*This story is set in an alternate timeline and takes place shortly after the events of When a Dream Isn't Enough and approximately 25 years in the future.

As I approach the graveyard, I feel a familiar uneasiness; the presence of all those people who had suffered unfathomably before and alongside me makes me feel a kind of emptiness in my gut, like someone just hacked a big chunk out of my large intestine or something. You know that feeling?

I come to the graveyard often though, because it always feels like a sanctuary to me. Somehow, being around all those people who have nothing and will never again have anything, except maybe a plethora of worms and a really disgusting odor, seem like family to me...or...at least more like family than any of my relatives.

The living people here, the ones praying for their loved ones, talking to their husbands and wives, friends, daughters and sons, mothers and fathers, and brothers and sisters, are so real to me as well.

Sometimes, when I'm too tired to sleep, I go to the graveyard and talk with the dead. They're such good listeners, and they rarely argue. It's not as if I've lost touch with reality or anything like that; more like I've somehow gotten more in touch with it...at least that's the way it seems to me...

You can't comprehend how much these people know until you sit with them during the long hours of the night and tell them your stories. You say "My soul is lost!" or "My spirits are dismal!", and they tell you, in a voice like the wind against trees, "It's alright, child, we understand!"

Certain stones hold different meanings to me, too. There are the two ancient, worn away ones that stick like old, dried bones out of the ground. Whoever lies beneath these stones must be lonely; no one even knows their names anymore. Then there are the graves with dates like June 1997 - November 1997, or 2001 - 2003; the sound of lullabies and wind-up toys still rings through the air around them. And the graves of people I've known always move me as well. These are people who once laughed, danced, and cried alongside me, and they will never laugh, dance, or cry ever again, no matter how vividly I can feel them beside me.

But none of that matters, because inside me, these people do those things that they've always done, and what they were happiest doing. So many people, and so many memories with them. But my old friend--my best friend--Stephen, whom I've known since I was an innocent...I...don't know what he's doing; I've thought about it a million times, but try as I might, I...can't remember him truly happy...he always brooded too much. So do I. Insert mournful "sigh" here.

But the person I usually come here to see is my best friend, my only love, and my Angel.

She made a closed-mouth half-laugh and settled back in her chair, setting her soda on the ground next to her. The soft evening light shone on her slightly flushed face. That day, she was wearing her short, light pink silk dress. Her golden hair was pulled back, with small, curling tendrils framing her face. God, she was beautiful. ...Joyce's idea of a "perverse Madonna" popped into my head.

I scooted to the edge of my seat and grabbed the arms of her chair to pull it closer, its wooden feet scraping noisily against the marble floor. As I did so, she gracefully pulled her sandaled feet up and underneath her so that she looked to be kneeling--maybe for church--on the chair. She was leaned slightly forward, and my gaze fell...well, you can guess...

"And what would we be thinking about, Mr. Robert?"

"I'm a man, Ange; whattaya think I'm thinkin' about?" I purred.

"That's so mature, Robert."

"I know," I said, grinning hugely. She tried unsuccessfully to hold in her laughs. Instead, she ended up in a fit of giggles, turning red in the face, which really only made her look all the more beautiful.

"Your trigonometry grade is going to suffer for this," she warned, pointing at my book, which lay on the floor where I had gracelessly flopped it a few minutes before.

"No way! I'm kick-ass at Trig!"

"Yeah, a real Trig-god."

"Y' know, cult o' personality an' all."

"You are such a liar," she told me, glaring in false accusation and pushing a strand of hair out of her face.

Now I know I'm the one with the superhuman speed and agility. But I never even saw Angela move off of her chair and onto my lap. She was just there all of a sudden. And it felt so good having her there, like that was where she was supposed to be.

She twined her fingers together behind my neck and pulled her body close to mine. She guided my hands to her waist and pushed me back slightly against the softly brushed black leather of the chair. Before I could even gasp, she had my shirt off, and she was running her divinely tender hands across my chest. I reached over and slowly unfastened her sandals, setting them carefully on the floor...

She was some sort of bizarrely sensual angel tossed down from the heavens and fallen before me in all her perfection yet untainted by mortals. Smooth as glass, soft as feathers. I worshipped her.

And I've been with women before. Lots... Too many. But there are no words to describe Angela that could truly do her justice.

I couldn't count the nights I've spent with my cheek rested against her cool stone under the shelter of the great oak, the tree that sees all. The tree that has been one of my best friends in the world.

And you're saying, "It's just an oak tree, Rob. It doesn't see anything." But I say you're wrong. That tree has seen more than anyone else I ever met. And you're saying, "You're a nut, Rob. You should be locked up." I'm not going to dispute that point.

