeks. For a while, he just leaned against the shower wall and watched the fine desert sand swirl away down the drain.

All in all, he felt like another man entirely -- older, if not wiser, and no longer a stranger in a strange land -- as he walked out of the bathroom, toweling robe around him. Erik had laid a spread out upon the table: sandwiches, cakes and coffee. Charles breathed out a sigh. "Room service." The long-lost treasure of a dead civilization. "You're brilliant."

"No denying it," Erik said through a mouthful of sandwich. He licked his thumb and forefinger before rising from the table. "I'm going to wash up now. If you'd stayed in there any longer, I would've come in and gotten you."

Well. That was an -- interesting -- mental image. Charles wasn't sure if it was Erik's or his own, which made it all the more intriguing. Erik rather quickly ducked into the bathroom, leaving Charles to eat his dinner in an uneasy solitude.

Erik was naked in there, right now. Thinking about Charles, just as Charles was thinking about him. And in a few minutes, he'd come out into the room where they were both going to spend the night. Two days ago, it would have meant nothing. But tonight --

He wasn't sorry he'd kissed Erik -- anything but sorry. Charles only marveled that he'd gone so long with the ability to see into the hearts of others but had done such a poor job of looking into his own. Ever since the day they'd met, Erik had owned more of Charles' thoughts and heart than anyone else ever had. But only last night, when their lips had met, had Charles really understood why.

Thanks to his abilities, Charles had known since childhood that some men preferred other men, just as some women preferred other women; he had further understood that, despite playground whispers and oblique parental comments to the contrary, the people who felt that way were fundamentally no different than anyone else.

They were more secretive, though, and Charles supposed for good reason. This meant that, as badly as Charles wanted to kiss Erik again, he didn't have a damned clue what was supposed to happen after that. A combination of school talk, cinema trips and Flaubert had given him some vague idea about what he might do with a woman, but with a man?

And all of that assumed that Erik wanted to do anything. He knew Erik's desire as sharply as he did his own -- could breathe it in, even now, like the soap-scented steam that floated out around the cracks of the door. But Erik, usually so much more confident and sure than Charles himself, was far more uneasy about their attraction.

Maybe, Charles thought, as he's not psychic, he didn't even know men felt this way about each other. Or he didn't find out until he was older, and he wishes he were different. But Erik never wishes to be different, never. He accepts what he is. Then why does he feel so strange?

At last he resolved to follow Erik's lead. If Erik knew what to do -- well, then, he'd do it, wouldn't he? Charles felt a surge of warmth at even the formless idea of Erik taking charge of him, knowing what to do. He imagined Erik's hands peeling away his robe, pressing his shoulders down onto the bed, and then -- please, he thought, please let Erik know what to do after that.

But if Erik wasn't ready, or didn't want to at all, then they'd just go to sleep. No point in pressing the issue, driving Erik away too soon.

A perfectly sensible plan. One that could lead to him sleeping alone in his own bed, still as ignorant of what to do as he had ever been. Dammit.

Erik came out, robe-wrapped, his usually wild hair wet and slicked back. It made him look even older, even more like a man instead of a boy. Charles wanted to say something, couldn't think of anything, and ended up just pouring himself some more coffee.

"I called down to the desk while you were washing," Erik said. Why did he even bother pretending to be calm? Charles could feel his impatience and uncertainty. Erik had to know he felt it. If he was pretending, it was because he wanted Charles to pretend too.

Disappointed, Charles said, "I know. For supper."

"Besides this. Turns out there are some ships that take passengers to Cyprus; one of them leaves in the morning. We should probably be on it."

"Cyprus." Hang Cyprus. "As good a place to start as anywhere else."

"It gets going around six in the morning." Erik ran one hand through his wet hair, which rumpled into a damp approximation of its usual craziness. "So we'll need to get up early."

Charles suppressed a sigh. "And we should get to sleep." Shouldn't have had all that coffee. Now he'd just have to lie nearby all night, knowing Erik was in the next bed, too close and not close enough.

"Right," Erik said. He slapped his hands against his thigh. "Well -- get the lights, will you? Might as well --"

"Of course." As Erik piled a few of the plates atop each other, Charles went to the light switch and flipped it off, bathing them both in darkness. He turned back to go to his bed, which he'd assumed would be the one by the window, for no particular reason. Then he bumped into Erik, shoulder to shoulder, right at the bedside. "Oh, sorry."

"No, no," Erik said, too quickly. He started to move away, and the back of his hand brushed against Charles'.

