I. Heilige Nacht

Kurt watched the girl curl up in a back pew of the church, pulling her long coat around her and shoving her bag into place as a pillow. A recent runaway, he guessed; her clothes looked too new for her to have been living on the street long. Also on this night the shelters would make every effort to take in anyone who was hungry and cold. If she knew that, Kurt did not think she would be sleeping here. It was warmer than outside, but only a little.

He hated to wake her and perhaps scare her into going out into the snow. On the other hand, he hated to watch her sleep in the cold.

He teleported to the pew in front of her.

"You must be cold," he said.

She jerked her head up, and took him in for a sleep-blurred moment before her eyes widened and she scrambled back away from him. He expected her to flee, but she stopped just out of arm's reach, fear giving way to something like fascination.

"You're--"

"A mutant. Ja."

She reached out as if to brush the blue skin of his hand with her gloved fingertips, and then jerked her hand back.

"I figured no one would kick me out of a church on Christmas Eve," she said.

"I will not kick you out if you will not kick me out," Kurt said.

That made her smile.

"Okay," she said, sounding a little skeptical. "Nobody knows you're here?"

"Only me and God," Kurt said. "And he does not mind."

"O-kay."

"I am Kurt Wagner, but in the Munich Circus I was called the Amazing Nightcrawler."

"Cool," the girl said. "I'm Rogue."

"I have a camp stove in the back room, if you want to get warm," Kurt said. The girl drew back. "I mean you no harm."

"You can't touch me," Rogue said.

"I may look like a demon," Kurt said. "But I do not take advantage of young women who are cold and alone on Christmas Eve."

Rogue smiled kind of crookedly.

"What do you do with them, then?"

What he did was make her supper, or at least soup over the camp stove. It was warmer with candles lit and the bright flame of the stove glowing. She drank the soup like she hadn't eaten in days. She didn't take her gloves off to do it.

"Were you always . . . like that?" she asked after she'd put the mug down.

He looked down at his hands questioningly, and she nodded.

"Always," he said. "But I could not always--" He teleported to the rafters, and then back before the smoke cleared. "That began later."

"Wow," Rogue said. "That must be so cool."

"It was useful in the circus," he said. "Although I had to work hard as well, so I did not only have the one trick."

"At least you've got the one," Rogue said. "Must get you out of a lot of tight spots."

"You know, the street is not really a good place for boys and girls," Kurt said. "Is there nowhere you can go?"

She shook her head.

"I can't ever go home. And there's nobody else."

"Your parents, they hurt you?"

Rogue looked horrified.

"No. Oh, no. It's just, after what happened--what I did--well, it's better if I stay away."

"There was a young man?"

"Something like that," Rogue said. "And then it all went wrong." She flushed as he looked at her more closely. "I'm not pregnant, if that's what you're thinking."

"I wondered," he said. "You would not be the first." He nodded to the statue of Mary cradling the Christ child. "Nor the first to be frightened and alone for it."

She shook her head.

"No. Just alone."

"Not so alone, no? At least not tonight."

Rogue shook her head.

"No. Not tonight." She reached out a hand toward him, and once again pulled it back. "I wish--" She bit her lip. "Anyway. It's getting late."

"Outside it is snowing," Kurt said. "It is very beautiful to watch from the roof. Will you come and see?"

She smiled, slowly.

"All right."

"You will want your coat."

She shrugged it on, wrapping her scarf around her neck too.

"How--what do I do?"

Kurt very carefully draped one arm over her shoulders, and then wrapped the other around her waist.

"Hold tight," he said, and glanced up at the ceiling. Then he was steadying her on the roof, one hand braced against the cold wet bricks of the steeple. She slipped a little, arms flailing, and he wrapped his tail around her leg as he caught her. She looked down at it, eyes a little wide again. He released her, keeping a hand on the damp wool of her coat.

"Look," he said, and pointed with his tail. All around them the snow drifted down silently to the dark roofs of warehouses and row houses and other, distant churches. Below them it fell through the golden light of streetlights, turning the dark streets dusty white.

Rogue looked down, and then up and out out at a world of white snow against dusky red sky.

"If you don't look down, it's like nothing down there is real," she said. She held out a hand and let the falling snow speckle the palm of her glove.

"Down there is beauty also," Kurt said. "It is just not as easy to see."

Rogue smiled skeptically.

"Not like this. Do you think anyone else has ever seen it this way?"

Kurt shrugged.

