Yet another fic in my continuing campaign to give David Haller a fighting chance at life. The other two stories in this series can be found at "Offsprings and Other Natural Disasters," David's web site. This one will join the others shortly. I don't mind if you archive it, just let me know you're going to do it.

Legal Stuff: I don't own the X-Men. Philippa Sinclair is the property of Deborah Turner Harris and Katherine Kurtz. Char belongs to Kerri, but keeps finding her way into my stories. None are being used for profit. Jessie is my own creation. Borrow her without permission and don't be surprised to find yourself reported to the Senator Kelly for President site as a spandex wearing mutant! (Already reported my ex-boyfriend! It was fun too!)

Feedback yearning to breathe free can be sent to m_craighead@yahoo.com or david_haller@yahoo.com and will be treated with loving kindness. No flames, please. I am my own worse critic anyway. :-)

NOTE: This doesn't take place in Marvel's world. I'm still mad at them for killing yet another member of the Summers clan. I mean, can't they at least try to be original? I'm giving this an R rating for Jessica's rather colorful language. * denotes telepathic communication.

My son was dead. That was a silent, inescapable part of my reality. David, the boy I had never truly known or been able to help, was dead. I would never see him grow to become the man nature had intended for him to be, never feel the deep pride of a father at his son's accomplishments, nor the unspoken support during his failures. I would never hold my grandchildren in my lap and tell them funny stories about their father as a boy, seeing ghosts of myself in their small features. All those joys, all that future, gone in so short an instant, my life's possibilities forever scattered.

It was inevitable, I suppose, that I should dream of him, alive and well, in the world once more, But how an odd a setting my mind choose for this - the city of Toronto, a place I had visited only briefly in all my years. David, I was certain, had never been there at all. He had certainly never visited the neighborhoods I saw him haunt in my dreams, the abandoned warehouses and churches on the riverside. His mother would not have allowed such a thing. Still, it comforted me to see him again, even in such odd dreams, as he and his companion, a mere chit of a girl called Jessie, made their way through this city. They reminded me of the tales I had read as a child, of Peter Pan and the Lost Boys, for they, too, would never grow up, securely enfolded within my unconscious mind. Perhaps they would have remained so, at least to my point of view, had it not been for the phone call.

On the night before the call in question, I watched as my son and his newfound friend played the role of street musicians. The girl, Jessica, had such a lovely voice, rather like that of a lead soprano in a boys choir. Spirituals were not her forte, to be sure. She preferred old folk songs, much like the ones I have heard Moria sing to herself during our friendship - The Skye Boat Song, Rowan Tree, Greensleeves, even a haunting version of what surely must be the origin for Down In The Valley. People frequently stopped to listen to her and drop a few coins into her open guitar case. Or more than a few when David was involved, as he was on this night.

Jessica was singing the loveliest little song, a lullaby surely. The language was unfamiliar to me, however, as was the tune. That was a bit odd, I admit, since I must have heard this song somewhere for it to have become lodged within my subconscious mind. Before I could consider this unusual turn, Jessica's audience began replacing their pocket change with bills -- fives, tens, even one twenty. The girl's irritation became increasingly obvious from the glares she shot at my son. David merely smiled back, until she'd finished her song, packed up the guitar and money then stalked away, leaving him to trail behind her.

"You shouldn't do that, Grace," she had grumbled when his much longer legs easily caught up with hers. "Telepathy is cheating."

My son only shrugged. "Cheating means we can quit early," he answered, giving her yet another sweet smile. "Besides, I only push the ones who can afford it."

How like the little boy my son still was at his death to use such rationalization. Jessica seemed to accept it well enough, being little more than a child herself. "At least we have enough for you to call home," she said. "Still don't know why you won't do it collect. Is your dad too much of a fuck wit to accept the charges?"

My son stared fixedly at a spot on his shoes. "I don't want him to know where I am," David said. "I just, y'know, wanna hear him say hello or something."

Again the girl scowled. "Whatever, Grace. But it seems silly to me." She nodded towards a pay phone. "Do you want to try it now?"