It seemed to happen of its own accord -- their hands clasping each other, their arms slipping around one another, their bodies meeting in the dark. Erik's lips missed their mark, brushing first against his cheek. Charles turned his face, and their mouths met this time, again, and then again. They were breathing too hard to kiss for very long. Charles just kept kissing him, willing the spell not to end.

Even though the room was dark, he closed his eyes. He just wanted to feel -- Erik's arms around him, his hand against the side of Charles' face. The thin terrycloth robe was warm and damp from Erik's shower-slick body. Arousal clouded everything, enfolded them in something even deeper than the darkness; Erik wanted him, wanted him so badly that it almost drowned out Charles' own desire.

Whatever uncertainty he'd felt seemed to have fallen away into the past, along with so much else. Charles slid his arms across Erik's abdomen, began unknotting Erik's bathrobe.

"Are you sure?" Erik said, his voice cracking. Charles would have teased him about it, if he wasn't so sure Erik could feel his heart pounding ridiculously fast.

"I'm sure," Charles said. Then he hesitated, his old self again for a moment. "I haven't done this before."

Slowly, Erik's hands moved to his shoulders, his thumbs pressing deeply into tired muscles, sending energy rippling all the way down. "With a man?"

"With anybody." Charles laughed at himself for a moment as they kissed again. He hadn't known you could do that -- kiss somebody while you smiled, feel them smiling in return. "You?"

Erik kissed him -- again, Charles thought, again. As though even one kiss would have been too much to ever hope for. When Charles first felt Erik's tongue brush against his, he felt a thick wave of desire -- Erik's and his own, mingled together.

When they stopped to gasp for breath, Erik whispered, "Not with a man."

Well, there was another hope gone. Charles forced himself to try and think rationally -- so difficult to do, with Erik wrapped around him, the long, hard line of his erection pressed against Charles' hipbone. "So then we'll -- we'll make it up as we go."

Erik laughed softly. The sound of that laughter, gentle, strong and sane, washed away the last of Charles' restraint. He kissed Erik back, quick and hard, then tugged Erik's robe away. At his own waist, Erik's hands fumbled, trying to get rid of Charles' robe too.

Then they were naked together. Erik's body was long and lean, muscled despite his thinness. Even in the darkness of the room, he could see the numbers tattooed on Erik's arm. The reminder that people had hurt Erik -- the knowledge that anyone could hurt him, that anyone could have looked at the boy Erik had been and shown him only horror -- lit a kind of rage within Charles that only stoked his desire further.

Slowly, reverently, Erik placed his hands on Charles' chest. When they kissed again, their bodies slid together, and Charles felt his own cock press against Erik's, get even harder.

Maybe it was that moment -- the first overtly sexual touch of his life -- that did it. Maybe it was the way he felt about Erik, spirit finally melded with body, the truth coming out at last. But it was then that Charles unconsciously -- and therefore totally -- dropped the mental shields that separated his mind from others'.

Erik's desire had been palpable before; now it was overwhelming. It was inside him, his own desire as much as Erik's, the pleasure he gave in his touch redoubled in his own body. When Erik's hand tentatively brushed down Charles' chest, down past his navel, he felt Erik's uncertainty and longing, felt the slick, hard head of his own cock in Erik's palm.

It was almost like an insanity that took him over -- pushing Erik into the bed, kissing him harder, touching Erik everywhere, knowing what felt good, feeling it as surely as if it was happening to him. And then it would happen to him -- Erik followed his lead, kissing here, stroking there. When their mouths met again, the kiss was long and hungry and desperate, the kiss of two men who had been apart for years, not by each other's side all the while.

But he has been gone, Charles thought drunkenly, rolling over onto his back so that Erik could fall atop him, press their bodies together, capturing their erections between their sweat-damp bodies. I've never been with Erik before now. I've never known him before this moment.

Charles gently bit Erik, right at the curve between shoulder and neck. Erik cried out in something that was far more than pain, then gasped out, "I thought -- you said -- you hadn't done this -- before."

"I haven't." Charles rolled him over onto his side so they could kiss once more. Their lips met in shallow kisses, all the more arousing for being brief, leaving them wanting more.

"So how is it," Erik whispered, between kisses, "that you know exactly what to do?"

He took one of Erik's hands and brought it up so that his fingers touched Charles' temple. "I know what you like. That's all I need to know."

"Of course." Erik smiled a little, and Charles could feel emotions rippling through him, envy and wonder and relief and pride in his lover, all woven together into one tapestry. Erik's hand was warm against the side of his face. "Are you going to tell me what you like?"