"God. And perhaps the men who repair the roof."

"And us." Rogue shook her head. "That's some pretty strange company."

He watched her sleep, late into the night, curled up in a nest of spare blankets, her coat folded up as a pillow under her head. After a while, he got up and found a few folded bills in the pocket of his jacket, and a worn metal rosary. He bent over her and tucked the money into her coat pocket. He draped the rosary across the palm of her hand. She stirred enough to close her hand around it and then settled into silent sleep again.

Kurt settled back in his own nest of worn blankets and closed his eyes, knowing that when he woke to the sound of Christmas bells he would find her gone.

II. Let Nothing Ye Dismay

Ororo stared at the luggage carousel as if she could make it produce their luggage by force of will.

"Relax," Charles said. "I don't think he's going anywhere."

Ororo sighed.

"You know, this would have been a lot easier in the jet," she said. "Jean and I could have landed up the mountain and hiked."

"I know. But Jean and Scott have been planning this vacation for ages." Ever since she came back to us, he added mentally. "Logan's recruiting skills leave a great deal to be desired, and Kurt has more trouble traveling than I do."

Ororo gave him an exasperated smile.

"And Bobby? And Rogue? They're not sixteen anymore, you know."

He shrugged. "I admit, it's good to get out of the house every once in a while."

He hadn't been able to resist once he'd seen that the young mutant he'd been tracking was spending his winter holidays here. Charles turned to look out the snow-blurred windows of the airport. Somewhere up the mountain from them was a small ski lodge with a giant stone fireplace.

It would hurt to go back, he knew. He was bracing himself for the pain of the reminder how much things had changed. But it also felt like proof, which sometimes his life was sorely lacking, that he was still the same person who'd spent a long winter break there with Erik. That that young man still wasn't quite dead yet.

"Why don't you go get us some coffee?" Charles asked Ororo, whose fidgeting was beginning to get on his nerves. "It's a long drive up the mountain, especially in this weather."

"I could make it stop snowing," Ororo said, and then sighed. "Guess not, huh? Bad for business up here."

"Make mine hot chocolate," Charles said.

He watched her go, and watched the luggage carousel, fully intending to ask someone to lift their bags down if they appeared. He wasn't taking any chances that they'd vanish back into the depths of airport hell.

The light on the next carousel over hadn't lit either. There was a familiar feeling of irritation about that coming from somewhere nearby. Charles glanced around, and almost didn't recognize the boy swinging a duffel bag and frowning at the carousel. He'd traded scruffy clothes for expensive ski jacket and boots, and his hair was a bright blond rather than brown, but Charles knew him even before he reached into his jacket and brought out a silver lighter, turning it around in his hand.

"Hello, John," Charles said quietly.

John froze, just for a second, and then turned around.

"Professor Xavier," he said.

"What are you doing here?"

"Skiing," he said. "There a law against that?"

"Not that I know of," Charles said. "I'm glad you're all right."

"Sure," John said. "What are you doing here? I bet not skiing."

"No, not this time," Charles said. "Are you here on your own?"

"Wouldn't be real smart for me to admit that, would it? You being the other side and all."

"I'm not your enemy," Charles said.

"Well," John said, "actually I'm meeting a friend. So you'll understand if I've got to go."

Charles's fingers curled around the armrests of his chair, bracing himself against a feeling of betrayal.

"You're here with a friend?"

"A friend," John said. "If I meant with Erik, I'd say so. He's got a name."

Charles wondered if it was worth trying to read John's mind to figure out what he was up to here. He didn't particularly want to end up with baggage claim on fire. Besides, there was always the possibility that what he was doing was skiing.

Someone whistled, sharply, from across the room. John looked up, lines of tension showing through his whole body. He looked away again, as if desperately hoping whoever it was wouldn't notice him. It didn't work; Charles could see a second young man elbowing his way through the crowd.

He'd seen that face before. In Cerebro. This was the young mutant he'd been tracking. He seemed to have found him just in time.

"Okay," John said quickly as the dark-haired man approached. "Come on, Jean-Paul, let's get out of here."

"Aren't you forgetting something? Like your skis?" The young man nodded pointedly at the carousel. The corners of his mouth quirked. "Not that I'm not glad you're happy to see me, of course, but unless you want to be sliding down a mountain in nothing but your ski boots--"

"Tais-toi," John hissed, with a desperate hand gesture. "Allons maintenant. Cette homme est--it's complicated--just move, all right?" His accent was terrible, Charles thought.

