Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"The universe is vast."

"But is it infinite?"

(Laughter, children's voices, the crackle of film projector static)

"No, children, the universe isn't infinite. Did you know it actually has an end? Out there, on the great black dome of the sky, you'll find a wall."

(A man's voice responds)

"A wall?"

"Yeah, a wall. And don't forget, I'm the one who traveled across the universe, and found it……"

(The man's voice is gently interrupted by another. More laughter. The film continues. Muffled conversation from behind the seats)

"Have we seen this one before?"

"Yes."

"You love it that much?"

"It was our first movie night. Have you forgotten?"

"Almost. I don't remember many things these days. My memory…… it's not what it was."

"Well, good thing you have me."

"Yes. Good thing I have you."

(A soft kiss lands on a forehead. A comfortable silence falls)

……

"Sometimes," a voice, quieter now, breaks the silence, "I worry you'll just…… leave. Vanish back into your cosmos and not return."

"I know."

"Promise me you won't."

"I won't."

"Never?"

"Never."

"Alright. Alright…… I'll hold you to that. Now, let's watch the film. These old reels always make me feel young again. Not that I'd want to go back to the past. Would you want to go back, Paul? Tell me."

"I wouldn't. But if I had to choose…… I'd go back to the first time I met you."

"With me? In that glass cage? You always did have a talent for courting trouble."

"Takes one to know one, John."

……

That memory, at least, remains clear to me. We were young then—foolish in some ways, yet possessed of pure nerve and outstanding courage. Our eyes were full of stars, our hearts set on changing the world. I don't long for the past, but as Paul said, if it were to meet him again, I'd go back in a heartbeat. To that rain-lashed night, cold enough to seep into the bone. I was no pilot stranded in the desert, nor that I've drawn boa constrictors, but I did, on that night, meet my own Little Prince. My true miracle.

So, forget whatever tales Mr. McCartney might spin during movie nights. If you want the real story, you've come to the right place. I was always the better storyteller.

Now, where to begin? I suppose Paul has the right of it. Let's start at the beginning. With our meeting.

……

The rain fell in torrents.

New York rain always carried a certain smell—a mix of durt and rust. It hammered against the windows of the Rolls-Royce like a barrage of tiny stones. John Lennon leaned back in the plush leather seat, his gaze lost in the blur of city lights smearing the glass. The glow from the tablet on his lap cast pale shadows on his face, showing the data streams he had no mind to read. His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the seat. Pale, thin, and sharp-edged, he looked almost sculpted from something brittle and lifeless in the erratic light. The faint, intricate map of blue veins beneath the skin of his wrist, punctuated by the familiar dots of needle marks, told a story of a long and wearying war with his own body.

"How much longer?" His voice was soft, yet it carried an undeniable edge of command.

"Five minutes, sir," the bodyguard in the front seat replied. "The target is confirmed in the Class-D containment block. Dr. McCoy's equipment will be required for extraction."

John gave a slight nod. From an inner pocket of his impeccably tailored suit jacket, he retrieved a small silver pill case. He swallowed two tablets dry. At twenty-one, he had been living with this frail vessel for over a decade. A congenital immune deficiency, cardiopulmonary issues, and a roster of rare, complex syndromes made every normal breath feel like a minor miracle. Yet, none of it had stopped him from becoming the most astute information broker on the East Coast.

"Charles is aware?" John asked, flipping the target's dossier.

"Professor Xavier is briefed. The Institute is ready for the target's arrival."

A ghost of a smile touched John's lips. Charles Xavier—one of the world's most powerful mutants, and also the man he had secretly funded for years. To the public, John was the reclusive heir to the late business magnate Alfred Lennon's fortune. Only a select few knew that this fragile-looking young man was the silent patron of the Xavier Institute, and the architect of the intelligence network that had shielded countless mutants from government purges.

"Target: Paul McCartney. Age sixteen. Provisional Classification: Omega-Level." John read silently. "Dr. McCoy's preliminary analysis suggests an ability leaning towards enforced healing and regeneration……"

An Omega-Level. At that designation, a mutant was less a person and more a natural disaster given form. But this boy's power wasn't like Jean's mind-piercing defenses that inspired dread, or Ororo's world-shattering storms. It was healing. Of course, if the file was accurate, it explained the government's desperate, clawing interest. A perfect specimen for their immortality projects. A bunch of cowards in lab coats, terrified of death yet disdainful of life. A familiar tightness clenched in John's chest, prompting a dry cough. He would not let them have this boy.

The motorcade slid to a halt on the periphery of a desolate industrial park. Shrugging on a heavy overcoat, John stepped out, flanked by his security detail, into the downpour. They entered a nondescript building. Inside, it was a different world. An elevator descended deep underground. When the doors hissed open, John's eyebrow lifted slightly in recognition. The familiar figure waiting for them was a welcome sight.

Hank McCoy, codename "Beast", the ever-reliable tech expert of the X-Men stood there waiting, his brow furrowed in concern. Despite his formidable, bestial appearance, clumsily contained in a lab coat and glasses, John had known him for years. The fearsome furry blue exterior housed one of the kindest and most formidable minds he'd ever encountered.

"John, you shouldn't be here," Hank chided, "Your watch shows your temperature is already below normal. This is an unnecessary risk—"

"I need to make my own assessment," John interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Is everything prepared?"

Hank sighed, and nodded. They moved through a series of reinforced security doors, arriving finally at an observation room. Through the one-way mirror, John saw him.

Paul McCartney.

The boy was huddled in a corner, his hands bound in thick, metallic restraints. He looked small for his age, with delicate, almost pretty feature. Dark, curling hair fell over his eyes, which were wide, brown, and filled with a panicked confusion. Two guards stood rigidly at the far end of the room, disarmed and neutralized under Hank's supervision.

"Why are they standing so far away?" John asked.

"Reported effective range is ten meters," Hank explained, adjusting his glasses. "Within that radius, he seems capable of…… well, almost anything. Healing, restructuring matter. But the data suggests the ability may be instinctive, so he cannot fully control it."

John's eyes remained fixed on the boy. He saw the subtle tremors in his shoulders, the silent movement of his lips. At a nod from Hank, one of the guards took a hesitant step forward, and cross the boundary.

The change was instantaneous.

The guard's tie seemed to unravel. It twisted, its material shearing and re-knitting in the blink of an eye, transforming into a patch of perfect, seamless skin that spread over a recent scar on his cheek. The scar vanished. The boy, Paul, hadn't even looked up.

"Remarkable." John breathed.

"That's just the tip of the iceberg." Hank said, leading him to a console. He pulled up a surveillance feed from hours earlier. "Watch. During the initial containment, while he's still under the government's control."

On the screen, a lab tech nicked his own arm deeply while attempting to take a blood sample. In that instant, the boy's head snapped up. His eyes, just for a fleeting second, met the tech's. The wound sealed itself, disappearing without a trace of blood or scar tissue.

"He healed him. Just like that? The range is the only limit?" John asked, his mind racing.

"More than healed," Hank countered, shaking his head. "The subsequent medical check revealed the technician's myopia was corrected. A childhood fracture, fully remediated. Paul's ability appears to restore the subject to a baseline of perfect health. He requires ambient material to fuel the process, as you saw with the cloth. But when tested without external materials, he still heals. The cost is a temporary reduction in his own body mass. It's as if…… he cannibalizes parts of himself to make the repairs."

John's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm. If this power could be channeled to cure his…… No. If he could help this boy harness the power……

A blaring alarm shattered the silence. Lights flashed crimson. "Dr.McCoy! Government forces are on-site! They're demanding immediate handover!" a voice crackled from Hank's comm.

John's demeanor shifted instantly, his gaze turning to ice. "How?"

"A leak. Or they tracked my signal! The higher-ups have always had their eyes on us, afraid we'd become a threat one day." Hank said, his face grim. "We need to evacuate. Now!"

John looked back to the observation room. "No. The boy's coming with us."

"John, be rational! We can stick to the contingency and intercept the transport later. Your condition—"

"Is precisely why we can't wait. I know these people. They'll sink their teeth in and never let go." John was already moving towards the door. "The device, Hank. Give it to me. Let me talk to him."

When John entered the room, Paul finally lifted his head. Their eyes met fully for the first time.

"Stay back," Paul whispered, his voice raspy from disuse. "Please. I don't want to hurt you."

John didn't hesitate. He walked forward. Crossing the ten-meter threshold felt like passing through an invisible field. As he neared Paul, a wave of dizziness washed over him, so potent he had to brace a hand against the wall. He glanced down. The wool of his overcoat was subtly dissolving, the fibers rewoven into something else. His suit jacket was exposed to the chill air, but he barely felt the cold. The constant, grinding ache in his chest, his companion for years, was gone. His lungs drew in a deep, clear, effortless breath. It was like drowning, and then, suddenly, breathing.

"You……" Paul stared, his own eyes wide with shock, as if he too felt the shift.

John knelt, bringing himself to the boy's eye level. "My name is John Lennon. I'm here to take you away from this place."

Paul's gaze was wary, haunted. "They all say that. Then they put me in another room. They test me and use me."

"I know what you can do, Paul." John's voice was low, "But I also know what they want to do to you. Come with me. The Xavier Institute can offer you freedom. We can teach you to control this. To use it properly."

The sound of raised voices and scuffling came from beyond the door. The agents were getting closer. John extended his hand. It was a calm, open offer, with no pressure. "Your choice. Stay here, become their experiment. Or trust me, come with me now."

Paul looked from John's eyes to his outstretched hand. Then, slowly, he lifted his shackled wrists and placed them in John's palm.

With a crisp click, the device in John's hand deactivated the restraints. They clattered to the floor. Surprise flickered in Paul's expression—the simple, easy freedom was clearly unexpected.

John stood, pulling Paul to his feet. Hank fell in behind them as they moved quickly. At the elevator, John glanced down at the boy. "From now on," he said, "you only use your ability when I give the word. Understood?"

Paul nodded, his small, unnaturally warm hand gripping John's tightly.

They moved through the corridors, and headed outside. Hank and the guards forming a protective cordon. John felt a spring in his step he hadn't known in years, the lingering effect of Paul's power still humming in his veins. But as they put more distance between themselves and the containment block, the sensation began to fade. The familiar vise-grip tightened around his ribs. Each breath became a conscious effort again. Spots danced at the edge of his vision. He glanced at Paul and saw the boy watching him intently, sweat beading on his temples, visibly fighting the instinct to reach out with his power.

"John?" Hank's voice was laced with concern.

John shook his head, jaw clenched, forcing himself forward. That brief taste of wholeness had been a dangerous seduction. But this was his burden, not the boy's. The government tracked mutants by their unique energy signatures. They must have Paul's. He would not make them a beacon for a missile strike. Endurance was a skill he had mastered long ago.

They burst through the exit into the lashing rain. The vehicles were just ahead. And then, a white-hot spike of agony drove through John's chest. He stumbled, his knees buckling, but Paul was there, small and surprisingly strong, catching him. The moment their bodies connected, the warmth flooded back, the pain receding like a tide.

"Your heart……" Paul murmured, "It's not just that. I can't fix it all right now."