Charles kept on kissing him. "All of it. Everything."

When Erik brought his hand down to Charles' cock, it felt so good -- being gripped in his fist, feeling every ridge and fold of Erik's palm all around him -- that he immediately did the same to Erik. It felt just as good to Erik, good enough to make him groan, to make him start stroking Charles slow and hard. Charles thrust into Erik's fist, wanting it even tighter, and began stroking Erik in return, matching his rhythm so that they were moving together, so slow, so maddeningly slow. How was it that Erik's hand could feel so much better than his own?

He realized that his palm was now slick, that Erik's was too, that they were getting so close --

Erik said, "Wait. Wait." He pulled his hand away from Charles, a loss of sensation so sudden and unwelcome that Charles swore. Erik laughed once, as he pulled Charles' hand away too. "I just want to try --"

With one deft move, he tucked Charles's cock between his thighs and brought his legs together tightly, enclosing Charles warmly, tightly. Charles moved once, and the friction of skin on skin hit him like a shot of whisky, numbing his mind, spreading fire throughout his body.

Quickly, Charles did the same for Erik. They were face to face now, on their sides, bodies pressed against each other as they started to move. And this was better than anything else, because the same thrust that slid him more deeply between Erik's legs also did the same for Erik, and their cocks were touching each other, one's pleasure the same as the other's, flowing into and out of each other in a perfect Mobius strip, the separation between their bodies and minds gone, completely gone.

Charles gasped, feeling the electric shift in his body that told him he would come -- no, no, that was Erik, Erik's body so close to the brink, but just knowing Erik's pleasure made him --

Blood rushed to his head, to his hands, to the head of his cock as he came, shouting out as he grabbed Erik, dug his fingers into Erik's arm. Erik said nothing, but his body went stiff, and his eyes screwed shut, and Charles felt an answering rush of wet heat against his thighs.

They lay in silence for a while, bodies still entangled and slick with each other's come. Charles tried to sort out which was his own mind again. It took him a few minutes. Until then, he was content to lie there in his lover's arms.

When he knew himself once more, Charles kissed Erik for a very long time. Erik whispered, against his cheek, "You know that I love you."

Silly question. "Of course I know," Charles said. "Psychic, remember?" Then he realized what Erik was really saying, and shook his head at his own stupidity. "I love you too."

Erik's wet hair was rumpled, his forehead bright with a sheen of sweat. He raised an eyebrow, as skeptical and humorous as he'd ever been. "Are you quite sure?"

"Absolutely," Charles said, kissing him again. "Always."

"Always."

Charlottenberg Palace, Berlin, Germany, 2006

"If we are to crush Xavier and his forces," Magneto said, "we must act immediately. Regardless of the other consequences."

Mystique gave him her best sideways, heavy-lidded glare. "Even knowing that if we leave Germany --"

"We won't hold it," Magneto said. Berlin, his city -- oh, yes, the thought of losing it stung. But he didn't let himself dwell on it, look down the long marble hallways, or out the windows at the gardens. "The most that will happen in two weeks is that a few of the refugees will stagger back, bundles over their shoulders and grievances that should paralyze whatever provisional government might have come into being. We can take the country back in less time than we will have been gone."

She shrugged. "You're the one who was so set on Germany. If you don't care, I don't see why the rest of us should." Only Mystique was allowed to speak so disrespectfully. Only Mystique's loyalty was beyond doubt.

But the others would come with him, to be paid in the only coin they cared anything for any longer: Power. It was the only reward anyone could ever keep, the one that ensured everything else you could ever desire.

Xavier had never understood that, and Magneto had long since given up hoping he would learn.

Mystique tilted her head, and Magneto knew that she had followed the train of his thoughts. She asked, very simply, "Can you kill him?"

"Yes," Magneto said. "I shall hate myself for it. I shall hate you for being party to it, for weeks or even months to come. But it is still what we must do, and the day will come when I'll thank you."

"Am I allowed to remind you that you said that?"

Magneto imagined her repeating all of that to him. He imagined Xavier's body, broken and lifeless, lying at his feet. He imagined shrapnel shredding through Mystique's body, crimson blood streaking up through the blue. "Best not."

She nodded, accepting it like any other order. "I'll start mobilizing the others. We can have them ready to leave anytime after a day or two." He gestured his agreement, and she went to summon the Brotherhood for what he already knew would be their greatest battle.