My son peered into a nearby window, catching sight of a clock. "Too late tonight," he shook his head. "Maybe tomorrow morning."

"Evening," Jessie corrected. "Cheaper rates. You can listen to him longer."

By the next morning, most of the details of my dream were fuzzy at best. And by mid afternoon, they had been completely forgotten in the bustle and business of getting yet another student enrolled at the Massachusetts Academy. Cerebro needed some minor work as well. The fantasy of David dissolved into the reality of working with Cyclops on that task.

I retired to my study shortly after dinner, to finish some correspondence from the night before. Dr. Philippa Sinclair, one of my old professors, had invited me to visit her. She was still actively working as a psychiatrist, her 81 years doing little to slow her. My students had told her I suffered a nervous breakdown as a cover for my absence while I was incarcerated by Bastion. It was near enough to the truth, considering Onslaught, so I had done nothing to correct their story. Now Philippa wanted to know how my recovery was progressing. I'm afraid I became so engrossed in relating some of the antics Hank and Bobby had recently employed to lower my stress level that I entirely forgot the world outside of my letter. As a consequence, the ringing of the telephone startled me greatly.

"Xavier's Institute," I answered, quickly collecting my wits. "May I help you?"

There was a brief pause on the line, followed by the soft voice of a child, a young girl, her Southern accent slight, but still recognizable. "Is this Charles Xavier?" she asked.

I glanced down at the phone. This was my private line, unpublished and known to a handful of close friends and colleges. "It is," I responded, keeping my voice formal, yet gentle. "May I ask how you got this number?"

The girl did not answer me at first. Instead, I heard a rustling, as if she were trying to pass the phone to someone else. "Come on, Grace," she said after a moment, her voice muffled and distant. "Say something."

I froze absolutely still. Grace. In my dreams, my son's companion habitually called him that. Then it came back to me, the dream from the previous night. A song I did not recognize in a language with which I was unfamiliar. My son desiring to hear my voice without speaking to me. The girl stating they would call in the evening when rates were cheaper. I glanced at my watch. It would be 8:30 in Toronto. Evening.

I grasped the arm of my chair for support. "David?" I called. "David!"

He never answered, if indeed it was my son. With a soft click, the line went dead. Frantically, I dialed for an operator, pleading for the number which had previously dialed mine. After some persuading, she not only dialed the number for me, but provided me the exact location of the phone used. The warehouse district of Toronto.

Toronto. It all began to fit now, the images I had seen while sleeping. David was alive and in Toronto. Somehow, subconsciously, my mind had reached out to his, forming a link so subtle neither one of us were aware of it's presence. In my dreams, I was seeing the world through my son's eyes, experiencing what he was, his joys and sorrows. He was alive. David was alive!

My hands trembled as I pushed myself away from the desk. Carefully, using far more control than was necessary, I summoned my X-Men. My son was alive. I wanted him to come home.

That was last night. The X-Men agreed confronting him as a unit would only put David on the defensive and force him to react. No, it would be best if I went to talk to him, as I should have done all those months ago in Israel. But there were concerns about allowing me to go alone. Although I had recovered well from both Onslaught and my imprisonment, my emotional state remained a very fragile thing. It was decided that Logan and Char should accompany me, in civilian clothes. After all, the sight of uniforms might make David flee. A boy with the power to teleport and the power of time travel would be impossible to find should he bolt.

It was also determined that we should take a commercial flight in, to prevent any unnecessary pleasantries with the Canadian Government. We would make our way to the phone booth my son had used, then see if either Logan or I could pick up a trail, by scent or telepathy. As it happened, I was the one to pick it up, and not with a mutant power at all.

The cab in which we were riding passed a small park. In a clearing, I caught a glimpse of the girl, Jessica, who always accompanied my son. She was singing and playing her guitar, as usual, the case open before her to collect money. If they followed their normal pattern, David would be nearby as well.

Char waited inside the cab as Logan and I made for the park. The girl's voice carried even over the noise of the traffic. Normally, when I heard it in my dreams, I thought of a church choir. But this song was slightly less than angelic. "Whiskey In The Jar," a tune of which Sean Cassidy was a bit too fond at times. David, to my surprise, could not be seen anywhere near her.