John's hand shot out, closing around the boy's wrist. "Stop, Paul." he commanded, "It's alright. We need to move."

The bodyguards bundled John into the back of the car, Paul scrambled in after him. As the door slammed and the motorcade pulled away, John finally let the facade crumble. He slumped against the seat, his breathing a ragged, shallow thing. His trembling hands found the pill case again.

"You need help," Paul insisted. He cast a nervous glance out the rear window, then back at John. One hand still clung to John's sleeve.

"Not now," John gritted out. "Your power, it's like a signal flare. They can track it."

"How do you know that?" Paul asked, surprised.

"Because I'm the one who found you. I wrote your file. Intelligence is my role at the Institute, Paul." John managed a weak, wry twist of his lips. "I know everything they wrote about you."

As the car sped towards Westchester, Paul gradually relaxed, but his vigilant gaze never strayed far from John, monitoring every shallow breath.

"Why?" the boy asked, after a long silence. "Why do you save me?"

John watched the rain-streamed window, the world a smear of darkness and light. His answer was almost lost in the sound of the storm and the engine.

"Because we are both prisoners, Paul. You, of a power too great for this world. Me, of a body that could fall apart at any moment." He turned his head, meeting the boy's earnest gaze. "In a way, I suppose I can understand you."

Paul considered this. Then, wordlessly, he shifted closer on the seat, until his shoulder was pressed lightly against John's arm.

"I'm going to help you," Paul vowed quietly, with a resolve no youth should possess.

John didn't answer. He simply closed his eyes. He knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and exhilarating, that their destinies were now irrevocably entwined. It was a dangerous, unpredictable alliance. And it was the closest thing to a miracle he had ever touched. He thought of the old story, the one about the prince from the stars who fell to Earth. Before Paul, John had always worked from the shadows, a ghost directing operations. He never retrieved the students himself. Was this fate? He opened his eyes. In the comforting darkness of the car, he felt the solid, warm weight of the boy leaning against him, asleep at last, exhausted by fear and wonder. Watching him, John remembered the line from the story, the one he'd once underlined in red, and felt a strange lurch in his chest:

"People have forgotten this truth," the fox said. "But you mustn't forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed."

The cars raced through the night, leaving the darkness and the heavy rain behind. They sped swiftly onwards, a grand escape, towards tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The night at the Xavier Institute were unlike any nights Paul had ever experienced. It was too quiet, with only the sound of wind rustling through the ancient oak trees and the faint, unidentifiable cries of some nocturnal animal in the distance. It was a world away from the small bedroom in his memory in Liverpool, where he could always hear the neighbors arguing, his brother Mike's snoring, even the scuttling of mice. Here, the walls were too thick, the space too vast, isolating him from everything. He felt as if he'd been locked in another cage, only this one had no surveillance.

He had been assigned a comfortable single dorm room with a private bathroom, a bed, a bookshelf filled with books, and a brand-new record player—secretly placed there by Hank McCoy, the blue-furred, intimidating-looking yet exceptionally gentle scientist. But the comfort of his surroundings couldn't disperse the heavy loneliness weighing on his heart. The faces of his father, Jim, and his brother, Mike, were painfully clear in his mind. Were they okay? Had government agents come for them? Did they think he was dead, or worse, an ungrateful son and brother who had left without a word?

Paul curled up on a chair by the window, hugging his knees, gazing out at the moonlit lawn. He tried not to feel, but his ability was like an extra layer of skin, perceiving all the life pulses within a ten-meter radius. The plankton drifting in the water flowing through the pipes, the faint spark of dormant insects under the floorboards, the steady breathing of the boy in the next room who could teleport…… Imperfect. Everything was imperfect, all needed fixing. This constant, whispering urge tormented his nerves. Paul had to exert immense self-control to stop himself from unconsciously making the plankton in the water multiply and block the pipe, or awakening that insect to a season it shouldn't belong to.

And then, Paul felt him.

John Lennon.

In Paul's perception, the rhythm of John was like a faint blip on a radar, steady, but flickering in and out. The music inside him was intermittent, the melody beautiful, but the physical "record" playing it kept skipping, unsteady. Paul didn't even need to look intentionally to sense the internal dissonance—the occasional irregular heartbeat, the subtle, inefficient gas exchange in the lungs, the circulatory system like a clock always responding half a beat too slow.

John lived downstairs. Next to Dr. Hank McCoy's lab and the temporary infirmary. Paul knew, because the source of that persistent gravitational pull, calling him to fix it, was right there.

A powerful impulse seized him. He just needed to walk down the stairs, cross the hallway, and knock on the door. He wouldn't even need to touch him, just entering the room, staying within that ten-meter range, and his ability would activate automatically, smoothing out the chaotic, weak, faulty parts inside John's body like an iron pressing out wrinkles. Paul could make him no longer pale, no longer weak. He could let him run and laugh freely without worrying about choking or fainting the next moment.

Would he be happy? That sharp-eyed young man whose voice always carried a trace of weariness?

Paul almost stood up. But just then, the words John spoke to him on their late-night meeting echoed clearly in his ears.

They had been standing in the institute's astonishing circular office, facing Professor Charles Xavier, the telepathic mutant in the wheelchair.

"Paul possesses an extraordinary gift, John," Professor Xavier said, gently yet powerfully, sounding directly in Paul's mind. "But our primary goal here is to help him learn control, not be controlled. To help him find himself, not become a tool."

John had been standing by the window, the moonlight outlining his gaunt profile. He nodded at the words, his gaze settling on Paul with a complexity Paul couldn't decipher.

"I know, Charles." John's voice was soft but exceptionally firm. "That's why I brought him here. He is not my personal physician, nor is he anyone's panacea. He must first be Paul McCartney."

He must first be Paul McCartney.

The words were like a bucket of cold water, dousing Paul's impulse to go downstairs. John knew what he could do, better than anyone. His frail body moving with sudden ease during their first meeting was the most direct proof. But he had clearly drawn a line. He didn't want a passively obedient healing machine. He wanted…… Paul wasn't sure himself what John wanted. Perhaps the ordinary boy from Liverpool who loved playing the guitar, writing silly songs, and roughhousing with his brother? That boy seemed very far away now.

Waves of overwhelming loneliness washed over Paul again in the dead silence of the room. He turned his face away, stifling a sob. He hadn't shed a single tear when the agents forcibly took him away, flying him across the ocean to America. But Paul missed his father, the rough palm patting his shoulder and a voice saying, "It's alright, son." He missed the shining look in Mike's eyes when he watched him play the guitar. Here, he was just the mutant boy with the dangerous ability, the special case brought in by John Lennon.

Downstairs, John's presence was like a faint, flickering lamp, attracting him, this lost moth. Paul could help him. He knew he could. This certainty was rooted in every inch of his instinct. But John's respect for his own self-awareness was like an invisible wall, keeping him out.

Paul buried his face in his knees, feeling a weariness he'd never known before. His ability was a blessing and a curse, tying him to someone who might need him but refused to use him, making him feel all the more isolated.

Meanwhile, downstairs in the temporary infirmary, John was frowning at a stack of monitoring data Hank had given him. The heart rate and other vitals monitored by his watch showed that the time spent in the car with Paul had been the most stable, the closest to normal, he'd been in months. The ever-present heaviness and suffocation had briefly left him.

He closed his eyes, still able to recall the scalding heat of the boy's palm and the strange sensation of that energy flowing through his limbs. It was the force of life itself, it was health, something he had never truly possessed.

The temptation was immense. John only needed to ask, or even without asking, just allow Paul to come near. That kind-hearted boy, who seemed to crave connection, would likely help him willingly.

But John had seen the confusion and profound loneliness in Paul's eyes. He had been ripped from his familiar life, and as a mutant whose identity was now exposed without protection, the potential outcomes were grim. They had acted quickly this time, but they weren't always so lucky. He had heard Charles describe the boy's potential—not just healing, but possibly touching deeper mysteries of life itself. That was also why they had rated Paul's level so high. He could not, and would not, reduce such a being to a mere appendage for sustaining his own life.

John turned off the monitor, plunging the room into darkness. He could feel the glow from upstairs, a warm, vibrant energy field that seemed capable of mending everything, pulling at his very flesh like a magnet.

John clenched his hands, his knuckles turning white from the force. He needed Paul's help, yes, he needed it more than anyone. But not at the cost of that boy's future.

"Find your own path, Paul," John whispered soundlessly into the unseen, silent night. "After you learn to be yourself…… if you're still willing, then you can try to help me."

Upstairs, Paul seemed to sense something. He lifted his head and looked out at the moon, as if he could pierce through time and space to see the equally lonely, sleepless figure below. On this night, two souls bound by fate each chewed on their own solitude and resolve. A connection had quietly formed in the silence.

Chapter Text

The morning sun streamed through the enormous stained-glass windows, casting dappled light onto the broad corridors of the Xavier Institute. Paul stood awkwardly by a classroom door, clutching the schedule Hank had given him. Young mutants passed by—one with skin entirely of metal, another with books floating around them. A blond boy rushed past, leaving tiny ice crystals hanging in the air.

"Bobby!" Another boy chased after him, a lighter in his hand spitting flame, spinning as if ready to attack. "Don't you run! Have the guts to face me!"

The door of a nearby classroom suddenly swung wide open. Paul felt a gale force sweep the hallway, but it wasn't harmful, more like a warning before a storm. A young woman with short white hair and dark skin peered out.

"Drake! Allerdyce! Stop." The female teacher's voice rumbled with distant thunder. "Especially you, John Allerdyce! Are you trying to burn the whole place down again?"

Bobby Drake, the boy who could summon ice, stopped running and stuck out his tongue ruefully. John quickly extinguished the flame in his hand, snapping the lighter shut and bumping into Bobby roughly. They slung arms over each other's shoulders, close as brothers.

The two boys walked off, talking. John Allerdyce looked back and shouted at the teacher, "Ororo, you're too strict! We're not untrained kids!" As he passed, he glanced at Paul, looking rather pleased with himself.

The students here knew each other well, all seeming comfortable and relaxed, just the same like any other schools, schools Paul used to belong. The lively atmosphere was different from Paul's own orderly, occasionally cheerful family, but it only made Paul feel more lonely. He didn't know anyone except Hank and John Lennon. An outsider with no friends, who didn't even know how to find his classroom.

"You're new here?" a lazy voice sounded beside him.

Paul turned to see a boy who seemed younger than him, leaning against the wall. He had thick, neatly combed black hair, handsome, lean features, but his eyes held a detachment and calmness that didn't match his age.

"Uh, yes. Paul McCartney."

"George Harrison." The boy nodded, a form of greeting. He wasn't expressive, but held no malice either. "Lost?"

"A bit," Paul admitted. "Looking for the 'World Mutant History' classroom."

"This way." George was succinct, turning to lead the way without hesitation. He walked quietly, like a cat.

Paul followed him. "Been at the Institute long?"

"Five years," George said flatly. "Came when I was ten."

"You…… must miss home?" Paul asked, thinking of his own bone-deep longing from last night.

George's step faltered almost imperceptibly. His profile seemed to tighten slightly.

"No," he replied, his voice quieter. "My family doesn't remember me."