"Who? Has someone been--" The man glanced at Charles, and one eyebrow nearly disappeared under his ski cap. No, I'm no threat, Charles encouraged him to go on thinking. "At least get your skis. We'll talk about it outside."

He put an arm around John's shoulders. John rolled his eyes and shoved his arm away, not in offense but in exasperation. Taking for affection what was meant as protectiveness. Not now, he was thinking. Just let him not argue with me just this once, and I swear I'll get us both out of here--

Jean-Paul's thoughts were simpler. Come at him, will you? Only through me. He'd suspected that John was mixed up in some kind of trouble. He didn't care what it was. But Charles was sure he didn't suspect anything like what Charles knew.

"He's right, you know," Charles said. "You shouldn't forget your skis. Happy holidays."

John turned back to the luggage carousel just long enough to jerk a black ski bag from it before it could sweep out of sight. He caught at the other young man's arm and half-dragged him from the airport. Charles watched them go.

All the things he had meant to say were running through his head, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to say them here on Christmas Eve. Outside past the airport's glass doors John had to interrupt their retreat to hail a cab. Charles watched them wait for it, standing close enough to talk in whispers, one tall dark-haired boy and one square-shouldered blond one, heads bent almost close enough to kiss.

"Here's your hot chocolate," Ororo said from behind him. "Extra whipped cream."

"Thank you," he said, and sipped at it, postponing for a moment the necessity of asking her to look for a flight for them back to Westchester. And Cerebro. It might be best to catch up to Jean-Paul after this week, anyway. John would surely have to explain the airport encounter somehow, and he might let some valuable things slip about the Brotherhood's activities in the process.

Charles might still be a romantic, but he'd never been a fool.

III. Deck the Halls

There was the usual tree-trimming noise and crowd. Kids were pulling ornaments out of storage boxes while Scott and Jean wrapped the lights around the tree; the lights wrapped themselves around the top few feet of tree, while Scott looked on and said things like "No, Jeannie, a little to the left, okay?" Bing Crosby was crooning old carols on the stereo. The smell of spiced cider clung to everything.

Charles backed his chair away from the tree, hoping he wasn't about to run over any stray Christmas tree balls. He crossed the room to the windows, where Jason was looking out at the snow, and waited until Jason turned away from the windows to speak.

"How are you holding up?"

Jason shrugged, turning to sit on the edge of the window seat.

"You're the third person to ask me that today. Should I worry about myself? Do you and Jean know something I don't?"

"Who was the third?"

"Bobby Drake, strangely enough. I suppose he's feeling sympathetic about people's problems with their parents right now."

"I don't think Bobby's coming-out issues are quite on a level with finding out that your father wants to kidnap you and use you to betray all your friends," Charles said. "Although I'm glad he's taking an interest in other people's problems."

"I know I ought to tell him they won't hate him for being a mutant. That they'll get over it."

"In his case, it's probably true."

Jason opened his mouth to reply, and then stopped, glancing at the kids around the tree. He looked at Charles intently instead, in what Charles recognized as an invitation to read his mind.

Don't, Charles sent back firmly. You're safe. And so are the rest of us.

"Are you?" For a moment there was the shadow of the cold look Jason had worn so often in his first days at the school, making Charles want to look away from his mismatched eyes. "Are any of you?"

"You are not responsible for your father's terrible and misguided plan," Charles said.

Jason ran a hand through his hair.

"No. No, I know that. It's just the idea of being used as a weapon, being responsible for hurting so many innocent people--"

"Let us both hope and pray that will never happen," Charles said.

"We can do better than that," Ororo said, coming up behind Charles and putting her hand on his shoulder. "There can't have been that many people who knew what your -- what you could do."

"What he could turn me into," Jason said. "I think I need a new code name. How about the Human Ingredient?"

"Stick with Mastermind," Ororo said. "There's not going to be anyone around to cut you up into little pieces."

"Which is not to say that I'm condoning violence," Charles said.

"Of course not," Ororo said. "We'll just find them and talk to them about the error of their ways. And maybe you can have a little chat with them about things it would be better for them not to remember."

Charles smiled at her.

"We'll talk about it after the holidays," he said. "Right now, I'd appreciate it if you'd go find Logan in the kitchen and keep him there until Jean and Scott have finished with the tree. They're already tense enough without him trying to help."

"No problem," Ororo said. "I'm on it."

Jason watched her go, then turned back to Charles.