Soon, he thought. Soon, I shall have to see you dead, Charles. But the world that set us against each other -- I promise you, Charles, when I am done, it will be broken down to dust and washed away. There will be nothing left. Nothing left.

Ben Canaan Compound, Israel

"Are you sure this is going to work against Magneto's forces?" Scott asked, frowning at the white panels that encased them. "I would be a hell of a lot more comfortable if we had a test."

"As would I, Scott." Xavier rolled his chair deeper into the room, getting the sense of it. "If you would be willing to use it first, I would be quite grateful."

Scott looked at him darkly; nobody else would have known, not with the visor in the way, but Xavier felt Scott's prickly black humor and smiled. It had been too long since he'd felt humor of any sort from his student, and even gallows jokes were preferable to the gray silence of Scott's soul these past few years.

The room wasn't as big as he would have preferred; the machine's power was as blunt as it was strong. After decades with Cerebro, Xavier wasn't exactly sure how to wield this new tool -- he thought it was rather like becoming a championship fencer, then being told you could only defend yourself with a broadsword.

But what a sword.

"Years, it took us, to decipher just what you and Erik were up to," Dr. Avidan said. Though her tiny frame was bent, her face lost in a sea of wrinkles, her step was still quick and sure. "We tried to adapt the technology for a human's use."

"That's impossible," Ororo said, staring.

"Not impossible," Dr. Avidan corrected. "Though we could never find nor develop anyone with the mental discipline to consistently operate it. It turns out your greatest gift isn't your mutation, Charles."

Scott raised an eyebrow at the "Charles," which Xavier ignored. "And so you have a machine so powerful it can even read the intent of a human mind," Xavier said. "This is impressive, Yeshara."

"The work was yours, and his," she said. "I still have the old notebooks, you know. If you want to see them someday."

The memory flashed before him, blocking out the white room, his X-Men, everything but the image of a 21-year-old Erik, sprawled on the floor, scribbling formulae frantically into one of his battered black notebooks. That wild, dark hair falling into his eyes. "Someday," Xavier repeated. "I can't get over how much you preserved."

"More, even, than you think," Dr. Avidan said. She smiled, and he felt the surprise she'd been trying to keep -- not the secret itself, but the fact of it, bright and pretty in her mind like a gaily-wrapped gift.

He resisted the impulse to pull away the paper himself. "What else did you find in our rooms?"

"Not in the rooms," Dr. Avidan said. "In the military clinic, the day after you two escaped." When Xavier raised an eyebrow, she grinned widely -- her elderly face rendered young in that moment -- and said, "Turns out soldiers don't shoot very well in the dark."

Xavier felt her before he saw her: a tiny, scurrying presence, just outside the door, timid but excited, as she'd ever been. He opened his mind further and knew for certain. In wonder, he whispered, "Shriek?"

He heard only giggling. Dr. Avidan crossed her arms and said, "You've been so excited to see Charles again. You shouldn't be hiding!" She sounded like a mother, scolding but fond.

Shriek crept around the open door, holding onto the edge as though she might fall without it. Hair that had been ash-brown was now gray; once-youthful skin was deeply lined. But her dark eyes were the same, as was her uncertain smile.

Turning quickly to Dr. Avidan, he said, "She was only wounded?"

"Not even that seriously, thank God. With Ben-David and the other mutants dead and missing, the government had little recourse but to turn the whole project, including Shriek, over to me." Dr. Avidan held out a hand, wordlessly urging Shriek forward the way someone might a toddler. "I never made her do anything she didn't want to do, Charles. We learned together when we could, developed her powers as when and how she wanted. She's wonderfully precise now, when she wants to be. But mostly -- I just gave her a home. She never changed much."

"So I see." Xavier held out his own hand, and Shriek came forward at last. Recognition flowed between them, and he knew her sense of wonder and puzzlement. He braced himself for her first words, the first moment between them in so many years, after having endured so much together.

At last, Shriek said, "Charles?"

"Yes, Shriek," he whispered, awed and moved by the sound of her voice. "It's really me."

She cocked her head. "Where did your hair go?"

So much for profundity. Xavier laughed out loud. "I haven't any idea." He glanced at Ororo and Scott, who were staring unabashedly. "Albinka Landau, allow me to introduce my friends, Scott Summers and Ororo Munroe. Scott, Ororo, this is Albinka Landau, also called Shriek."

"ALWAYS called Shriek," Shriek said, stamping one foot.

"Always called Shriek. She was one of the very first mutants I ever knew."