Paul was stunned.

George saw his confusion and offered a small, humorless twist of his lips.

"My ability is Erasure. Not the blackboard kind," he explained, as if stating an unrelated fact. "When I was ten, it went out of control, erased a corner of my house. What happened after…… you can imagine. For the safety of my mum, dad, Louise and the others……before I came to the Institute, I voluntarily erased all their memories of me."

A chill ran through Paul. Voluntarily? A ten-year-old, choosing to make his loved ones forget him? He looked at George's calm expression and suddenly understood the source of the detachment in his eyes. It was a pain rooted deep in the soul, a profound lack of understanding. At least Paul knew his father and brother back home would miss him. George had nothing.

"I'm sorry." Paul said softly.

George shrugged and pushed open a classroom door. "Here. You get used to it. Everyone here has a bit of a story."

The classroom was smaller than Paul expected, more like a seminar room. A few people were already seated in the front. A brown-haired boy with red quartz glasses, sitting ramrod straight, was diligently reviewing his notes. Next to him was a girl with very long red hair, beautiful, with a gentle aura. She noticed Paul's gaze and gave him a friendly smile. Paul immediately felt a strange calmness, the turmoil in his mind smoothed over as if by a warm breeze. In the corner, a man who looked disheveled and burly had his feet up on the desk, blissfully smoking with his eyes closed. His hair stuck out on both sides, resembling cat ears. Paul couldn't help but cough, waving away the smoke drifting towards him.

"That's Scott Summers, Cyclops. Our class monitor and training captain," George whispered, pointing at the boy with the quartz glasses as he led Paul to a seat. "Next to him is Jean Grey, telepath. They're older than us, already joined the X-Men, which means that they can go on missions. The one in the corner is Logan, codename Wolverine. Teaches close combat and history. Yes, unfortunately, he's our teacher for this class. Most of the time, he's fine…… if you can stand his cigars and bad temper."

Just then, the smoking man—Logan—suddenly opened his eyes. His sharp gaze swept over Paul like a knife. He sniffed the air, his brow furrowing.

"New scent," his eyes scrutinizing. "Smells like…… a stuffed toy. You the kid that can cure anything? The Panacea?"

Paul felt intensely awkward. He already had a codename before even arriving? Jean gave Logan a disapproving look. "Logan!"

Scott also looked up, adjusting his glasses, and said seriously, "Welcome to the Institute, Paul. Please ignore Logan's inappropriate remarks."

Logan snorted derisively and closed his eyes again, as if having lost interest in everything.

The class bell rang. Logan straightened up impatiently and shuffled to the lectern. He turned a blind eye to the students fidgeting, completely immersed in his lecture. George took the opportunity to quietly fill Paul in on more about the Institute and some anecdotes.

There weren't many teachers at the Institute. Professor Charles Xavier, the headmaster every student meets upon enrollment, taught literature and sociology, and guided the children in mastering their abilities. He founded the Institute to give more mutant children a place to belong. He advocated for harmony between humans and mutants, opposed racial extremism. However, according to George, the human government feared the Professor's powerful telepathic and mind-control abilities, and the cerebro unit hidden deep within the Institute. Wearing it, the Professor could locate almost every mutant and human on the planet. That's how he found Paul and other children in need.

Paul had already met the Beast, Hank. Besides research and medical duties, he also taught biochemistry. Paul's ability training was specially assigned to him. Storm, Ororo, the female teacher Paul met in the hallway, was one of the original X-Men, with the ability to control the weather. The Xavier Institute respected the children's choices. Only those over eighteen, who passed tests, and were willing to join the X-Men had the chance to participate in dangerous operations, protecting everyone's safety and rescuing unfortunate compatriots. Paul listened, captivated, temporarily forgetting his own predicament.

During the break, he mustered the courage to talk to Jean. Her voice was gentle, reassuring.

"How are you feeling, Paul? Settling in?"

"It's very different from my life before," Paul admitted. "Everything is so unfamiliar."

"We've all been through this process," Jean said with a smile. "I was just as lost when I first arrived."

Scott joined the conversation too. He spoke precisely, but you could see his integrity and sense of responsibility. "If your ability involves the life field, you'll likely need specialized training with Dr. McCoy. From my own experience, control is the key."

At lunch in the cafeteria, Paul sat with George. George ate as quietly as he did everything else, making no sound. Paul watched him, the feeling of them being fellow outcasts growing stronger. They had both lost their connection to a normal family because of their gifts, forced to find their place in this sanctuary.

"Ability control class starts this afternoon," George said after his last bite. "Hank's teaching you alone. Might be a bit challenging."

Sure enough, in the specially designed training room, Paul faced a complex bio-feedback instrument, trying to restrain his energy field which was as natural as breathing. Hank patiently guided him, "Try to perceive it, Paul. Feel its boundaries like you feel your arm. Then, imagine a barrier, stopping it from automatically spilling out when you don't need it."

It was difficult. Like asking someone to stop their own heartbeat. Several times, as Paul held the prepared cloth and tried to concentrate, his energy field spread uncontrollably. A slightly wilted potted plant in the training room instantly revived, its branches and leaves growing wildly to the ceiling. A bacterial culture on Hank's lab bench, which had a slight structural flaw, suddenly became perfect, rendering the previous modeling efforts useless. The cloth in Paul's hands was quickly consumed.

"Sorry, Dr. McCoy……" Paul said dejectedly.

"It's alright, Paul. This takes time," Hank comforted him, very understanding of his struggle. "Your ability is connected to the essence of life. It's more fundamental, and harder to restrain, than most abilities."

By the end of the training, Paul was exhausted, more so than when confined in the observation room and tested round the clock in the government facility. This was a mental grind.

Walking out, Paul was surprised to find George waiting for him. He walked back with George, crossing the Institute's grounds. The setting sun cast a golden glow on the ancient buildings, making them breathtakingly beautiful. As the cool autumn breeze blew, Paul's perception gently warned him again—a bird landed on the grass in front of them, tweeting out in distress.

He didn't need to look to know the bird's wing was injured. Paul almost instinctively wanted to release his ability to heal it. But he stopped, remembering Hank's lessons, and suppressed the impulse.

However, George beside him crouched down and gently, almost pityingly, touched the bird.

There was no light, no sound. The moment George's finger made contact, the bird stopped its distressed cries. The injury on its wing remained, but the pain in its eyes vanished. It blinked blankly, then flapped its wings and flew away in an awkward but no longer painful manner.

It had forgotten the pain.

George stood up, his face still expressionless, but Paul saw a flash of sadness in his eyes.

"Sometimes, erasing pain is easier than healing it," George said, then continued walking ahead.

Some wounds need to heal on their own, you can't always wait for others to help. Paul watched George's retreating back, then looked in the direction the bird had flown, a mix of emotions in his heart. He possessed the power to grant perfection and vitality. George possessed the power to grant nothingness and oblivion. In their different ways, they were swimming in the lonely sea of the world.

Paul McCartney, a transfer student who spent his first day at the Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. He had made his first friend, met future comrades and teachers. The weight carried by the word "ability" was not something he fully understood yet. But at least, he was no longer walking alone. And the young man who lived downstairs, who had brought him here, was perhaps, at this very moment, quietly watching from the window.

Chapter Text

Unlike Paul, who was adapting to his new life beneath the sunlight, John's world existed primarily in the shadows. His den—or as he preferred to call it, his Elysium—was nestled underground within the Institute, adjacent to Hank's laboratory. This proximity allowed Hank to monitor his physical condition and ensured his work remained utterly confidential. The room was dense with servers, its walls adorned with displays large and small. Data streams, encrypted communications, and live surveillance feeds from across the globe flickered incessantly, like countless streams feeding a vast ocean. Green and blue lines of code were the fish darting through the dim waters of John's kingdom.

This was John's battlefield. No dazzling clashes of superpowers, only the silent symphony of cyber warfare.

John's mornings typically began with a handful of pills and a black coffee, before he submerged himself in the endless sea of information. Professor Charles Xavier used Cerebro to locate mutants in need, perceiving those terrified and helpless minds. He was the Institute's indispensable mind. And John was the hand within the digital world that provided precise coordinates, cleared obstacles, and anticipated dangers.

His fingers danced across keyboards, lines of code cascading like waterfalls as he infiltrated encrypted government databases, extracting plans for imminent mutant raids. He intercepted secret communications among Brotherhood members, analyzing Magneto's next radical move. He forged identities, diverted funds, established secure evacuation routes…… The intelligence network John meticulously wove was like a great spider, its threads spanning the globe's grey areas, holding fast to the finest, most advanced tremors, providing vital informational support for X-Men operations.

John knew deeply that mutants, Charles included, could sometimes over-rely on their formidable innate abilities. Charles believed in the power of the mind; Magneto worshipped the supremacy of the magnetic field. But they often underestimated the terrifying potential humans could manifest when driven by fear—a potential reliant on no natural gift.

Like now, as he gazed at a newly decrypted file on his screen—the Sentinel Program, a hunter-killer robot initiative. Developed and produced by Trask Industries with government funding. Design objective: identify, suppress, and ultimately exterminate mutants. Prototype test videos showed it could simulate multiple mutant abilities, learn autonomously, and adapt to high-intensity combat.

And there was the intelligence he'd traded for from an old acquaintance, Caliban, who ran a mutant black-market information post: a "power-suppressing collar" based on gene-inhibition technology was being secretly mass-produced in a factory. Once this device was fastened, even the most powerful mutant would be stripped of their might, rendered more vulnerable than an ordinary human.

Hank entered carrying two freshly brewed coffees, his blue brows furrowing deeply at the content on the screens. "Good god…… They're actually building these things."

John accepted the coffee, took a sip. His pale face showed no expression, but his eyes were cold as honed steel. "Fear breeds weapons, Hank. It always has. Every time Magneto publicly proclaims mutants the superior race, every time he attempts to violently establish mutant supremacy, he adds another zero to the budget proposals for these projects."

This was the core of his divergence from Magneto. Erik Lensherr, Magneto, leader of the Brotherhood, Charles's longtime friend and now estranged adversary, sought to create a world ruled solely by mutants. A pure utopia, untainted by humanity. John, utterly human, an anomaly living hidden among mutants, one who had received life-saving help from these powered beings, who lived alongside them daily and understood their yearnings and pains, held firm to this belief—that one day, in the distant future, humans and mutants could stand together under the blue sky and walk towards genuine happiness.

"What we want isn't one race enslaving another," John reflected. "We want a world that can embrace all differences. Whether you're a mutant born with the X-gene, or a human like me, who depends on medical technology and drugs just to survive."

The goal was profoundly difficult. He not only had to protect mutants from persecution but also prevent extremist elements among mutants from escalating conflicts. Simultaneously, he had to seek potential allies within human society, striving for understanding and acceptance. A dance on a knife's edge, a Sisyphus-like struggle against the boulder.

During work breaks, John would occasionally pull up the Institute's internal surveillance, his gaze briefly lingering on Paul. He saw Paul walking to class with George, sweating profusely in Hank's training room as he struggled to control his ability, saw him surrounded by friendly new classmates at lunch, his face finally breaking into a smile fitting for a sixteen-year-old boy, albeit somewhat shy.