"Is she serious?"

Charles tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair.

"I'll tell Scott to keep an eye on her. She's very angry about what your father tried to do to you. I think Scott can keep her in line."

Jason looked over at the tree. The glow of the lights reflected bright in his eyes.

"It's all right for it to hurt that your father's dead," Charles said.

"And if it doesn't?" Jason asked without looking at him. "If it doesn't hurt enough?"

"That's very understandable."

"You're my father," Jason said. Charles blinked briskly and looked at the Christmas tree himself. It was, in the usual lopsided and overcrowded way, beautiful.

"Yes," he said. "If you want."

Jason nodded, as if they'd just worked out a math problem.

"I think we have to let Magneto out," he said quietly.

Charles shook his head and wondered about Jason's motivations. Erik had been the one who'd fought his father for him when Stryker had wanted to pull him from the school. Erik had been the one who'd been able to reach him when Charles couldn't. He didn't touch Jason's mind to see.

"We can't," he said. "Believe me, I wish . . ." Any number of things he wasn't about to say.

"He knows too much about the school," Jason said. "All about Cerebro, even."

"No one would be able to get that out of him," Charles said.

"Except maybe with a mind-controlling agent?"

"Which no one has."

"Yet," Jason said. "At least use Cerebro to search for people with my abilities. People whose brain chemistry might be similar enough that--"

"That I certainly will do," Charles said. "You can come down and help me do it. After the holidays."

Jean came over, then, smiling at the two of them. Charles knew she'd been waiting for a minute, giving them a chance to talk.

"So? What do you think?" She turned to gesture at the tree. The kids were now settling down on couches and the floor with their cider and snacks, a few of them still poking at the placement of ornaments. Bobby and Rogue leaned back against the couch, his arm around her shoulders. John perched on the couch above them, quietly and methodically putting tinsel in their hair.

"I think it looks lovely," Charles said. "Although there's a certain something missing. Don't you think, Jason?"

Jason shook his head.

"You say this is for the kids, but we both know I do it for you."

"It's our little secret," Jean said, coming to put a hand on Charles's shoulder.

Around the tree, in sparkling flakes that somehow vanished before they touched the ground, it began to snow.

IV. If the Fates Allow

"There's someone here to see you, Dr. Grey," Cherise said from the nurse's station without looking up from the charts. "He says he's an old friend."

"Great," Jean said. "I was just about to take a break anyway."

"You're still on call?"

"All night long," Jean said. "Think you can get along without me while I get some coffee downstairs?"

"We'll try," Cherise said. "Nobody's got a real good attitude tonight."

"Nobody likes working on Christmas Eve," Jean said.

She unlocked a drawer and pulled out her purse, resisting the urge to stretch out with her mind and identify her visitor. That was never a good idea at the hospital. Besides, she was pretty sure it would be Hank, trying to cheer her up on Christmas Eve. Not that she really had a problem with that.

It took her a moment to see him, standing rather stiffly by the wall. He hadn't taken off his hat. Jean only hesitated for a moment before walking over to him.

"Hello, Dr. Lehnsherr," she said.

"Hello, Jean," he said.

"What are you doing here?" she said, not sure how to put it more politely.

He shrugged. "I heard you were working here. I had something to bring you. Not a Christmas present," he said as she raised her eyebrows. "Something I thought you might be missing."

"I was just on my way to get a cup of coffee," Jean said. "Want to come?"

He took his hat off.

"After you," he said.

They settled at a corner table in the cafeteria. Jean watched him stir cream and sugar into his coffee, his hands folding the sugar wrapper precisely and tucking it into the little plastic container that had held the cream. It was such a familiar sight that it hurt.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a rectangular package wrapped neatly in brown paper. He pushed it across the table to her. She picked it up after a moment's hesitation.

"I believe this is yours," he said. "I found it in one of the boxes of my books Charles sent me. It took me longer than it should have to open them."

She stripped off the paper, carefully, although she recognized the book from the first thin triangle of fabric that she revealed. An elderly copy of The Secret Garden, green cloth cover faded and threadbare at the corners. She opened the front cover slowly.

There was an inscription in ink in Charles's bold hand.

Jean felt herself smiling despite herself.

"You remembered," she said.

He shrugged.

"I read it too."

"You never said so."

"It was sentimental nonsense," he said. "Children's games and the healing power of love. It's not that simple in real life."

"In real life I prefer to trust the healing power of medicine," Jean said.