"You're here to keep us safe again," Shriek said confidently. It felt good to have her trust again, to feel that he could do a better job of fulfilling it this time.

"We may be in more danger than ever," Xavier said. "But we're doing a good thing, for the right reasons." He suspected Shriek could understand that much.

Ororo's voice forced Xavier back into the present. "I'm enjoying the introductions as much as anybody. But this machine -- surely you can do something with this thing before we actually end up in battle," she said. Her silver-white hair blended into the shimmering panels that lined the walls; the scowl on her face showed her distrust -- not of Xavier himself, not any longer, but of Dr. Avidan, the machine and quite possibly the world at large.

"A test does seem in order," he agreed. "To see if Dr. Avidan has truly followed in our footsteps."

Slowly, he lifted the metal headpiece; instantly, Ororo's and Scott's faces fell, their daring overcome by worry. "Professor," Scott said, "no disrespect to Dr. Avidan, but this machine -- it's not Cerebro."

"No, it's not," Xavier said, closing his eyes. "I was thinking of calling it Cerebra. How does that sound?"

"There's no guarantee they won't hear," Ororo said. "If they hear, our whole timetable gets thrown off."

"The danger of Magneto's forces hearing me is less important than the benefits of having the others hear me," Xavier said. "I think it's worth the risk, don't you?"

Without waiting for an answer, he drew the smallest fraction of the machine's power into himself, forced his own power outward, and was one with the life, the energy, the light. Faces and bodies swirled around him, insubstantial as smoke, eternal as fire, drawing closer, and closer.

-- This is Charles Xavier. If you can hear this, then the chances are that we have worked together before. Regardless of your reasons for leaving in the past, I urge you to return in the very near future. Our forces are in Israel, preparing for a battle against Magneto that will either be our final defeat or, perhaps, our greatest victory. We need you. All of you. Whatever faith you may have left -- in me, in humanity, in yourselves -- is all you need to bring with you.

At every port in Israel, agents wait to bring you to our side. Do not alert the main authorities. The agents will find you. Come to us if you can.

This world is still worth fighting for. --

In London, Brian Braddock stopped short in Piccadilly Circus. When people around him stared, he forced himself to look up at the statue of Eros, as though he were a gawping tourist, not a man in shock.

In Bangkok, a casino dealer turned over the three of diamonds, giving Remy Lebeau twenty-one and the right to a fortune in chips that would have fed some villages in Thailand for a month. The dealer wondered why Lebeau hardly seemed to notice.

In Colorado, two hundred feet beneath the ground, Allison Blaire froze in the lunchline of her detention camp; when the silver food packet tumbled from the autodispenser into her hands, she started to laugh. All around her, other mutants started laughing too, cheering, swearing, arguing, yelling -- for the first time in far too long, they all came alive.

In a palace bedroom in Berlin, the man who'd been known as St. John Allenby had only just laid his helmet on a pillow, for a couple of moments without the damn thing. "Shit," Pyro said, then slammed a fist into the wall in frustration. Ten to one Magneto would still give him hell for breaking the rules, even if it was the kind of thing they really, really needed to know.

In the shower of a small passenger cabin aboard a freighter in the Mediterranean, Logan and Rogue stood together, no longer paying any attention to the water or each other, staring up at the ceiling, as though another message might issue from an invisible speaker there. The water had been cold for a couple of minutes before Logan noticed and shut it off. "Well, THAT killed the mood," he said.

"Thank God," Rogue said. "They already know. They're already there."

She threw him a towel before absently draping one around herself, more for warmth than out of any embarrassment, Logan figured. At this point, "shy" was a distant memory for Rogue. "Good to know it," he said. "I wasn't real big on the idea of us trying to defend Israel all by our lonesome."

Rogue breathed out slowly. "Me either. But now -- Logan, we'll see them tomorrow afternoon."

"You worried about what they're gonna say?" Logan reached out to take her shoulder, then hesitated. "Still in safe mode, right?"

She nodded absently, and he pulled her close, holding her just for comfort's sake. Rogue said, "If they're mad at me, I'm going to tell them to go to hell. They didn't have Geir in their heads. They don't know what it was like."

"They're not gonna be mad at you."

"If they're all hurt and wounded, I'm not going to put up with that either. They're adults. I'm an adult. It was my choice to make."

"You bet," Logan said, kissing the top of her head. "That's not what you're worried about, though."

Rogue squinted up at him suspiciously. "Okay, Professor X, what am I worried about?"

"You're worried that they're not gonna be mad or hurt. You're worried that they're going to act like nothing ever happened."

