xp_logs | Cain and Charles, Monday morning.

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Cain Marko rested his knuckles on the makeshift work bench he'd set up out on the back porch, overlooking the empty fountain and the slowly-melting snow on the ground. A week of intermittent sunshine between the rain showers had washed out most of the snow, and a few patches of brown grass were showing. Cain frowned. The whole lawn was going to need to be resodded after the spring thaw.

Turning his attention back to the coffee table before him, he resumed his work with the hand plane, shaving and cutting away the charred and burned wood in preparation for repairs. Intently, he smoothly moved the plane back and forth, littering the area around his feet with curls of mahogany. Not so intent, however, that he missed the sound of wheels on the wood behind him. He gave Charles' approaching wheelchair nothing more than a cursory glance before returning his attention to his work.

"I remember," Charles began speaking, attention fixed out on the lawn, "some years ago, when I found myself without the use of my legs. One of my greatest regrets was that never again would I be granted the luxury of a morning walk in the grass, barefoot." The Professor let out a small laugh, distracted by his reverie. "Esmerelda used to tell me I'd catch my death of cold."

"Who?" Cain asked, attempting to focus on the table. Xavier turned his chair to face his brother, locking the wheels and steepling his hands atop the plaid blanket covering his legs.

"Esmerelda Vance. You must remember Miss Vance, she cooked for our father for fifteen years." Charles paused as Cain glanced up quickly, a look of rage in his eyes.

"First off," he growled, "don't you ever give me that crap about 'our' father. Your father died at Alamogordo when you were ten years old. Don't you forget that. Second," Cain swept the plane roughly over the wood, sending a curl of shavings to bounce off Charles' wheelchair. "I remember Miss Vance. Just surprised you ever bothered to learn her name, busy as you were studying and working with my father down in the lab."

Sighing, Charles straightened his back. "I apologize, Cain. I meant no slight to your memories of your father, or Miss Vance. It may interest you to know that her nephew cares for her now, in a rather nice facility in Savannah? I offered a stipend for her in her later years, but she refused it. She claimed that the house was too empty to need her anymore." Charles shook his head with a smile. "So much pride for such a small woman."

Cain nodded, smiling despite himself. "She was like that, wasn't she?" He paused briefly, hands fidgeting as he tried to compose his next words. "I might, you know... when I got the time..."

Xavier simply nodded. "I can arrange for a visit. She still asked about you, all those years. When the news came that you were missing, it was difficult for her, Cain. It was difficult for all of us."

"Can't imagine why." Cain resumed his work on the table. "Figured with your fancy brain machine, you'd have known whether I was alive or dead years ago. Coulda saved yourself the surprise." The bitterness rested just below his words, seething like a boiling kettle. Charles frowned, cocking his head to the side.

"Cerebro is primarily an adjunct to my own telepathic abilities, allowing me to identify the unique brain patterns of mutants, Cain." Charles explained. "But the further I reach with it, the signals become indistinct, vague. I admit with some shame that I was not familiar enough with your mental signature to keep vigilant." He let out a sigh, looking past Cain to the hilltops visible through the thinned trees. "Some part of me always hoped for your safety, Cain, whether you believe me or not."

Marko simply shrugged, taking a small chisel and working a channel into the wood. "Well, I'm here. Mystery solved, right?" He stopped when Charles reached out a hand, grasping the edge of the damaged coffee table.

"Not all mysteries, Cain. When you arrived, I could feel your mind as I do everyone's in this house. For whatever reason, I now cannot. I have been silent these past few days, assessing my telepathic abilities and I have surmised that they are in no way impaired." Xavier peered intently at his stepbrother's impassive face. "It rests, therefore, that something has changed in you."

Cain's brow furrowed in puzzlement. Slowly, he formed an image in his mind, recalling the times in his childhood when he'd taken out his frustrations on his smaller stepbrother. A trip in the hall, a bit of brotherly roughhousing that went too far, each insult and blow replaying for an instant in his mind. Through his mental recollection, he watched Charles' face intently for a reaction that never came. Either his stepbrother's emotional control was more iron-clad than he realized, or...

"You sayin' you can't read my mind?" Cain blurted out. His face twisted in suspicion. "You tellin' me you been trying or something?" His hand gripped the chisel like a dagger, unconsciously scratching a long line in the wood.

Charles released his grip on the table, folding his hands in his lap once more. "Only in the nature of safety, Cain. Your attitude towards my staff here, as well as the students, has been belligerent. Even hostile at times. While I respect your privacy," Charles squared his shoulders, looking Cain straight in the eye. "the protection of these children is paramount. I will not see them harmed by your actions or your words, Cain. I had assumed there was an understanding there."

Cain snorted, setting the coffee table down on the patio and kicking his boot-clad feet up onto it. "I could give less than a crap about your priorities, Chuck. I told you, I don't like what you've done here. I think it's another one of your stupid naive pipe dreams. But," Cain admitted, "you got a right to it. And I promised I wasn't gonna fuck it up for you. 's part of why I moved out into the boathouse."

Charles nodded. "The dreams? Moira has mentioned them to me. Cain, if you would permit me to reach into your mind, to help you-"

Cain rose out of his chair like a shot, shaking a finger at Charles. "Hell no!" he bellowed. "The last thing I want is you messing with the way I think. How do I know I wouldn't wind up like that kiss-ass Summers, all ready to bark like a dog when you ring the little bell, huh? You're telling me that you can't get into my head," Cain unconsciously ran his hand over the metal shielding he wore taped over the gem. "then just maybe I might be in my right mind after all, and not what you think it should be."