Seeing that smile, John felt the familiar constriction in his chest ease slightly. He knew Paul's ability was unconsciously affecting him, even through several floors. It was a continuous, gentle sustenance, like a fine spring rain slowly mending his ravaged body.

But John never proactively summoned Paul. He even deliberately minimized encounters with the boy. He didn't want Paul to feel his value lay solely in his ability; he refused to let the shadow of coercion fall again over those eyes that had just begun to gleam with vitality.

One afternoon, Paul came to the lab with Hank for routine physical data collection. Hank wanted to study the long-term effects of Paul's energy field on John. It was their first close contact in days.

When Paul entered the room and stepped within the ten-meter radius, John distinctly felt a warmth infuse his limbs. The constant pain vanished, his breathing smoothed out again, even his thoughts sharpened. He nearly sighed aloud at the comfort.

Paul seemed to sense something too. He looked at John, a question in his eyes.

Hank, busy connecting sensors, missed the silent exchange.

"Settling in alright here?" John broke the silence.

"Yeah," Paul nodded, his gaze sweeping over the cold machinery. "George is really nice. Jean and Scott too. Logan…… he is intimidating."

John's lips curved slightly. "He's accustomed to that demeanor. But he'll become one of your most reliable comrades."

The data collection concluded quickly. As Paul departed, the cherished warmth receded, the familiar frailty slowly returning like an incoming tide. John leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and silently endured the stark contrast.

Paul paused at the doorway and glanced back. Seeing John's weary face and the fatigue etched between his brows, he hesitated, then said softly, "Mr. Lennon, if you need, I can……"

"Not necessary, Paul," John interjected, opening his eyes, his gaze steady. "Focus on your studies. Learn to control your ability. That's what matters most for you now."

Paul looked at him, seeming to want to say more, but ultimately just nodded and followed Hank out.

After the door closed, John stretched, drawing a deep breath. The air still seemed to carry a trace of the boy's vibrant, life-filled scent. He returned to his desk and turned his gaze back to the data and intelligence on his screens—information that held the fates of countless mutants. He knew he trod a dangerous tightrope, balancing his own deep-seated desire for health against his respect and protectiveness for that young soul. And beneath it all surged the even more unpredictable undercurrents determining the future of two races.

He could not collapse. Not yet, at least. Not just for himself, but for Paul, for all the children at the Institute, and for that dream of a shared future. John moved his mouse, closed the file on the Sentinel robots, and opened another encrypted communication.

For him, the battle never ceased.

Chapter Text

The circular conference room was steeped in a heavy atmosphere. The massive holographic display screen showed the Sentinel robot schematics and photos of the power-suppressing collars decrypted by John. Charles Xavier sat at the head of the table, seemingly lost in deep thought. Ororo, Hank, Scott, Jean, and Logan, who had been summoned temporarily, sat around the table. John sat in a slightly darker corner, his fingertips tapping the table, his face ghostly pale under the cold light of the screen.

"The situation is more severe than we imagined," Hank pointed at the simulated combat data of the Sentinels. "Their adaptive learning systems mean traditional confrontations utilizing mutant abilities will become extremely difficult. They grow stronger with each fight."

"And these collars……" Ororo's voice was icy, "If deployed on a large scale, any of our rescue operations will become immensely dangerous."

Scott clasped his hands, his expression serious. "We must prioritize finding and destroying the facilities producing these collars. Direct confrontation is unwise. We need precise intelligence, a well-planned raid."

Logan snorted, an unlit cigar in his mouth. "Easier said than done, Slim. How? Where? These rats are buried deeper than you think."

All eyes turned almost involuntarily towards John in the corner. He was the core of their intelligence.

John slowly raised his head, his gaze sweeping over the others before finally settling on Charles.

"I've pinpointed several suspicious locations for the factory facilities. Verification is underway. That's not the thorniest issue." John paused. What came next was the main point. "The uneasy part is how to fundamentally neutralize the Sentinel threat. Their core structure is made from a special polymer alloyed with Adamantium, granting extreme defensive capabilities and resistance to most energy attacks."

"What do you propose, John?" Charles asked gently. He could sense the turbulence beneath the surface of John's thoughts but, out of respect, did not probe.

John stopped tapping the table. "I have a thought. But the risks are extremely high." He chose his words carefully. "The Sentinels rely on intricate metallic structures. Theoretically, a power exists that could disintegrate them at the atomic level before activation, or at least permanently disable their key components."

Hank caught on immediately. "You mean…… magnetic control? Magneto?"

Silence fell over the conference room. Magneto was the Institute's longtime adversary. His extremism stood in direct opposition to Charles's philosophy of peaceful coexistence. They had clashed numerous times over the years, reaching a state of irreconcilable opposition, yet profound mutual understanding.

"Cooperating with Erik is like making a pact with a tiger," Ororo objected first. "He won't follow our plans. His methods only bring greater destruction and panic."

"I know," John admitted. "I'm not suggesting we invite him to cooperate." A calculating glint flashed in his eyes. "My concept is to use him. At a specific time, in a specific location, guide his power, let him 'coincidentally' discover and destroy the Sentinel core production lines and stockpiles. We provide the stage and the props, let him perform this play."

The idea was too bold, too dangerous. Using Magneto—if it backfired, the consequences were unthinkable.

Charles looked deeply at John. "John, this plan……"

"Is merely a thought, Charles," John interrupted him, lowering his gaze. "I need more data to refine it. It's not currently feasible."

What he didn't say was that the essence of this plan lay in information manipulation and psychological prediction. He needed to find bait that Magneto couldn't refuse, and the perfect timing to ensure the Institute remained uninvolved. It was like walking a tightrope over a cliff. He could not, and would not, share all the details with anyone at this moment.

"John." After the meeting, Charles unexpectedly called out to him. "Stay for a while please. You and Jean both."

John had thought the Professor wanted to discuss his proposal further. But Charles was concerned about something else: Jean had started having the nightmares that gave her headaches again.

"Still the same as before? Burning flames, the desire for destruction?" John asked.

Jean nodded, her beautiful face filled with worry. "I feel the voice calling me, deep in the cosmos. It's getting louder." she said helplessly.

This was the inexplicable mystery surrounding the telepathic girl, Jean Grey, who possessed immense power. She often had a terrifying dream that even the Professor dared not, or could not, probe deeply. According to her, the voice calling in her dream seemed not of this world, more like a supreme entity wandering the vastness of space, taking the shape of a Phoenix. Jean and the Professor could only build layer upon layer of psychic barriers to resist these thoughts, which prevented her from fully unleashing her abilities. John had searched through countless materials regarding Jean's condition, but found no answers. However, from his observations, the frequency of Jean's nightmares seemed related to solar activity and other cosmic energy fluctuations. A pity outer space was beyond his jurisdiction.

Meanwhile, in the new combat simulation room, Paul was experiencing one of the worst lessons of his life. Perhaps the worst.

The simulation room depicted a ruined urban landscape, smoke filling the air. They were divided into two teams. Paul, Iceman Bobby Drake, Pyro John Allerdyce, and Rogue, Anna Marie, who could absorb others' mutant abilities, formed one team. George, Shadowcat Kitty Pryde, Colossus Piotr, and Nightcrawler Kurt, students of similar age, formed the other team, under the belated and leisurely command of Logan, fighting against virtual soldiers wielding thermal weapons and continuously spawning combat robots.

Paul panicked the moment he saw the team assignments. George patted his shoulder as if offering condolences and walked towards the opposite side of the arena. Paul was at a loss. His ability was hard enough to control in training. In this fast-paced, chaotic simulated combat, it was utterly useless. He couldn't fire precise optic blasts like Scott, couldn't erect telekinetic barriers or move obstacles like Jean, couldn't even erase a robot's sensors at a critical moment like George. And his teammates offered no comfort.

Bobby and John charged ahead, unleashing their powers freely. The ground quickly turned into an ice rink. Paul had to exert immense effort just to keep his footing and avoid crashing into the frozen statues of robots and soldiers. Suddenly, a fireball hurtled straight towards his face. Paul ducked instinctively, smelling the singed strands of his hair.

"Pyro! Haven't you got eyes in your head?" Logan roared over the control room's speakers. "Before you take down the enemy, check if your teammates are still breathing!"

"Sorry." John Allerdyce shrugged at Paul, then rushed off to continue his competition with Bobby. He didn't look sorry at all.

"Hey! Panacea Boy!" Paul heard Rogue, Anna, calling to him. She had just released a wave of cold after absorbing Bobby's power. "Explain your ability to me, fast. Let me give it a try."

Paul said sheepishly, "I'd like to let you try, but I only know how to heal, to fix everything to a perfect state."

"Show me." Anna became interested.

So Paul tried to do something. When a soldier walking with a limp charged them, he instinctively reached out. The result was the soldier suddenly becoming full of vigor, his leg no longer lame, grabbing a machine gun and unleashing a torrent of fire at them. Anna and Paul were stunned, momentarily forgetting their abilities and scrambling for cover. Luckily, Bobby noticed the change in time and blasted the over-enthusiastic soldier.

"McCartney, focus! You're not here to perform maintenance on the enemy!" Logan's gruff taunt came through the speakers, laced with undisguised mockery.

Paul’s face burned red with frustration. "Alright, Miracle Boy. I don't wanna say it, but seems we can't use your ability for now," Anna said, somewhat regretfully, before leaving him and returning to the fray.

Paul stayed put, hiding behind a broken wall, watching his teammates coordinate seamlessly while he felt like a redundant burden. He looked over at George's team. George and Kitty had just executed a brilliant attack. Kitty phased through robots like a ghost, confusing their sensors, while George, without hesitation, disabled their operational cores one by one under her cover, clean and efficient. Piotr's formidable steel form and Kurt's teleporting antics were also a great help.

During a brief break, George silently moved to his side and handed him a water bottle.

"Rough, huh?" George said flatly.

"I'm completely unsuited for combat," Paul wiped the sweat from his face dejectedly. "I don't know what I'm doing here."

"Not everyone is cut out for frontline fighting," George said, looking towards Kitty who was discussing tactics with Piotr in the distance. "Like John. He's completely incapable."

Paul was taken aback. "You mean Mr. Lennon? His…… his ability doesn't seem like the combat type either?" He had always assumed John might have some inconspicuous ability, like information processing or super-intelligence.

George shook his head, a rare hint of respect in his dark eyes. "John isn't a mutant. On the contrary, he's purely human. His body is even weaker than most. Three years ago, he was dying from his illness. Charles and Hank saved him. Then he showed up, said he had nothing to offer in return except his intelligence network and the money in his bank accounts."

Paul listened, stunned. That young man who strategized amidst data, whose sharp eyes seemed to see through everything, was actually an ordinary human without any superpowers, even frailer than most? And he had come to help the Institute voluntarily?

"This simulation room," George pointed at the realistic surroundings, "was funded by him. Rumor has it he designed many of the training programs inside, too. He said mutants can't rely solely on their gifts, we need tactics and discipline."

"And," George continued, "a lot of the Institute's undisclosed expenses, like relocating mutants who can't integrate into society, forging identities for them, providing living allowances…… most of it is supported by him behind the scenes. But John never shows his face, never asks for anything."