She stiffened slightly, and Logan -- by now used to the ebb and flow of her moods -- let her go and went to sit on his bed in their dingy little cabin, something designed for two merchant marines, not a man and a woman traveling together. In some ways, this was better; between his bad dreams and her tendency to shift powers during the night, they definitely needed separate beds -- at least for sleeping. Rogue tugged on jeans and a T-shirt, and he followed suit, letting her decide when to speak again.

The freighter had been a lucky strike: cheap, as international travel went these days. Their fake ID had held up just fine; as far as anybody on the ship knew, she was Vickie Collins and he was Seamus O'Malley. Rogue had insisted on calling him that until he'd spanked her, though it turned out she liked that too much for it to be a deterrent. Which, of course, he'd suspected all along.

His T-shirt was halfway over his head when she said, "It's creepy when you read my mind like that."

"I'm not Professor X," he said. "I just know you."

"I don't want things to be like they were before. They can't be. Too much has changed."

"I know. They're gonna know it too."

Rogue smiled, somewhat comforted, and began wriggling into her jeans. Logan let himself watch her, kept his own worries to himself.

In another day, they'd be back with Xavier and his crew, who were a hell of a lot more likely to be mad at him than at Rogue. Logan didn't give a shit about that, but he also knew -- from then on, everything was going to change between him and Rogue. They'd built a little world for each other, the past two months; as bleak and primitive as their life had been in the cabin, Logan also knew that those were the best two months he could remember. Something in him still wanted to grab her, take her back to Canada, tuck her into the bed where they'd first made love, wrap blankets around them both so that they'd be bound together, sheltered forever from the world outside.

But Rogue didn't work that way. And, when push came to shove, turned out he didn't either.

Rogue's head snapped up, a new idea blazing in her eyes. "We ought to get there faster, Logan. Tomorrow afternoon -- that might be too late. What if somebody on Magneto's team heard him too?"

"Good point," Logan said. "How should we suggest it to the captain?" He wasn't being sarcastic; if the situation called for it, he wasn't above putting claws to the right throat.

"We don't have to." She smiled brilliantly. "I can fly, remember?"

Logan stared. "Fly? All the way to Israel?" When Rogue nodded, he took a deep breath. "Are you -- absolutely -- sure about this?"

She grinned, so happy and so beautiful that it made his breath catch in his throat when she said, "I can fly forever."

Amid the crowd, Bobby grabbed Pyro's arm, ignored the raised eyebrow Pyro gave him as they skidded to a stop at the top of the stairs. "What's going on?" Bobby said. "Why the hell are we --"

"Didn't hear it, did you?" Pyro said. "Leave it to you, Iceman. You hate Magneto's guts, but you're still such a good soldier you'd never even take your helmet off."

The Brotherhood mutants continued running, flying or teleporting downstairs toward the transport planes. Bobby knew that, in order to avoid suspicion, he ought to be at the head of the pack. The first and the fastest. But -- if this was it, their big chance -- he needed to know why they were deploying to Israel a solid week ahead of schedule.

Then he realized what Pyro had said about his helmet, the implications of it. "You mean -- Professor X? He did something? Said something?"

"The guy's in Israel, which we knew, and he just issued a worldwide psychic invitation for people to join him, which was a surprise." Pyro shrugged as he started down the stairs, forcing Bobby to follow. "Guess this is our RSVP."

The Professor was up and around again. Bobby had never imagined it was possible for Professor X to get back to himself, as strong as ever, ready to fight once more.

We've got our shot, Bobby thought. Option 1. We're going to go right to him, and if we play our cards right -- we can deliver Magneto right into his hands.

A few steps below, Pyro swung himself up and over the last stretch of banister. His laughter echoed in the marble hall.

That's what I want to do, Bobby reminded himself. To help Professor X. That's what I want.

Xavier had expected the first responses to come in a few days; international travel wasn't easy these days, even for the gifted. Perhaps -- if someone were very fortunate, very focused -- more mutants would join their side the next day. He said as much, confidently, to Ororo and Scott and Kurt, as they all sat in the old dining hall, eating food that, sadly, did not live up to Marcellina's fine tradition. He was even careful to say that one day might be too short a time; he didn't want their hopes up.

He had not expected that, within two hours of his announcement, Dr. Avidan would come back in, obviously bewildered. "Mossad agents have your first two volunteers."

"You're kidding," Ororo said. Scott's jaw dropped.

Kurt brightened. "More teleporters?"