"Cain," Charles began, "I have given you no reason to believe that I would affect your thoughts. Nor have I done so to anyone else in this mansion. Despite what you may think of my abilities, or those of the other telepaths, we are not manipulators. I have a gift, no different than your own."

Cain laughed, leaning against the railing. "Gift? Your gift gets you whatever you want. Audience with the president, your own little private militia." My father choosing you over his own blood, Cain left unsaid. "This," he indicated his seven-foot frame, "this gets me called a freak. Made me hunted for two decades. You know I had crackpots following me all over the Pacific Northwest?" Cain chuckled. "They got some urban legend site about me, like I'm some sort of Bigfoot or something."

Charles merely listened to his brother's rant, then ran a hand over the metal of his wheelchair. "You are not alone in your feelings, Cain. Many of these students are outcast because of their appearance. Some have been hunted, some almost killed because of what they are. If you would understand them, instead of treating them with contempt, perhaps you could understand yourself and come to terms with what has happened to you."

Cain shook his head. "Ain't my way, Chuck. Thought you'd figured that out by now."

Xavier merely nodded, then shifted the conversation to a more businesslike tone. "I am given to understand that you had a business meeting the other day. Concerning your inheritance, I believe?" Cain shrugged noncomittally as Charles continued. "Cain," he said in a low voice, "I should tell you that Sebastian Shaw is no friend of ours, and not someone to be trifled with."

"Ours?" Cain replied with a raised eyebrow. "Since when are we an 'us', Chuck? Or are you lumping me in with this school of yours again? All Shaw wanted to talk about was me investing in one of his companies. Seems Cameron almost gave me a controlling interest or some junk. So I sold him a percentage of my stock back above cost, and that was that." Cain reached down and lifted the coffee table onto one massive shoulder. "He seemed like a nice enough guy. Invited me to some fancy dress party coming up, but that ain't my scene. Whatever beef you've got with him," Cain insisted, "leave me out of it."

"His son is one of my students here, Cain." Xavier informed him, "and one of the staff as well. Shinobi Shaw."

Cain wracked his brain momentarily. "Japanese kid, English accent?" When Charles nodded, Cain cocked his head in thought. "Yeah, I can kinda see the resemblance. So if you've got some problem with Dad, why invite the kid into your inner circle? Apple don't fall far from the tree, right?"

Charles simply remained silent, looking Cain from head to toe. "You of all people should know the fallibility of that statement, Cain. Shinobi is trustworthy, a claim I cannot make about Sebastian Shaw."

"You tryin' to protect me, Chuck?" Cain asked. "Haven't I been clear? Ain't nothing can hurt me, Chuck. No bullets, no bombs, no knives. I don't have to breathe if I don't want to. Probably don't need to eat, and I can go weeks without sleeping a lick. Ain't nothing I got to be afraid of, Chuck." Not even you anymore, he thought silently.

"Just... be careful, Cain. As a favor to me." With that, Charles released the locks on his chair's wheels and wheeled himself away from his stepbrother. He paused as Cain reached out, closing the doors before Charles could pass through.

"Then I want a favor from you, Chuck. Your boy Logan. You'd best keep him in check." Cain's eyes narrowed as his voice dropped to a whisper. "I may be done giving a damn about whoever else he pushes around, but that bastard even looks at me cross-eyed, and I'll work him over until even dental records won't identify him." Cain wiped the dust from his hands off on his jeans and stepped away from the door. "Fair enough?"

Charles shook his head. "I don't have any more sway over Logan than I do over you, Cain. He comes and goes as he pleases, and he is my guest. I do not expect you to like him or become his friend, but as my guest in this house, I expect him to be tolerated. Nothing more."

"Best he stays out of my way, then," Cain growled, "'cause I got about zero tolerance these days. I'm gonna go fix this damn table." And with that, Marko stomped off to the boathouse, table over his shoulder.

Cain slammed the boathouse door behind him, hearing the hinges protest. Setting the coffee table down gingerly in the area he'd cleared out as a work space, he wandered into his sparse kitchen to grab breakfast. Peering into his fridge, he decided on cold hot dogs right out of the package and milk from the carton. "Breakfast of champions," he belched between gulps.

Damn Charles, him and his sanctimonious preaching. He didn't need any of it, Cain thought. He had his place, his refuge out here. Damn kids didn't know how to respect what they had, hell if he was going to bother with them.

Except...

Cain closed the refrigerator door slowly, removing the folded paper that he'd found the week prior, left under a rock on his doorstep to keep it from fluttering away. No footprints in the mud, which meant probably a flier left it, and it definitely wasn't Marie's style.

It had obviously been a valentine of some sort, but a computer printout of a complex fractal pattern had been glued over whatever sappy message the front had displayed.

On the interior, the original words had been obscured with white-out, and over them in a neat feminine hand was written:

"Mr. Marko,
I'm sorry the world's gone mad, and I'm sorry that everything is so horrible. Thank you for caring about the mansion, because I know you don't care, but I love this place and it's become like a home to me. Thank you for always being you, because it's nice to have a few reliable things in this crazy world."

The note was unsigned, but Cain didn't care. One of the little brats - at least one - got it.

Grabbing a wood joining kit from his closet, Cain went to work on the table.