Paul felt deeply moved. He remembered John's firm gaze when he refused his healing, remembered that basement room filled with cold electronics. A person who needed help himself was silently supporting the entire Institute from the shadows, protecting mutants like him.

The alarm for the next round of simulated combat sounded. "Come on," George stood up. "Even if you can't fight, you gotta learn to dodge and coordinate."

Paul took a deep breath and followed George out. This time, he didn't try to activate his ability. Instead, he focused on sensing his surroundings, striving to keep up with his teammates' rhythm, moving and avoiding potential attack paths according to instructions from Anna and others. He was still not good at combat, but that feeling of being utterly out of place and powerless seemed to have lessened somewhat.

"Paul," Anna called to him after the training session. "Not bad. For your first time, that was pretty good."

"Yeah, remember when someone hid behind me crying?" Bobby teased John, winking. John made the flame from his lighter singe Bobby, prompting another impending scuffle.

Anna rolled her eyes. "Ignore them, Paul. Sit with me for lunch today. You too, George." She put on her yellow gloves and sneakily ruffled the hair of George, who had somehow appeared nearby, eavesdropping. George clearly couldn't handle Anna's enthusiasm.

Walking along, surrounded by the chatter of his companions, Paul found himself thinking of John's face for some reason—the light in his brown eyes behind his round glasses, the gentler tone he used when speaking to him. The fading bruises and the strong, unpleasant smell of smoke and gunpowder on him seemed, unconsciously, to gradually dissipate in his imagination.

Chapter Text

Daily life at the Xavier Institute was gradually becoming, for Paul, a tapestry woven with hues both wondrous and strange. He was slowly getting to know the other boys and girls who, like him, possessed peculiar abilities and were desperately searching meanings for themselves. The green years were like an endless, ever-playing film, unfolding from day to night.

In the common room, Rogue was often quietly reading a book. When not using her powers, she wore gloves, shedding the confident, outgoing persona she had during simulated combat. She feared that outside the battlefield, touch and absorption were no longer a boon. It became poisonous, draining her friends. Bobby, lively and playful, would occasionally play pranks, frosting the room with a thin layer of ice, only to be warned by Ororo with a small whirlwind that tousled his hair. He'd tell anyone who asked that it was his new hairstyle. John—ah, just hearing the name 'John' was enough to make Paul pause, trying to recall which one people meant this time—remained as defiant as ever, often playing with his lighter, a small flame flickering to life and then vanished in his fingers.

In the corridors, Paul walked carefully. Who knew when Kurt might appear with a BAMF right in front of him? His skin was as blue as Hank's, but hairless. His yellow eyes glowed like a bat's in the dark, but Kurt himself was shy, not scary at all. And if Paul ventured out into the courtyard, he might see Piotr's shining steel body glinting in the sun. He was quiet and reserved but immensely strong, always helping repair the perpetually damaged, never-finished walls. However, Kitty had told Paul that Piotr loved to paint, a hidden artist. Shadowcat lived up to her name, suddenly appearing before Paul one day to ask him for dating advice, saying he looked like the popular type with girls. Paul refused. He wouldn't tell Kitty that no girls appeared in his dreams these days. Instead, it was that gaunt, bespectacled figure, always seeming so distant and cool, who frequently visited Paul's dreams.

Ability control remained Paul's primary struggle. Under Hank's guidance, he practiced restraint repeatedly, suppressing the impulse to fix every imperfection. He stood in the center of the training room, surrounded by various test objects—a deliberately broken plant, a legless beetle, a small, anesthetized, and injured lab rabbit.

Paul frowned intensely, sweat dampening his dark curls. He concentrated fiercely on building mental barriers, constantly imagining, refusing the eager scissors, sewing needles, and knitting hooks that wanted to emerge and function, trying to contain that warm, powerful energy field within himself. But the results were mixed. Sometimes he succeeded in suppressing it, other times the energy would spill out uncontrollably, repairing the plant until it was overly perfect, lush with leaves, or making the beetle grow legs and flutter away. The rabbit, when his ability swept over it, would instantly shake off the anesthesia, jumping up full of life, seeming more energetic than before it was injured. He overheard Hank on the phone outside the door one day, ordering fabric. Paul's consumption during practice was starting to rival that of a clothing factory. That wasn't even the most embarrassing part. Once, caught up in the healing, Paul lost control and made Hank's clothes vanish right off his body. Fortunately, though called Beast, Hank's temper had been mellowed by time, and it was hard for him to stay angry with a boy who couldn't yet master his ability.

But Paul felt terrible about it. A sense of failure shadowed him constantly. He felt he was fighting himself, a destinedly difficult, hopeless civil war. Without telling anyone or asking Hank's permission, Paul started training extra on his own. Even George, who often looked for him, frequently couldn't find him.

The fatigue after training clung to Paul like a sticky sweat. He would slip away to the back of the castle, far from his happy friends, and sit under the ancient oak tree, burying his face in his knees.

Footsteps approached softly, bringing a sense of comforting calm.

"It seems Hank's lessons were another great success today," Jean Grey's voice came from behind him, laced with gentle teasing, "though perhaps not in the way he intended."

Paul didn't look up, his voice muffled by his arms. "I don't understand. I'm trying my best, but there's no progress."

Jean sat down on the grass beside him, her red hair stirring slightly in the breeze. She didn't speak immediately, just let the feeling of tranquility slowly spread, seeping into Paul. After a while, she said softly,

"Professor Charles often says the most powerful abilities are often the heaviest to bear. Your power, Paul, comes from a deep, life-based impulse—to repair, to make everything whole again. That's far more complex than destruction."

Paul finally looked up, his eyes full of confusion.

"But it's backfiring! In the training room, I almost made a simulated soldier strong enough to take us all out. I can't even stop myself from sensing everything around me that needs fixing—plants, insects, birds, animals, even……" He paused, thinking of John. "……even every discordant rhythm within our bodies. They're all screaming at me, and I don't know how to respond."

Jean watched him, a gentle smile on her lips. "You're treating it like noise you need to suppress. Perhaps you could try a different perspective."

"What perspective?"

"Think of it as a song," Jean said, smiling. "A song about life that only you can hear. Some parts flow smoothly, some parts stumble, some are full of complex variations. What you need to learn now isn't to cover your ears, but to learn how to appreciate the melody, understand its rhythm, and then choose the right moment to harmonize with a phrase for the parts you deem important."

Paul was stunned. He had never thought of it that way. His ability wasn't some kind of noise, but a song?

"But how do I know what the right moment is?"

"That's what control is for, Paul. It will ultimately help you find that moment." Jean's voice was soft yet firm. "Abilities are like a torrent. It's not about building a dam to block it, but learning how to dig channels, how to divert the flow. That takes time, and a deep understanding of yourself and everything around you. Don't rush. You've only just started listening to this song."

A breeze rustled the oak leaves. Paul sat in silence, digesting her words. The urge to fix things was still there, but now it felt less like a tormenting scream. It was loud, but not unbearable.

"A song……" Paul murmured, his gaze drifting towards the heart of the Institute castle, as if he could see through the walls and sense the one still steering through his ocean of data.

Perhaps, Paul thought, the first thing he needed to learn was how to quiet down and truly listen.

Soon after, Jean stood to leave. Before she went, she wished Paul well in mastering his ability. The spot under the oak tree returned to quiet. Paul remained immersed in the metaphor of the song, trying to use this new perspective to feel the subtle whispers around him.

Footsteps approached again, lighter this time, almost covered by the rustle of grass. George sat down beside him without a word, mirroring Paul's posture, hugging his knees and looking at the distant rolling hills.

After a moment of silence, Paul spoke softly, more to himself, "Jean said my ability is a song, but I'm afraid I'll never learn how to sing it right. I'm afraid every time I open my mouth, I'll go off-key, maybe even ruin the original melody." He remembered the soldier he'd repaired into aggressiveness, a chill running down his spine.

George didn't look at him, his eyes still fixed on the distance. "Your ability doesn't cause any harm, Paul."

Paul turned his head, puzzled.

George finally glanced sideways, his black eyes are like deep pools, dark, mysterious.

"Your intent is to save. This so-called Panacea…… even when it goes awry, it's because it wants to make things better. That in itself isn't a mistake."

A wind blew, scattering a few fallen leaves. George's eyes followed one until it landed.

"Not like my Erasure," George continued, his voice dropping. "Its very essence is to make things disappear. Erase traces, memories, erase existence itself. Whether the thing is good or bad, a treasure or trash, the result is the same—returned to nothingness."

Paul was taken aback. He had never heard George speak about his ability in this tone. He was always so calm and efficient, his erasures precise in training.

"But, you use it so well," Paul tried to comfort him. "In training, you seem really skilled with it." He'd even thought George liked that clean, decisive feeling.

The corner of George's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. It wasn't a smile.

"Yeah, the battlefield is a good place," his voice was flat. "There, things are divided into obstacles that need clearing and targets that need protecting. It's simple. I just erase the former, no worry about accidentally taking away something precious."

He paused, as if convincing himself. "So, becoming an X-Man is good. I can learn to like my ability, just aim it at the right places."

Paul looked at him, a strange feeling rising in his chest. George's words were logical, sounding utterly correct, filled with determination for the cause. But for some reason, Paul felt it wasn't about liking. It seemed more like resignation. A resolve to forcibly sheath his dangerous weapon into an approved scabbard labeled X-Men.

Did George truly enjoy fighting, as he said? Paul wasn't sure. He could tell George didn't want to delve deeper into this now, so he didn't press. He just made a noncommittal sound and looked back at his own hands.

Seeming to lose interest in continuing the conversation, George stood up, brushing the grass from his trousers.

"At least you only want to embrace everything. My ability was born to let go." he said.

He walked back towards the castle, leaving Paul alone under the oak tree once more. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling the ground. Yet Paul felt that George's retreating figure was tinged with a profound sorrow and melancholy.

The next afternoon, Paul was in the training room for another extra session. As expected, he failed again. Even trying to think of his ability as a song, as Jean suggested, the moment he remembered he could heal, that he was the so-called Panacea, his energy field would spread uncontrollably. A row of potted plants, originally with drooping leaves and wilted stems, seemed to be put on fast-forward. Their yellowing leaves turned lush green, sprouting overly plump buds at the tops which then burst into garish flowers. Paul sighed in frustration, wiping the sweat from his temple with his sleeve.

"You're fighting it."

A familiar voice came from the doorway.

Paul turned sharply to see John Lennon leaning against the doorframe. He wore a black turtleneck and jeans, his auburn hair tied loosely back, revealing his smooth forehead. Those brown-hazel, almond-shaped eyes were as deep as ever. John seemed to be standing with some effort, relying on the door for support, but his demeanor was as composed as always.

"Mr. Lennon." Paul said, flustered.

John walked in slowly, his gaze sweeping over the thriving plants before returning to Paul.

"Hank is teaching you control and restraint, and that's correct. But you seem to have interpreted it as confrontation." John stopped not too far from Paul. Perhaps to persuade him, he hadn't worried about the range this time.