Xavier reached out with his mind, sensed the personalities drawing closer to him -- only a few feet away down the hall, now -- and smiled. "How extraordinary." Then, as they walked through the dining-hall door, he added, "Logan. Rogue. How good it is to see you."

Logan was much the same -- angry in ways that had little to do with Xavier, steady in ways that fortunately concerned him more. Something else was there too -- something both more centered and more frightened -- but Xavier felt no need to probe deeper, only to nod at the wary smile Logan gave him. Rogue, however -- she seemed years older, rather than a few months. She was terrified of his disapproval, but even that couldn't hold sway over a deep, abounding sense of joy. "Hey, Professor," she said. "Storm -- Cyclops -- Nightcrawler, and --"

"Allow me to introduce some old friends of mine," Xavier said. "This is Dr. Yeshara Avidan, a researcher into mutant powers, and a fellow mutant, Shriek." Dr. Avidan smiled politely. Shriek stepped a little closer and squinted at Logan's hair. Logan regarded her warily, but he managed to smile.

Fortunately, Scott was thinking tactically. "How did you guys get here so quickly?" he said. "Where were you hiding out? Jordan? Egypt?"

"Canada," Logan said. "What can I say? I'm predictable." Scott made a sound that was slightly rude, which Logan uncharacteristically ignored. "You want the scoop on why we were already on our way to Israel when you called, you're gonna have to talk to the lady."

"Magneto's speech," Rogue said. "He used their code for Israel. The Brotherhood's going to attack Israel on December 9th."

Scott's jaw tightened. "Damn. He already knows we're here." Xavier sensed Scott's red-shielded glare upon Dr. Avidan and ever so slightly shook his head. Whatever betrayal had occurred had sprung from another source.

"We knew he would find out eventually," Xavier said calmly. "We still have a week to prepare, and that should be sufficient for those of our number who wish to rejoin us."

The others responded to that well, taking it in, getting used to the idea of the battle's proximity. Kurt cocked his head and asked Rogue, "But how did you get Magneto's codes?"

Although Xavier had begun to sense some of the answer, he listened to Rogue's explanation about Geir, the uncanny cohesion of their abilities, and the permanent transfer of his memories and powers into Rogue's body. Finally, he understood some of the deep joy within her when she held out her hands -- ungloved -- and said, "Professor, could I, well, maybe --"

Nobody ever thinks they need to finish their sentences with a telepath, Xavier thought. Of course, they were right. "Please do," he said, holding out his arms. Rogue rushed into them and hugged him with all her newly considerable strength; her happiness overflowed into him and made him laugh out loud. When she pulled away, ducking her head, he caught her hand and squeezed it. "Thank you."

"For the hug?" Rogue said. Her shyness made her seem young again for a moment, more like the girl she'd been when he met her than she had been in a long time. "Or for coming back?"

"Both," he replied firmly. She relaxed, a confident woman again.

"So, I guess you're done hanging out on the sidelines," Scott said to Logan.

Logan glared. "Now that you guys are done banging your heads against a brick wall."

For those two, that was fairly civil; Xavier felt encouraged. He wanted to have his own talk with Logan about why he had left, and why he had returned, but he understood Logan's innate loyalty: tarnished silver, but still pure. "Right, then," Xavier said. "We have a lot of work to do in one week. We should get the two of you settled in -- Rogue, perhaps you could have a room next to Ororo, and Logan can --"

A mental image rippled in Xavier's mind, of the sort that had embarrassed him terribly as a younger man but he now accepted as a matter of course; it was now quite clear that two bedrooms would be one too many. He added, "Or perhaps you should share. I warn you now, take a room on upper level. You get a better breeze."

Rogue bit her lip, as mortified as the young Charles Xavier had ever been by the revelation. Logan was only content, no doubt relieved he wouldn't have to sneak through corridors. But there was another emotion in the room -- anger, getting stronger.

"Wait a minute," Scott said. "You -- and you." When Rogue nodded, he tightened his lips, pressing them together in a pale, forbidding line.

"Scott?" Kurt was staring at him, as were the others.

Logan was quickly getting into a mood to do more than stare. "You got a problem, Cyclops?"

"When did you start caring if I had a problem?" Scott said.

"Some time before right now."

"No yelling," Shriek pleaded. Neither of the men appeared to hear her.

"You never cared if I liked the way you acted before," Scott replied. "You'd be better off not caring, trust me."