Due to the marshiness of the still wet ground, I made my way closer to her with some difficulty. When the rest of her audience tossed quarters into her case, I very deliberately deposited several twenties. That caught her attention. She eyed me carefully, the corners of her mouth turning down.

"The song wasn't that good," she said finally, leaving the bills untouched.

"It isn't for the song," I said. "I'm looking for someone."

Her eyes widened briefly at the sound of my voice. Good, I thought. She recognized me. "I'm trying to find my son, David. I believe you call him Grace."

The girl shook her head. "He's not here. He took off last night. Said you'd come looking for him after the pay phone started ringing."

Logan took a deep breath, then shook his head. "She's lying," he mouthed as she bent to pick up the money. "Seen 'im today."

I nodded, watching her carefully pack up her guitar. She was even tinier in person than she had appeared in my dreams. And she was painfully thin, her baggy clothes doing little to hide this from more than casual observer. One could understand David's slender frame. He's spent over half of his life in various catatonic stupors and lacked muscle tone. This child simply looked woefully underfed.

Seeming to sense eyes watching her, Jessica stood to face me again, a puzzled look on her face. How odd. In my chair, I am accustomed to having the world tower over me. But she and I were on eye level. Surely she couldn't be a day past 12.

The girl shrugged. "You can follow me if you think I'm lying. Grace isn't here. Don't know exactly where he is, truth be told."

Carefully, I attempted to scan her without alerting her in the least. I was startled at what I found. For so young a child, she had a remarkably effective defense from low level scans - keeping her mind filled with nonsense, in this case, a rather bawdy song about a chandler's wife. Of course, a more intense scan would have knocked such a technique aside with ease, but she would have known instantly what I was doing. If David were nearby and monitoring her, he would know it as well.

I gestured to Logan to let the girl pass without challenge. She glanced up briefly at Logan as she stepped by him, that in itself an amusing sight considering his short stature. Logan gave her a friendly smile, one I have only seen him use with children. Jessie responded with a glare and something mumbled under her breath. I could not make out what she said. Logan, however, heard her perfectly.

He chuckled at the child. "Kid, you probably don't even know what half of those words mean."

She turned around, eyes narrowing slightly. "For another 20 bucks, you can find out exactly how well I know them," she hissed before spinning on her heels and vanishing rapidly from our line of vision.

Logan finally found his voice. "Ya know it's gonna be a bad day when yer propositioned by jail bait," he said.

Never having found myself in such a position, I chose to ignore the remark. "Let her go," I said. "We can track her easily enough."

We returned to the cab to give Charlotte a brief explanation. It was agreed that she should accompany our luggage to the hotel and register us while Logan and I searched for the girl and my son. To be honest, neither Charlotte nor Logan were very fond of the plan. Both had more experience dealing with troubled and troubling children than I. They felt that I should be the one to check in, allowing them to find David and Jessica. But I had spent months grieving the loss of my son, regretting all the things I never said to the boy. This was my opportunity to make amends for that. I had no intention of wasting a moment. I needed to see David as soon as possible.

Logan and I returned to the small park where he had no trouble picking up her scent. I must confess, I was more anxious than I had led him to believe. All the girl needed to do in order to throw us off her trail was to catch a bus. It was something I had seen her do often enough in my dreams of David. Today, however, she remained on foot, leading us straight to an abandoned church in the warehouse district.

My companion was instantly suspicious. "This is way too easy, Chuck."

For once, I did not even notice the diminutive of my proper name, something which generally set my teeth on edge. Logan had an excellent point. Although we had crept through alleyways and down several extremely seedy streets, they were all remarkably clear of debris, as was the path to the front door of the church. I also noticed the door itself did not have stairs which might hinder me, yet another rather unusual sign. In most cities the size of Toronto, such things simply weren't common. Most churches in the older, run down, neighborhoods were built well before anyone thought of making the front doors handicap accessible. And street cleaners simply weren't employed in areas most commonly frequented by drug dealers, prostitutes and run aways. There should have been some obstacles, some alley with one too many dumpsters or a street with too many pedestrians to allow my chair to pass so easily. None were present here. It was as if she wanted us to follow her and was assuring we would not lose our way.