"And yet even that isn't perfect."

"What's wrong?"

He shook his head.

"Lost friends. Lost chances. Things that can't be healed." He smiled painfully. "All water under the bridge."

"I'm sorry," Jean said. "You know, for a long time I hoped you and Professor Xavier could work things out."

"That, too," Dr. Lehnsherr said. "It's not all about Charles, you know."

Jean shrugged. "I suppose I'm just stuck on the subject of failed relationships right now."

He looked her up and down critically.

"Is that why you're not in Westchester?"

"I'm on call," Jean said, tapping the beeper in her pocket. "People get hurt at Christmastime, too."

"Of course," he said, turning his spoon over in his hands.

"Anyway, I don't think that's any of your business," she said, with a smile meant to take the sting out of her words.

He shrugged and looked hurt anyway.

"I suppose not."

"I thought it would be a nice thing to do for people who are trying to get home to their families," Jean said. "Or people they . . . love."

"You've broken it off with Scott."

"He broke it off with me," Jean said. "After I . . . did some things that I probably shouldn't have." It was a perverse relief to tell someone. She kept her personal life out of the workplace, and most of her friends were Scott's friends, too. "Warren came up for the weekend. He's back in California now."

"You and Warren Worthington," he said, sounding dismayed. "I really think you could do better."

"Warren is a good friend," Jean said firmly. "And nothing happened. But after he left I couldn't stop thinking that wished it had. And Scott asked me what I was thinking."

"You don't really need me to point out that you didn't have to tell him."

"No," Jean said. "I think I wanted to tell him. It's just not working. Scott's such a wonderful person. He really is. But he wants--he needs--security, a home and a family, all the things he never had. He expects me to come up to Westchester and move back into the mansion when I finish my residency. He says they need a doctor."

"I'm not surprised," Dr. Lehnsherr said. "They'll need more than that at this rate."

"Yes, well . . . he's right, of course. They need a doctor who knows something about mutant physiology, too, and there aren't too many of those. And it would be nice, in some ways. I don't get to see the Professor very much right now. I don't get to see Scott very much right now."

"Teaching Charles's new collection of waifs and strays doesn't keep him busy?"

"He likes the job. Scott's a born teacher. But he keeps talking about what we'll do when I move to Westchester. Get married. Have kids. Settle down." She pushed her hair away from her face to give her an excuse not to meet his eyes. "And I'm just not ready for that. I don't know if I'll ever be ready for that."

"Are you leaving the team?" he asked. Jean looked up sharply from her coffee. He looked mildly exasperated. "Or am I to pretend that I know nothing of Charles's clandestine activities, and you know nothing of mine?"

"I think I'm going to have to," Jean said. "Hank is talking about moving up to Westchester when he finishes his residency, so they'll have a doctor."

"And a third 'X-Man.'" He pronounced the word with great skepticism.

"Scott's really sure they're doing the right thing," Jean said.

"Whereas you . . ." He raised an eyebrow.

Jean shrugged.

"I want to help people. I took a Hippocratic Oath, and it doesn't just apply to--" She glanced around "--people like us. But I think we could be doing more to prevent these kinds of violence in the first place."

"Not all of us are hampered by Charles's ethics," Dr. Lehnsherr said.

"I didn't think preventing violence was what you wanted," Jean said.

All mockery went out of his expression.

"It's all I've ever wanted," he said.

Jean shook her head.

"I feel guilty already."

"Raven and I will be in the city until after New Year's," Dr. Lehnsherr said. "You're welcome to come and spend New Year's Eve with us."

"You're not going to try to recruit me into the Brotherhood, are you?"

Dr. Lehnsherr gave her the same painful smile.

"There's no need for that," he said. "You're already family." He stood up and put his hat back on. "I should go," he said. "Enjoy the book."

"I think I'm a little old for it now," Jean said.

He shrugged.

"I always forget."

Jean watched him go, hurrying in his desire to get out of the hospital as fast as possible. When he'd passed out of sight through the cafeteria doors, she looked down at the book. She opened it to the inside back page, and found, as she suspected, penciled-in words in a squarer, more careful hand.

You'll never need a key to open any door you want. And, below it, a phone number and an address.

Jean walked home from the train station in the cold on Christmas morning with the book tucked in her purse. A cold mix of rain and snow was falling, soaking through the shoulders of her coat and turning the street to slush. Every time she passed a door, the same temptation swam to the surface: to turn the knob and step inside just to see what she would find.

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