"You don't like me being with Rogue?" Logan's temper, rarely steady, was quickly stoking into rage. Xavier considered stepping in at this point, elected not to. "What's the matter, Cyclops? You got a thing for her yourself?"

"I don't date girls half my age." Scott was openly angry now, even sneering, something Xavier had never felt from him before. "Come to think of it, she might be less than that for you, right, Logan?"

"I'm not a kid!" Rogue said, eyes blazing. "I made up my own mind."

"This isn't about you, Rogue!" Scott shouted.

"Not about me?" Her cheeks were flushed, and Xavier was heartened to see that her embarrassment distracted Logan from his rage. He put a hand on her shoulder as she demanded, "How is it not about me?"

Scott opened his mouth as if to reply to her, then glared at Logan as though the gloves -- or the visor -- might come off at any moment. But then he turned on his heel and stalked out of the kitchen without another word to anyone.

Logan gestured at Scott's back as he went. "What the hell was that all about?"

"That's not like him," Ororo said. "Not like him at all. I'll try and find out what's going on."

"Actually," Xavier interjected, "it would be better if Logan went after him."

At that, Logan turned and stared. "You have GOT to be kidding me."

"I'm quite serious." Nearby, Xavier could feel the shift in the tenor of Scott's mood; if he hadn't understood before, he did now. "You should hurry."

Logan shook his head, shrugged and headed out the way Scott had gone.

Of all the goddamned nerve --

Logan didn't give a shit about Scott's approval, which was a good thing, considering that he'd never had it and wasn't going to get it. But yelling about Rogue like that, right in front of her -- it had embarrassed her, upset her, and that was something Logan didn't take lightly. He didn't really think Scott had been jonesing for her himself. More likely he'd just wanted another excuse to chew Logan out. Logan decided that Xavier had well and truly lost it this time, as he followed Scott's scent through the halls to play counselor.

At last he got to the end of a corridor and found Scott leaning against one wall, his arms folded across his chest. He didn't turn toward Logan, but his posture shifted slightly, acknowledging his presence. Logan waited for the lecture to resume, but it didn't.

After a few moments, Scott said, "Tell Rogue I'm sorry."

"You can tell her yourself," Logan said, matter-of-factly. "We're gonna be living in close quarters again, so I figure you'll have the opportunity."

Scott just shrugged. Logan's curiosity began to get the better of his anger. He asked what he had asked before, but quietly: "What's your problem?"

"You," Scott said.

"And what did I do this time?"

To Logan's astonishment, Scott smiled, then laughed tiredly. "You did the one thing I always wanted you to do when Jean was alive," he said. "You forgot about her."

Jean's name hit him like a punch to the gut. Logan leaned against the wall, too, understanding for the first time why Scott was doing the same; it was because you felt like you couldn't stand up anymore, like grief could drag you right down to the floor, if you let it.

Scott continued, "You tried to take her from me, and I hated you for that. After she died, you walked around like you'd lost as much as I had, and I hated you for that. But -- maybe -- the last couple years, none of that mattered as much. What mattered was knowing that there was somebody else out there who knew what Jean was. How much she deserved to be loved. And now that's gone too. It's one more thing about Jean that's just -- disappeared."

Logan waited for a long time before he answered, and his voice was strange to himself when he spoke. "I'm never gonna forget Jean. Not ever. Not -- the stuff she believed in, or the way she used to smile -- just one corner of her mouth, like she didn't want you to know -- or the way her hair looked when she pulled it back -- am I pissing you off yet?"

"You're getting there."

"Good." Logan gave Scott a hard look; angry was better than crying any day, in his book, which meant that Scott looked better. "I'm not gonna forget Jean. But I didn't die when she did."

Scott said only, "Sometimes I wish I had."

Logan didn't have anything to say to that, but he stayed there, standing nearby for a while. At last, Scott said, "Rogue -- she IS a lot younger than you, you know."

His tone wasn't warning so much as teasing, so Logan responded in kind as they each started walking back toward the others. "Everybody I could date's a lot younger than me, unless Grandma Moses is available."

"Grandma Moses is dead."

"See, this is my point." Scott actually laughed at that, and for about half a second, Logan could see how somebody might kinda like the guy.

He heard the whistling sound first -- long and drawn out, both a high-pitched squealing and a low rumble. Then --

The end of the corridor exploded in fire and fumes. A shock wave of superheated air slammed into Logan, throwing him and Scott into the air and at least a dozen feet back. Smoke rolled over them, choking off air and obscuring light. "What the hell?" Logan coughed.

Scott said, "It's Magneto. They're already here."