Paul could feel the tantalizing pull emanating from John's body, but he knew completely healing John was a monumental task. All Paul could manage for now was temporary relief for some of John's organs, using limited materials. It was like clearing scale from a pipe. If the water quality itself was bad, the grime would never be fully gone. Paul had thought many times about how to heal John. By a conservative estimate, he'd need to "sew" for at least a year, and that was with John permanently within the ten-meter range.

"Your ability, Paul, it's not your enemy. It's a part of you, like your heartbeat, your breath. And a part of your nature, like your kindness." John interrupted Paul's racing thoughts. "The harder you try to suppress it by force, the more uncontrollable it becomes when it rebounds. Because it originates from you."

Paul looked at him, confused. "Then what should I do? If not control it?"

"Not 'not control,' but a different way of controlling." John seemed to search for the right words. "Try to understand it, guide it, coexist with it. Like taming a wild horse. You don't break its legs, you make it understand your intent, to carry you forward."

He gestured around them. "Everything you sense as imperfect is a signal that it wants to act. Don't immediately reject that signal. Try to feel it, then decide whether to respond, and how. Your will should be the reins guiding it, not the cage trapping it."

This was entirely different from Hank's emphasis on barriers. It resonated with what Jean had said, but was more concrete and deeper.

"But," Paul said, "I understand what you mean, Mr. Lennon. I know you all want me to accept myself. But I still can't help putting pressure on myself. I always feel I can do better. I'm afraid of disappointing you all. Everyone calls me the Panacea, but only I know I don't deserve that name at all."

Paul looked down at his hands as if they were stained with something he couldn't wash off.

John listened quietly, not refuting him immediately. A flicker of understanding passed over his pale face. He leaned forward slightly, entering Paul's downcast line of sight, lowered in self-reproach.

"Paul, listen," John said softly. "First, I don't think a codename you yourself cannot accept should be allowed to define you so easily. You must know, a 'Panacea' is itself a lie, an impossible fallacy."

He paused, giving Paul space to digest this.

"If you're willing, I'd like to give you a new name: The Bear with a Heart of Patchwork. Tell me, in the fairy tale, did that bear guarantee every stitch was perfect? Did it think itself unworthy of needle and thread just because a stitch went slightly crooked, or a knot formed?"

Paul shook his head instinctively.

"It didn't," John affirmed. "It simply followed the purest instinct to mend what was broken. That clumsy, sometimes mistaken action is precisely what makes it precious."

His gaze fell on Paul's trembling fingers, his tone becoming earnest. "You burden yourself because you care. You're a good kid, Paul, there's nothing wrong with that. But don't let that pressure distort the nature of your ability. Your worth doesn't lie in being a panacea, but in this heart that wishes to mend."

"I, Charles, Hank…… we do have high hopes for you, that's true. But what we hope for isn't a tool that never fails, but a companion who truly understands and masters his own gift." A faint, utterly sincere smile touched John's lips. "So, permit yourself to make mistakes, Paul. Permit your bear to be clumsy sometimes. Before we learn to run, we are all entitled to toddle."

"After all, even this body of mine, which needs constant mending, is still stumbling forward, isn't it?"

The warmth of these words melted the defenses around Paul's tense heart. The sharp voices of self-doubt didn't vanish, but in the calm of John's narrative, they no longer seemed so justified.

The Bear with a Heart of Patchwork. Paul liked this new name. For the first time in his life, he realized that making mistakes was permitted.

Chapter Text

While Paul was still grappling to seize the reins of his own destiny, the plan John had been meticulously crafting since the round-table meeting was gradually taking shape. It was akin to weaving an exquisite spider's web, every single step required the most detailed calculation, as any potential variable meant the difference between life and death, impacting the fate of millions—both mutants and humans alike. All until his spider completed the final entrapment.

John knew Erik Lensherr, Magneto, was no easy mark. The leader of the Brotherhood was paranoid, immensely powerful, and possessed a will of iron. To guide him imperceptibly required offering an irresistible bait and making everything appear as a chance discovery.

The bait needed to be significant enough to capture Erik's full attention and have a direct link to the Sentinel Program. Through his network spanning the arms black market, underground intelligence, and even eyes deep within certain government agencies, John identified a key figure: the son of Dr. William Stryker. The boy was young, yet possessed an unparalleled ability to create illusions. However, his sudden, uncontrolled manifestation had inadvertently led to his mother's death. Dr. Stryker, a high-ranking military official originally focused on biochemical weapons research, now harbored an extreme hatred for mutants. He conducted horrific, inhumane experiments on mutants in the shadows, even subjecting his own son to them. John had only caught whispers, learned some secrets, and these fragments alone were enough to sicken him, making him wonder how such a malicious, brutal, and utterly soulless devil could exist. Dr. Stryker had close research ties with the Trask Industries, part of the Sentinel development was conducted in Stryker's labs. And Stryker's son was the perfect bait to trigger Erik's sensitive nerve regarding the persecution and exploitation of mutants.

"This is too dangerous, John." Charles Xavier's voice resonated directly in John's mind, filled with concern. They were in the shielded room housing Cerebro, a place silent and impervious to any form of surveillance.

John stood before the machine, looking up at the swirling, nebula-like image representing the life signals of mutants across the globe.

"I know the risks, Charles, but waiting for the Sentinels to reach full operational capacity is the greater danger. We must act before their wings are fully spread."

"Using a child as bait……" Charles disapproved.

"Not using. Releasing information," John corrected, his calmness bordering on grimness. "We are not harming the child. We are merely letting Erik stumble upon knowledge of his situation and his connection to the Sentinel Program. Given Erik's nature, he will not stand idly by. He will rescue the boy, and follow the trail to destroy any facility connected to mutant persecution that he finds." He paused. "All we need to do is ensure the trail leads him directly to a primary Sentinel production site."

Charles fell silent. He understood the meticulous, airtight logic of John's plan, and he could feel the immense risk underlying it. Erik was surrounded by capable individuals, like Raven, Mystique, his adopted sister, now gone down a radical path. It was highly possible she had already infiltrated, perceiving, to some extent, the existence of a hidden backer at the Xavier Institute—one with a subtle yet significant influence on human-mutant relations. If John personally handled the information release, it was hard to guarantee no traces would be left. If Erik detected this was a manipulation……

"You could become Erik's primary target," Charles pointed out. "If he discovers he's been manipulated by a human, especially one connected to me, his wrath would be unimaginable."

"I know," John replied calmly. "That's why I need to leave the Institute for a time. Operate from closer to the stage. Remote access isn't flexible enough to handle unforeseen circumstances."

This was the plan's most fragile point—John's body. Leaving the Institute meant leaving Hank. During major X-Men operations, Hank was needed to manage security systems, respond to attacks, and protect the students still learning and growing. Like the Professor, he couldn't be away from the Institute for long, nor could he provide immediate medical support to John miles away. Furthermore, it meant distancing himself from the stabilizing field Paul unconsciously emitted. John risked his body failing mid-mission, or worse.

Charles studied John's resolute face, feeling the arduous, inefficient struggle within the young man's system. After a long moment, he sighed deeply.

"I have a countermeasure, John. But it requires Paul's cooperation, and carries its own risks."

John raised an eyebrow, urging him to continue.

"Hank made a discovery recently while studying Paul's ability," Charles explained. "Paul's power isn't entirely impossible to store or transfer. Within a specific energy frequency field, its properties can be temporarily imprinted onto a medium. The effect will decay over time and is far weaker than his direct application, but it might be enough to provide you with temporary life support during your absence."

John understood immediately. "You want Paul to create a buffer for me?"

"In a manner of speaking. A device carrying a charge of his ability. It could, perhaps, function like a battery, providing crucial power a few times if your condition deteriorates rapidly, safeguarding your life. It's not a cure, just an emergency measure," Charles said gravely.

"And this requires revealing part of the danger of your mission to Paul, and the responsibility he would need to shoulder. He's just a boy, John."

John fell silent. He didn't want to drag Paul deeper into this vortex, especially not into a life-or-death operation. Making a sixteen-year-old boy share the burden of his survival went against his very intention to protect Paul.

"Is there no other choice?" John asked.

"Call off the plan, or gamble that your body can hold out until the mission's end," Charles stated, his tone bleak. "You know how slim those odds are."

John closed his eyes, weighing the options rapidly. The Sentinel threat was imminent. The fate of countless mutants hung in the balance. His personal safety, and Paul's, versus the larger picture……

"Alright," John finally said, a trace of weariness in his voice. "Tell Paul a part of the truth. Only that I need to undertake a dangerous mission, my body might not withstand it, and I need his help. Don't mention Erik or the specific details about the Sentinels."

"I will speak with him myself," Charles promised. "Meanwhile, Hank will prepare the energy frequency generator and create the device. You'll also need to learn how to activate and use this buffer."

The plan was set. John would willingly step into danger, staking his health and even his life, to summon Magneto—a sword capable of destroying the Sentinels. The Institute would be his only backup. And a mutant boy with a unique gift for healing. Perhaps, for the first time, the boy would consciously mend a thread of hope for the young man who had saved him, given him a name, and a direction.

As John left the Cerebro chamber, his steps remained steady. But only he knew that with every breath, he was gathering strength for the coming storm. Meanwhile, in the training room, Paul, unaware of it all, continued his earnest dialogue with his own power.

Chapter Text

The full-fledged plan began to engage and turn, like interlocking gears. Paul learned a portion of the truth from Professor Charles. John needed to leave the Institute temporarily to undertake a mission of utmost importance and danger, and his body might not withstand the journey's strain. The Professor didn't divulge the details, but the gravity in his demeanor was enough for Paul to grasp the seriousness of the situation.

"What can I do?" Paul asked eagerly. He had always felt his debt to John extended far beyond mere rescue—it included the respect of being seen as a person, not a tool, and that name which gave new meaning to his ability: The Bear with a Heart of Patchwork.

The answer was abundantly clear.

In Hank's laboratory, Paul summoned his ability with total focus, not to heal a wound, but to infuse the fundamental, restorative essence of his power into a specially crafted talisman, a buffer. The talisman contained sufficient materials to allow Paul's energy to flow into it continuously, but once these were depleted over time, the talisman's lifespan would end. Listening to Hank's explanation, Paul maintained the infusion with painstaking care. The process was mentally draining; he had to precisely control the output's intensity, ensuring it was strong enough to form an effective field, yet not so strong as to destabilize the talisman's structure.

John stood by silently, watching. He saw Paul's tightly pressed lips, the sweat beading at his temples, the intense concentration in his beautiful eyes. A gentle yet powerful energy field emanated from Paul, causing plants to flourish, flowers to bloom, and small animals to leap with joyful vitality—a scene of vibrant life, vivid as a scene from a Disney film.

And John himself, within the field, felt a comfort as if soaking in a hot spring. The warmth was almost intoxicating. But he simply looked at Paul quietly. The image of the boy straining his utmost to save him was being solemnly engraved into his memory. And the cold, hard fissures within his own heart seemed, quietly, to have been stitched up a little by Paul's ability.