*Took you long enough to catch on.*

The voice - the presence, more precisely - was so clear it startled me. I almost chuckled at the absurdity of it, the world's strongest telepath, startled by a young child.

*Second most powerful. Grace is stronger than you.*

Of course. David. The boy had once masked his presence in my mind so thoroughly that I had taken him for a dream of Magnus. Before that, he had hidden so well within his own mind that he seemed, in essence, brain dead, at least with respect to the higher functions of the brain. He must be monitoring the progress Logan and I were making and had relaying that to Jessica, allowing her to lead us straight to this place.

Amusement flickered from her mind. *Willie was right. 'Lord, what fools these mortals be.' Of course I led you here! Now, are you coming inside, or do you prefer waiting around for the muggers?*

With that, the connection vanished, a touch of a mind to my own which was so gentle I noticed it only by it's absence. Yes, David was indeed more powerful than I. And he was mastering a degree of finesse I found utterly astonishing. Controlling a sudden burst of pride in my son, I tried to scan the building and surrounding area for him, but found nothing, as I expected. If he were there, David would be more than capable of making himself invisible to me. Considering the skill required to create such a subtle link a moment ago, it would even be conceivably possible for him to no longer in this city at all.

Logan was watching me, looking for some sign of our next move. I gave it, rolling carefully forward into the church. The aisle had been cleared for me, but the rest of the sanctuary was in a sad state. Pews were over-turned across the room. Bibles and hymnals had been burn on the stone floor. Even the altar had been desecrated, covered in spray painted obscenities and various swastikas. And, on the steps leading to the altar, sat Jessica.

Again, I was struck by how tiny this child truly was, utterly dwarfed by this large room. She had pulled her dark blonde hair into a no-nonsense ponytail while waiting for us to arrive, and now sat, arm's crossed, scowling at us both. "Took you long enough," she said. "I met you almost an hour ago."

"Gotta be careful in a city this size," Logan answered before I could form a thought. "Mighta lost yer trail if we rushed."

The girl merely frowned. "Then you're not half as good a tracker as Grace says you are."

Logan refused to be baited by her and only smiled. "He ain't seen me at my best," he said, his voice taking on the gentle tone he frequently used with children.

Jessica appeared immune to such charm. She shrugged, then turned to me, ignoring Logan entirely. "You came here to take Grace home," she said, making it clear that was not a question.

I nodded. "Yes, I believe he needs to be with his family."

"His family as done a pretty piss poor job of taking care of him so far," she said. "His mom put her career first. You put your X-Men. David got stuck with leftovers, if there were any."

My eyes widened. At my side, Logan did the same, his body tensing. So, she knew about the X-Men, that I'd founded and led them. That was surprising. I would have thought David understood the value of secrecy. That he would tell even a close friend could be a security risk of enormous proportions.

She smiled gleefully. "Didn't expect him to tell me, did you?" she taunted. "Well, if it helps you sleep at night, it's not something he routinely tells people. I'd known him six months before he said a word. And then he only told me to defend you during one of my adult-are-scum rants."

"Still shouldn't have told ya," Logan mumbled.

"But he did. Deal with it. I just mentioned it so Xavier knows you can't bullshit me about what was happening when Grace first woke up. Papa Charles was putting his students first."

"I thought I was dying," I protested. "My affairs needed to be put in order."

In fact, that was only half true. I could have allowed my attorney to do the majority of the work without my assistance. The Danger Room would have done an ideal job preparing my students to act alone. Kurt Wagner already knew how to lead the team, having done so in numerous simulations. Magnus, no doubt, knew many people capable of making excellent forgeries of birth certificates, social security numbers and so forth. But the X-Men had been in a uproar, with both Scott and Storm gone. I allowed myself to believe I was invaluable, that I alone could properly train Kurt or arrange for falsified papers identifying Magnus as my cousin and legal heir. I had simply chosen to spend more time re-writing my will than I had spent with my newly discovered son. That was the important point. It was a choice, one I had made and for which I must finally accept some blame.