But picture this: there's a little tree growing in this meadow a long, long time ago. Someone sees that tree and decides a graveyard would be a good thing to put next to it. Then, for a hundred years or something, people bury their loved ones there, beneath the earth. And after a semi-distinguished amount of time, these bodies become the earth. And this tree is there the whole time, living off this earth. It's a sort of cosmic cycle thing, comprendes?

I talk about many things with Angel. A lot of general things, really: what's going down at the School, who Cal Worthington's playing, what intergalactic baddie's butt we just kicked, and so on and so forth. I ask her to forgive me for my "job," because it pays the bills, and who else would hire a mutie like me?

But most of all, I like to tell her about Travis. He's getting so big, and so unlike me. Thank God. He's got the bluest eyes and the longest legs. I don't know how he walks on those things...but he doesn't seem to have any trouble getting into things. Believe me. Sometimes I wish he had a "stop" button. But I still can't believe he's a part of me. He's so...perfect.

Hospital security must be some sort of joke, I decided. Couldn't even keep me out, and I'm not a thief. But the smell almost could. Good God, what did they use to clean these floors?

I heard a wailing noise. Piercing, that noise. I didn't like it--scared the hell outta me. Little, yet bigger than anything else at the same time. But at least I was getting to the right place.

I scooted into an open room and behind the door as a young man passed by in the hall. He was really upset about something...wish I had the time to figure out what about.

As soon as I had the chance, I headed back out into the hall and down toward the far end. Jesus, this was stressing. You'd think I was going after Apocalypse or something...but that's a whole different story...ask me later.

I could smell her already; I had been for quite some time. The scent of her blood made me shiver deliciously. I walked farther down the hall and it almost overwhelmed me to the point of my neglecting to notice a nurse walking from the room. Almost...but there was little space to hide myself by the time I realized I'd forgotten to pay attention.

I should have been paying closer attention to my surroundings. If this had been a drill, I'd already be getting an earful. No open doors...shitshitshit...hope a doorway'll work.

I ducked into the indentation in front of the door nearest me. I let out a sigh of relief as the woman went the other way.

Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis...I counted to ten in my head before continuing. Finally, I walked the remaining twenty-or-so feet to the door and stepped inside.

Immediately, I scanned my surroundings. Her mother was perched in a chair on the far side of the room, and there were a few monitors sitting around the bed.

Angela glowed: little beads of sweat still ran down her face and the upper part of her chest, her hair shone in the disassociating florescent lights, and her smile seemed somehow more than before--wiser and more caring, even though that hadn't seemed possible.

She looked up at me in surprise. Maybe her mother said something; I wasn't listening. It obviously wasn't anything important because she didn't repeat herself.

"Hello," she said somewhat weakly, shifting the small bundle at her breast.

"Y' alright?" I asked, cocking my head a little to the side for a better view.

She smiled. "You can come closer, we won't bite."

I walked right up to the bed, and Angel shifted and raised the loosely-wrapped blue bundle toward me. I almost passed out from the smell. My head reeled, and I grabbed at the bed to steady myself. How could anything possibly smell so wonderfully good yet so bad at the same time? And why am I so fucked up that I get off on bodily fluids?

My eyes came back into focus, and I looked at what my Angel held. I have never been the same since.

What I saw was a tiny Angie there in her arms: Ange's mouth, eyes, hair, skin. But when I looked a little closer, I saw something more: I saw myself there in that hospital bed. The way its head nodded just a little to the side, and how its tiny hands gripped and opened up again was me.

"Isn't he beautiful?" she asked.

"What's his name?" I asked her.

She smiled. "What do you want it to be?"

I looked down at him again. My son... "Travis," I said.

"Travis..." she said slowly. "You're going to be such a handsome one, aren't you, Travis?"

That day, I'd come again with thoughts of Angel running through my brain, but not those which urged me to sit at her grave and pray that she somehow knew I was there, caring.

As I pushed the rusty gate open and stepped into my sanctuary, I saw him. I regarded him silently for a moment before approaching. He was kneeling before her grave, and he smelled like tears.

It's a funny smell tears have: like piss and honey mixed. Don't taste like either, though. Don't ask, okay?

When he heard the gate, he looked up toward me, so much pain in his weirdly glinting eyes. And I almost, like so many times before, felt sorry for him. But even then, I knew I never truly would; some may be able to forgive and forget, but I'm not that civilized.

"May I speak t' you f'r a moment, sir?" I finally asked him.

I know I sound completely uncultured. I always have and probably always will. Usually, it's to my advantage though: no one expects too much from a man who can't even pronounce everyday words correctly. They think I'm a heathen or something. Maybe I am, I don't know. Not like it matters what they think or anything.