When Paul finally completed the transfer, his face somewhat pale as he released his grip, the talisman emitted a lifelike glow. Hank stepped forward quickly to examine it and nodded. "The imprint is stable. In theory, it should automatically release several waves of energy if your condition deteriorates. But remember, John, this is a buffer, not a cure. Your underlying condition remains unchanged."

John took the talisman, still warm from Paul's touch, and closed his hand around it. A faint but persistent warmth spread from his palm, as if binding a thread of vitality around him, connecting him to Paul. He looked up at Paul, who was visibly tired but whose eyes shone brightly.

"Thank you." John's voice was soft, yet carried a gravity unlike before.

Paul shook his head, saying nothing.

John looked at him and suddenly spoke. "Wait for my return, Paul. After the mission, I'll take you to Liverpool. To see your father and your brother. I promise."

This promise was like a light, instantly illuminating the shadow of worry for John's safety that had clouded Paul's heart. He looked at John, nodded vigorously, his eyes filled with hope.

……

Days later, an elite team slipped away from the Xavier Institute under cover of darkness. John Lennon, the overall commander, clad in an inconspicuous dark coat, looked frail but walked with resolute steps. Accompanying him were Storm, the captain, who could vanish into the clouds, stirring wind and rain for cover and aerial support. The young but steady vice-captain, Scott Summers, adjusted his red quartz glasses, behind which lay potentially lethal optic blasts. Jean Grey utilized her powerful telepathy to ensure the team's security and launch surprise attacks if needed. Before departing, she and Scott shared a brief, intimate kiss. The love between this couple was always hurried yet deeply moving. Watching them, Logan snorted dismissively. His formidable healing factor and the Adamantium claws housed within his fists made him the perfect candidate for close-quarters assault. Hank remained at the Institute to coordinate from the rear and closely monitor the real-time data John transmitted.

Paul and George, along with other members of the younger generation like Anna and Bobby, stood at the castle's heights, watching the X-Men's specialized vehicle disappear down the tree-lined road leading to the outside world. Paul's hand subconsciously pressed against his chest, as if he could feel the faint connection to the talisman and to John, a thread stretching far, far away, to the edge of the sky. Paul knew that a part of his power would now guard John as he stepped into danger.

……

Soon, John's plan began to unfold smoothly. The X-Men team moved into position ahead of time, infiltrating the periphery of Stryker's lab complex, neutralizing external obstacles, and locating the position of Stryker's son, as provided by John. Along the intended path lay heavily guarded Sentinel production lines and training grounds. Following the route John had specifically charted, and with necessary interference from the X-Men, Magneto would wreak havoc, using his magnetic powers to tear through everything in his path—including the research facilities built to persecute his kind, and the Sentinel robots, not yet deployed and unable to withstand him in their unfinished state. His final destination would be the innermost laboratory holding the mutant child. But Magneto and his followers were destined for disappointment, for as he destroyed the base, the X-Men would be extracting Stryker's son, escorting him back to the Institute. Magneto would be unable to recruit a boy he couldn't find to his ambitious cause through appeals to hatred.

Away from the main stage, John operated like a director hidden behind the scenes, giving the cue to start. Through encrypted channels, he meticulously released clues about "Stryker's son" and the "Sentinel prototype testing base." These pieces of information, like stones cast into a pond, created ripples that would soon reach the Brotherhood's surveillance networks.

He was stationed in a temporary safe house, surrounded by humming electronic equipment. Data flowed across his screens, tracking the X-Men's positions, relaying messages to them constantly. Away from the Institute and Paul's stabilizing field, John quickly felt the physical toll. Breathing became labored, the familiar tightness in his chest returned, forcing him to take his medication more frequently. Beneath his clothes, the talisman emitted a steady warmth, providing John with rare moments of respite. It was as if Paul was with him, right there, just as they had huddled together in the car on that first night in the pouring rain.

Simultaneously, Ororo's team operated in the shadows, their task to ensure the stage was perfectly set: eliminating potential third-party interference, confirming the Brotherhood's agents could smoothly discover the clues, and guiding them towards the intended destination—the Sentinel base hidden within a derelict industrial park.

Risks were omnipresent. Mystique might have already infiltrated the intelligence network. Her shapeshifting nature made her the greatest variable. This was a challenge John, as the overall commander, had to face.

Finally, late one night, an alarm sounded in the safe house. John's screens indicated his fish had taken the bait. The access attempt was nearly traceless, the counter-tracking extremely difficult, but it didn't stump John. He knew the Brotherhood, growing restless, had begun to move.

"Execute the plan." John murmured into his communicator to Ororo. His pale face showed no expression, his demeanor inscrutable—the calm of a chess player seeing an opponent fall into a calculated trap. John's fingers flew across the keyboard, initiating the next phase.

He could feel his heart beating a little too fast. A wave of gentle energy from the talisman steadied his rhythm. John took a deep breath, clenched the talisman once more, ignored his body's protests, and poured all his focus into the dangerous game.

Far away, at the Xavier Institute, Paul turned over restlessly in his sleep. He seemed to sense the buffer carrying his intent, stubbornly glowing in the darkness. A hope formed, unspoken, that the one he worried for would safely weather the storm.

Chapter Text

True to John's prediction, Magneto, incensed by the news of "Stryker's son," led the Brotherhood in a thunderous assault on the derelict industrial park. Following the trail of clues laid by the X-Men, they located the more deeply hidden Sentinel production facility. Metal girders twisted effortlessly under Erik's power, buildings were torn apart into a floating jungle of steel, hovering ominously in the air like a vast, dark armada. Sentinel robots, not yet fully activated, were crushed into scrap metal. The glow of explosions painted the park's sky red, and gunfire echoed through the night.

However, an unexpected turn of events occurred.

The X-Men, led by Ororo, who were ensuring the Brotherhood didn't harm innocents and securing the safe evacuation of the other mutants held in the labs, clashed with Magneto and his followers. Ideological conflict instantly ignited a fierce battle. Storm's lightning and thunder clashed with the magnetic storms controlled by Magneto in the sky, sending debris flying as the heavens themselves seemed to roar in a contest of elemental forces. Cyclops weaved through hails of gunfire, his optic blasts swiftly and relentlessly disarming foes like Azazel. Jean focused her immense telepathic power, a formidable mental force that seemed to penetrate even the White Queen's diamond-hard defense and her equally beguiling mental palace. Logan's claws were already stained with blood, each slash and strike a display of sheer, violent ferocity. Chaos became the night's only anthem.

In the safe house, John monitored the battlefield, his brow furrowed. Without hesitation, his fingers flew across the keyboard, activating a pre-arranged contingency—a backdoor he'd left in the military security network. This triggered a top-level alert at a nearby military base. Soon, government forces would arrive, diverting the attention of both sides. The X-Men could use this precious opportunity to withdraw.

The moment the command was sent, John was wracked by a fit of violent coughing, doubling over. The talisman sent another wave of warmth, alleviating the coppery taste in his throat. But in the ensuing silence, he detected footsteps. Someone was here.

The safe house door slid open with a soft click.

Instantly alert, John straightened sharply and turned his head, only to see the anxious face of Hank McCoy.

"John! Your watch is alerting me. Your vitals are highly unstable! We must evacuate immediately—"

"Hank, what are you doing here?" John asked, incredulous.

As the words left his mouth, a shock of realization hit him. Hank should be holding the fort at the Institute, it was impossible for him to be here.

Imposter!

John kicked the desk away, his chair rolling back rapidly. His left hand shot towards his watch—towards the direct emergency communicator linked to the X-Men and the Institute. But his movements seemed like slow motion to his adversary.

The blue figure moved like a phantom, a blur of motion. A karate chop landed with precision on the side of John's neck.

"Mystique……" John managed to whisper.

His vision was instantly swallowed by darkness. In the last moment before losing consciousness, John saw "Hank's" features ripple like water, the blue fur receding to reveal scaled, azure skin and a shock of red hair. Then, that face shifted and reformed once more—finally settling into his own, John Lennon's, features, pale and cold.

She's going to control my equipment…… the frontline……

The desperate thought flashed through his fragmenting consciousness before being utterly extinguished.

……

John awoke to jostling movement in the dark, enclosed back of a van. His hands were bound with straps, his mouth gagged, a throbbing pain in his neck. There were no windows in the compartment, only a sliver of faint light seeping through a crack and falling on the floor. It was still night.

John immediately understood he'd been captured. The fact that Mystique had found his safe house so easily meant she had likely already breached the Institute's internal network, perhaps even knew parts of his plan.

More critically, she was probably now wearing his face, sending false orders to Ororo and the others still on the battlefield, leading them into greater danger or straight into a Brotherhood ambush. Every passing second increased his companions' peril.

"You underestimate me, Raven." John sneered inwardly. "You always underestimate humans. Even unarmed, they are not without threat."

Preoccupied with the ongoing battle involving Magneto, Mystique hadn't bothered to search him thoroughly. Although the watch on his wrist was gone, in his coat pocket was a small signal transmitter. A tool Hank had developed, capable of sending a directional signal even through Magneto's magnetic interference. But John didn't plan to use it here, not yet. In a flash of insight, he'd decided to save it, to deliver a special "gift" to the Brotherhood at the opportune moment.

John had planned for this contingency. It was time to activate the backup plan.

Calm down, he told himself, ignoring the physical discomfort and the talisman's persistent energy waves. He couldn't count on external rescue, his priority was to send a warning to the X-Men.

He needed a method beyond the conventional.

Jean. He thought of Jean Grey. An Omega-level mutant with telepathic abilities. If she could hear his call, everything could be salvaged.

But they were likely dozens of kilometers from the park now, far beyond Jean's usual telepathic range, and she was in the midst of a battle requiring intense concentration, unlikely to notice faint whispers. John wasn't a mutant, he lacked the X-gene as a natural amplifier. He was like a low-power radio, struggling to send a clear signal through the interference.

However, the danger of John Lennon never lay in superhuman abilities. His weapons were his knowledge, his technology, and his willingness to take desperate risks.

He recalled a theory Hank had once discussed with him—about using electrical stimulation to enhance cortical excitability, potentially boosting brainwave signal power. Hank thought it might aid in further developing Cerebro, helping Charles locate mutants over a wider area, but the experiments were halted due to instability and the risk of brain damage.

John glanced at the talisman pressed against his chest. Brain damage was the least of his concerns right now.

The van shook, the smell of rust thick in the air. John's eyes scanned the compartment, falling on some old metal parts and broken wires with stripped insulation lying in a corner.

Hope lay in this squalor.

Painfully, John shifted his body, his bound hands groping until they found a sharp metal shard and a short length of wire with exposed copper filament. Ignoring his racing heart, John clenched one end of the copper wire in his left palm. He used the fingers of his other hand to position the metal shard, its sharp point pressed against his right temple. The skin prickled with a cold sting. He lay awkwardly on his side, one arm raised in a pose reminiscent of a diver's preparation. Anode, cathode. This was the crudest current path he could devise.

The power source? Friction was too slow. He had to seize this moment to get the message out!

His eyes darted around the compartment again, finally spotting a patch of dampness that sparked a desperate idea. John inched across the grimy floor, worming his way towards it, stretching his bound hands as far as they would go. The copper wire, the metal shard, and his own body as the conductor made the final connection through the moist, grimy patch acting as a crude electrolyte.