Jessie seemed to agree with my unspoken sentiment as she glared at me. "You look pretty healthy for a dead man," she said. "So what's your excuse once you 'got better'? Grace used to think you were dead, that Magneto had killed killed you or something."

Interesting. So, David had blamed Magneto for my absence all those months when I traveled with Lilandra and the Starjammers. I briefly wondered if this had been the beginnings of the rather obvious hostility my son harbored towards Magnus, hostility which had led to David's attempt to murder the man. It was a possibility worth investigating later, once David returned home.

"I was being treated for my illness," I said. "The treatment was rather lengthy."

"The treatment was rather mysterious," Jessie snapped. "And don't try this shit. After awhile, Grace found out you were with someone named Lilandra. He heard Dr. MacTaggert say as much. I want to know why you were with this Lilandra and not with your son where you belonged."

With every word, the child was becoming more furious. Already, her cheeks were flushed with rage, her hands curled into fists. I was not in any better condition myself. How dare she suggest I preferred Lilandra's company to that of my own son! I would have returned to Earth, to David, if it had been possible. The world was falling apart in my absence. When Magik stumbled across my path, I --

I stopped. Yes, I had indeed made a choice here as well. In Magik, I had the means to return home. The moment all the New Mutants were safely in their own timeline and present, I could have simply had the girl return us all to Earth and the Starjammers be damned. I did not do so, and the chance slipped through my fingers.

"I made a mistake," I admitted for the very first time. "Lilandra and Corsair needed help. I convinced myself I was obligated to remain and offer it. If I had known what was happening on Earth, that the Shadow King was on Muir Isle and had taken David - "

"You would have done exactly the same thing." she said, without noting my accidental reference to being off planet. "Grace isn't a priority with you."

I corrected her. "David wasn't a priority. But he is now. I thought he'd died. I thought I'd lost him forever. That..." My voice faltered and my eyes were burning with tears at the thought of how much his loss had hurt. Like the presence of his mind linked to mine as I stood on this church's threshold, my love for my son was most notable once he was gone. Until the moment I sat by his marker, I had not known grief could be so heavy.

Several moments passed before I trusted myself to speak. Even then, my voice was rough as I held my emotions in check. "I love my son. And I know I have hurt him. I want to fix that, to make it up to him."

She lost a bit of her mocking tone, but her words were still sharp enough to cut me to the quick. "How do you propose to do that? By taking him back to a place where he'll still come second to your X-Men? He'd be better off on the streets. At least when people slight you here, it's not personal."

I swallowed and forced myself to nod. "I understand. If David does not want to come home, I will abide by his wishes. But I cannot bear the thought of him living like this. Please, allow me to find a place for him, an apartment or house. Something. Let me get him off the streets. He never need see me, if that's what he prefers."

The girl fixed me with an oddly calculating look, as though she were taking stock of every aspect of my appearance, from the tip of my head to the scuffs on my shoes. "Then you'll give him up to keep him safe?" she asked.

There was no hesitation in my answer. "Yes. I'd do anything to keep him safe."

She gave a little nod, her scowl fading. "That's the right answer. But I still have three more conditions."

"What do you mean by right answer? Was this a test?"

"Of course," she said. "You don't think I'd let you take my best friend if I wasn't certain he'd be okay, do you? I look out for him. That's my job."

It made no sense. She was testing me? I should be angry. For my son sake, I had pleaded with her. And I am, in my own way, as proud as Magnus. To be so humbled was not an easy thing for me. I have never enjoyed having my emotions manipulated in such a manner. But the child had done this for David, to keep him safe. Such devotion from one who was a stranger to my son only a year earlier. I could hardly fault her for that.

As if reading the turmoil in my mind, Logan picked up the conversation. "What's yer conditions, kid? We'll talk about followin' after we hear 'em."

Jessica leaned forward, resting her arms on her drawn up knees. "Grace's missed out on years, over half his life," she said. "Sticking him on an island at the ass end of Scotland is only going to make things worse. If he goes with you, he goes HOME. To Salem Center. Charles' home should be his home."