He looked up at me with a coldness much practiced. "I'm busy, 'Cat."

Yeah, no shit. You're always busy. "Eva told me t' look f'r y' here... Should I come back when y'r finished, sir?"

"I don't believe this will ever be finished."

I sat down next to him, just an arm's length away from Angel. "Y' don' wanna finish it, or y' can't?"

He looked back down at the stone, pink and soft. "This is not the time or place, boy."

"Pardon me f'r mentioning it, sir, but I haven' been a boy f'r quite some time now."

He looked at me coldly. "What do you want?" His voice was harsh.

"I wanna apologize."

"For what? For what, Robert?" His eyes shone madly. "Nothing you could say could make me hate you any less."

I wanted to feel sorry for this man, this sorry, sad little man. He should be so much more.

"F'r everything. Everything, sir. I want t' apologize f'r not bein' the man I should'ave been. And not bein' an X-Man." This is so hard. I've never apologized before. Not even the time I...well, we won't go into that...but it has to do with leather, handcuffs, and out of school suspension...

"No apology you can make could possibly undo what has been done."

I thought about that for a few minutes. I knew I couldn't undo it. Even our trip to the past couldn't undo it. Because what is passed is passed, and what will be will be. I had known this all along, but I hadn't though he had.

"Then why d' y' carry this on? Why'd y' send us back?"

The man looked up at the sky and then down toward the grave again. At length, his gaze returned to me, and his eyes alone replied, "I have nothing else to live for."

He looked so very old.

"Yer lucky he ain't locked ya up, boy."

I barely heard the voice from the front of the car.

"Slammer ain't no place fer our kind," he said again.

I didn't even have to bother ignoring him because nothing that he could ever say to me would matter ever again. I rested my head against the cool wet glass of the dark-tinted window and dreamed I was dead.

I've never really wondered whether there was a God before, and I didn't then either. Who was I to decide if an all-powerful being had created me or if I had just "happened?" If there is a God, that's fine, but if there isn't, that's fine, too. At least if there wasn't a heaven, I didn't have to worry about the fact that I wasn't going.

I curled my legs up and grabbed my knees, pulling them toward me. I'm the biggest fucking bastard in the whole world.

"Ain't sayin' nuthin', huh?" he said.

I just sat there.

"Don't bother makin' yer own private Hell, kid. Don't do ya no good."

God, I hated him. "shut up," I murmured. He laughed.

The car came to a stop, but I didn't even move. I was numb. I couldn't even think. He looked over his shoulder at me, "You gonna sit here all day? This ain't the end o' the whole fuckin' world."

I just sat there as he opened his door and stepped out into the rain. "Well, ya can sit there all day if that pleases ya, but don't think anyone on this earth feels bad fer yer sorry ass. I told ya ta leave that girl alone, but ya go and fuck her anyway. This is yer fault and no one else's, and I ain't takin' the heat fer ya."

I turned my head toward him and looked at him blankly. "So I guess all X-Men ain't so pure and holy, huh?" He had an almost proud look on his face as he slammed the door. Like he was happy to have me following in his felonious footsteps, even though mine was only a technicality of age.

I love family, don't you?

I rested my head against the window again, the tears now starting to spring forth again. I was such a fool, and now Angel and I were both going to pay for it. God, what had I done?

Professor Xavier had wanted this to be a place for reason and logic to prevail. A place where all could live in harmony. A place that the rest of the world could be modeled after.

As I look at the man before me, I know that he had wanted to do what he could to bring equality to mutants around the world. He had wanted to rid the world of ignorance and pain. He had had a noble goal. But there was one thing this man never considered because he was too occupied in easing hate.

That thing was that he would, himself, get wrapped into the very hate that he tried so fervently to dispel and dissolve.

"Go home, Sir."

"What??"

"Go home. Go back t' y'r fam'ly. Tell 'em y'r sorry. Tell Jean y' love 'er an y' don' wanna fight 'ny more," I paused, but he didn't say anything. "I've always wanted what you have, sir: a fam'ly...people who care about me. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn' 'ave it. An' I'm sorry if, in th' process o' tryin' t' be loved, I took somethin' away from you that y' needed. I didn' mean it. An' that's the truth."

The man says nothing as I stand up and walk toward the gates. I tried my best, as lame of a try as it may have been. I'm sorry, Angel. I'm sorry that you were so afraid of this world that you had to leave it. But me, I'm more afraid to leave it than I am to live in it.

So I leave the man by the soft pink grave, but not without a look back. I will always remember the sight of one of the greatest men on earth, Scott Summers, draped miserably about the grave of the one mutant whose life he could not save when the moment of truth came: his own daughter, Angela Lynn Summers.

The HTML work in this story was done by the author.