I found I could answer that easily. "I have no intention of sending him to Muir Isle or anywhere else. I want my son with me."

She nodded. "But you can't do it alone. He needs professional help, tutors, physical therapist, counselors."

My mind wandered back to Philippa's letter and the invitation to come visit her. Perhaps she could be of some help in this matter. But Logan answered before I could take this thought much further. "Charlie's a shrink," he said.

"But his expertise isn't really rehabilitation," she insisted. "What experience does he have in cases like this? I mean, besides David's mom, which is one sick story, in my opinion."

In my darker moments, I would generally agree with her about Gaby. My behavior had been morally reprehensible. That was not this child's concern, of course. "I have no training in the area of re-education." I admitted instead. "I am more accustomed to educating teenagers of above average intelligence. I have never designed a program for someone in David's situation."

Jessica gave me an odd look for a moment, startled by my sudden formality, no doubt. "Then you'll hire help?" she asked.

"Immediately," I agreed, again thinking of Philippa. She did have experience in this sort of thing. "What are your other requests?"

The girl took a deep breath, clearly bracing for something. "Grace is not an X-Man."

That was a puzzling phrase. "Indeed not. I fail to see the significance of that."

"I don't want you treating him like he is one," she said. "This Rahne Sinclair kid, for example. Grace has told me about her. She's smart, sweet, very good with kids. Prime teacher material. But you've got her so bamboozled she doesn't feel she even has the right to go to college. She told Grace her responsibility to become an X-Man was more important than her own dreams for the future. Well, that's just pure bullshit. I won't let you pull that with Grace."

It was true. Over the years, I had noted my training left very few of my students with a true desire to further their education, even the ones who entered my school with every intention of attending college. I thought of Kitty Pryde and Sam Guthrie. Both brilliant students, taking college courses in their teens. Both abandoned these courses before they were completed. Only Beast and Bobby had earned their degrees. It was a trend I had always found vaguely disturbing. What if mutant equality came tomorrow? My students would be ill prepared to find another occupation. It was not likely to occur, unfortunately.

"He will need to be trained," I pointed out. "David has a tendency to wield his powers far too indiscreetly."

"I told him that too," she said. "And I don't object to you teaching him, so long as you're teaching him about his powers as a whole, rather than focusing solely on the military use of them, so to speak. I just don't want you sticking him in a uniform, teaching him how to use his abilities only as a weapon, and calling him by some silly code name all the time. He is not a secret identity or the alter ego of his powers. His powers are just something he can do."

I heard Wolverine stifling a laugh. It was rather ironic to have the girl who continually referred to my son as "Grace" object to the casual use of a code name. However, there maybe some merit to her suggestion. Perhaps I do see the power and not the person behind it. Earlier in the week, I caught myself addressing a note to Scott as "Cyclops." I had recruited Peter Rasputin for the strength provided by Colossus, never fully understanding the fragile heart of that talented and loving young man until he was all but driven mad with grief. My faults, by these standards, were numerous indeed.

No, I decided. This child does not know me. My methods may be a bit questionable, but my students are fully aware of the risks they undertake in becoming X-Men. Of that, I was certain. They do not blame me. If they do not blame me, this girl is in no position to blame me on their behalf. David would be a different case, of course, not because he was my son, but because of the years of his life he lost in the catatonic state. Perhaps a voice in my mind quietly mentioned the years Scott lost to brain damage in his parents' plane crash, but I ignored it with ease. David was currently too unstable emotionally to even consider training as an X-Man. That was all.

"Very well," I said. "Legion no longer suits him, in any case."

My attempted joke was not well received. Jessica glared at me, as if considering whether ot not she should swing her guitar at my head. I preferred to avoid learning if she could be driven to such an act. "I'm sorry," I hastily apologized. "I am simply unaccustomed to having my teaching methods picked apart so thoroughly."

"So, can you live with this?" she asked. "No automatic X-Men status for Grace?"

Refusing was never an option for me. I would have agreed no matter what she demanded. "Yes, I can accept your terms."

She picked up her guitar case. "Let's go then. Grace is waiting."