Agonizing pain, as if being flayed alive! Current surged into his skin, instantly jolting through his entire cranium! His vision didn't go dark, but exploded into blinding white. A high-pitched shriek filled his ears, drowning out all other noise.

After several seconds of this sensory hell, the vertigo receded like a tide, replaced by an unprecedented, almost euphoric clarity.

He closed his eyes, focusing his mind on the pre-formed message, a single, crucial alert:

"Mystique has infiltrated. Cut comms channels. All units withdraw!"

A stabbing pain returned to his temples. A warm fluid trickled from his nose. John could see nothing. He curled up, gasping for breath, head in his hands. The talisman grew burning hot against his chest, a far stronger wave of healing energy flooding into him, attempting to repair his overloaded nerves. But John knew he had to continue, regardless of the cost.

His heart spasmed irregularly, as if clenched by an invisible fist. Gritting his teeth against the gag, John reconnected his makeshift circuit. He focused his entire being, his every thought, into projecting that warning towards Jean Grey.

"Hear me, Jean! Hear!" John pleaded inwardly, squeezing his eyes shut.

Consciousness began to blur at the edges from the pain, but John clung on, repeating the simple message over and over. He forced himself to believe it could work. To believe that Jean could pick up his desperate signal amidst the chaos of the battlefield.

Before Magneto himself came to interrogate him, John would remain in the darkness, burning the fuel of his life until the very last moment. The hand that moves the chess pieces can, when necessary, become a piece itself. The spider that weaves the web may sometimes willingly become trapped within it. For his comrades at the Institute. For the dark-haired boy waiting for him to fulfill his promise and return home.

Chapter Text

He didn't know how much time had passed when the violent jolting stopped and the engine cut out. Amidst the chaos in his mind, John clung to a thread of clarity, his illness wasn't entirely a drawback—it had, at least, increased his pain tolerance. The van doors were pulled open. It was still night outside, seemed like this place wasn't too far from town by car. Two burly guards dragged John out of the vehicle and into a factory interior. Erik's taste in locations is as dreadful as ever.

The gag was ripped roughly from his mouth. He found himself in a vast, repurposed space, crisscrossed with pipes, the Brotherhood's flag hanging high above. Magneto hadn't yet appeared, but the intangible pressure filling the air declared the true master of this place.

John was thrown onto a cold metal chair, the restraints replaced with sturdier magnetic cuffs. He barely had the strength to keep his eyes open. A mutant in a lab coat, with a sullen expression—looking like a doctor—approached. He pried John's eyelids open, checked his pupils with a small penlight, and felt for his pulse.

"Pathetic," the doctor sneered, addressing a nearby guard. "I don't understand why Mystique went to all this trouble to bring back such trash."

John's head hung low, wracked by violent coughs, but his ears were alert, catching every word.

"Heard he nearly messed up the big operation," one guard said. "Mystique, disguised as him, almost lured the X-Men into an ambush. Don't know how their telepath suddenly sensed something was wrong and they all got away."

Jean got the signal! John's heart jolted, a tense string within him loosening. He suppressed his emotions, continuing to play the half-dead invalid.

"But the boss wounded several of them, though we took heavy losses too," another guard complained. "Neither side gained much."

This outcome was better than John's worst-case scenario, but the news of his comrades' injuries weighed heavily on him. He had proposed the offensive plan. He was responsible. Right now, the X-Men were probably on their way back to the Institute. They would get medical attention quickly. They had to.

After finishing his examination, the doctor left with a remark, "Need to draw blood for further analysis. See what's keeping this wreck of a body going." The guards, seeing John was indeed too weak to even sit steadily, relaxed their vigilance. One remained on watch not far away, the other walked to the entrance for a smoke.

The opportunity had arrived.

John gasped weakly, struggling to gesture with his cuffed hands towards the guard. "Water…… please……" he implored in a feeble voice.

The guard clicked his tongue impatiently but came over, picked up a half-finished bottle of water from the table, and held it to his lips from a distance.

In that instant, John's head snapped up. His previously unfocused eyes sharpened like a hawk's, locking onto the guard's. He spoke rapidly in a low, clear voice:

"You think Raven caught me personally just because I was pulling strings from the shadows? It's because I know too much. Including the secret accounts she set up with her military contacts, in Zurich……" John fabricated a shocking piece of information.

"You all know how fickle Mystique is, how she could betray anyone at anytime. Besides, before joining you, she had a history with Xavier…… She'll be here soon to kill me. Help me, and I'll give you the account passwords. Enough to set you up for life, or to disappear far away."

The guard stared, shock and suspicion flashing in his eyes. Everyone in the Brotherhood knew the score regarding Mystique's loyalty.

"You're lying!" the guard retorted reflexively, though already shaken.

"Look at this," John indicated the healing, spark-burn wound on his temple. "Could a normal human do this? Initially, to keep me silent, Raven gave me some benefits. But it's not working anymore. She wants me dealt with quickly, by her own hand, or through your boss. Your time is short. Choose."

The guard hesitated, torn. He was still standing some distance away. John frowned slightly in dissatisfaction. Suddenly, from a great distance outside the factory, came a teeth-grating, metallic screech, resonant as clashing jade and gold. Magneto. He's returning. The guard at the entrance was also distracted by the noise.

The situation was urgent for both of them—or primarily for John. He watched the guard, saw his pupils contract and dilate in the dim light, greed and fear coiling like two venomous snakes. The distant roar grew closer, each sound a hammer blow to their hearts—Magneto was returning, bringing with him a rage capable of tearing the earth apart.

"Think carefully," John rasped, his tone almost hypnotic. "When Erik realizes all your efforts captured just a dying human, and his triumphant operation was completely disrupted by the so-called inferior race he despises…… who do you think will bear the brunt of his fury? Besides me?" He covered his mouth, coughing lightly, blood-flecked spittle appearing at the corner of his lips.

"Mystique can change her face anytime. But you foot soldiers?"

These words were like an ice-cold dagger, piercing the guard's last defenses. He had seen Magneto in his full fury.

"We can make a better choice," John said softly, looking at the guard with pity, as if describing a beautiful dream. "Take the money. Go to some sun-drenched town. No more worrying about being woken by government raids. No more suspicion or backstabbing on missions. A life truly your own. A stable life."

Stable. The word echoed in the guard's mind like a spell. He could almost see the vision—a warm fireplace, a view outside free of smoke and fire. But the next moment, a more practical thought took over: Force the password out, then hand this human over to Magneto. Get paid and get clear. Be set for life and stay breathing.

Decided, he took the crucial step forward.

"Enough! The passwords!" the guard barked, leaning in close. He feared Magneto, but he certainly didn't fear this powerless human.

Now!

The moment the guard entered striking range, John exploded into motion. He threw his whole weight forward, his forehead connecting with the guard's nose bridge with a sickening crunch. The guard cried out in pain, bending over. John seized the chance, his cuffed hands darting to the guard's belt. His fingers deftly unhooked the communicator.

"You bastard—!" the guard roared, lunging at him.

Coughing, John's fingers flew over the communicator's buttons. The intelligence on the Brotherhood he'd accumulated over the years was finally paying off. When John spoke again, his voice had completely changed, adopting the cadence and tone of another person—low, urgent, as if he were truly a Brotherhood member:

"All units, alert! X-Men assault! Junction of Sectors C and D! Highest priority!"

"What have you done?" the guard's eyes widened in fury. Enraged, his mutant ability spiraled out of control. Sharp, hedgehog-like spines erupted all over his skin. His fingers, tipped with these spikes, slashed wildly through the air—

Thud!

John's body jolted violently. He looked down and saw a cold, gleaming spike protruding from his abdomen, blood gushing out. Excruciating pain washed over him. He fell backward like a severed marionette, the back of his head striking the concrete floor with a dull thud. The communicator rolled from his slackened fingers, emitting a faint "beep" in the pool of blood spreading beneath him.

When the guard from the entrance rushed in, he saw his companion standing frozen, hands covered in blood, and the human on the floor, motionless, unknown if dead or alive.

"Are you insane? The boss wants him alive!"

"I…… I didn't mean to……" the attacking guard stammered, staring at the receding spines on his hands.

At that moment, all the lights flickered madly, then died completely. Emergency red lights cast bloody shadows. A screech of static erupted in their earpieces, then fell dead silent—Magneto's magnetic field had enveloped the entire area.

"He's back," both guards paled, their faces ashen.

They looked at the human on the floor who seemed to have stopped breathing, thought of the chaos the false alarm must have caused, and fear finally overwhelmed them.

"Let's go, find the others, explain! The X-Men aren't here!" Sharing a panicked glance, they scrambled over each other to flee the room.

Only when the footsteps had completely faded did John draw a sharp, ragged breath, which triggered another fit of coughing. The agony nearly made him black out again, but he gritted his teeth, fighting to stay conscious. The warm flow from the talisman sustained his fading vitality. Now, John had to leave.

He struggled to his feet, his vision blurry. Every movement sent searing pain through him. The wound in his abdomen seeped more blood with each motion, leaving a winding trail on the floor. He staggered out the door, through the factory. Outside was chaos, shouts and alarms mingling. "Enemy attack!" "Sector C needs backup!" someone yelled.

Amid the confusion, John crawled into a nearby parked SUV, his bloodied fingers trembling as he turned the key. The engine roared like a wolf. Gripping the steering wheel weakly with one hand, he sped off, the vehicle swerving erratically towards the final checkpoint. It was blocked by a gate, guarded.

"Stop! Identify yourself!" a sentry shouted, raising a powerful flashlight, blocking the road.

The blinding light illuminated John's deathly pale face. Blood continued to flow from his wound, staining the seat dark brown. Reacting swiftly, John hit the brakes, hiding his bound hands out of sight. His expression shifted abruptly again, his eyes turning cold and sharp as steel, even acquiring a trace of mockery.

"It's me. Raven." his voice pitched higher, sharper, imitating a woman's tone. "I infiltrated disguised as Lennon, but was ambushed by military forces on my way back." John gasped, leaning forward as if to shield his injured abdomen, portraying a reluctance to show weakness. "This outpost is likely compromised. I must see Erik immediately!"

The sentry hesitated, shining the light on his pale face. It was undeniably John Lennon's features, but the eyes, the tone, were so convincing, the composure so real. It seemed like Mystique.

"But there was a report just now about an X-Men attack……"

"Perfect!" John cut in immediately, his voice trembling slightly with pain. "With this face, I can use his connection to that lot. You inform Erik. I'll go mislead the X-Men, buy us time!"

The response fit Mystique's modus operandi so perfectly the sentry's doubts vanished. He waved quickly. "Go, Mystique! Quickly, I'll hold here!"

The imposing iron gate began to rise. John slammed the accelerator. The SUV surged forward with full force into the thick night. In the rearview mirror, the factory, monstrous in scale, shrank and finally disappeared behind him. Ahead lay only endless darkness and a perilous road.

……

John knew his time was limited. The talisman Paul had infused was nearing its limit after multiple repairs, now it emitted only a faint warmth in his chest, like a candle guttering in the wind. He needed to evacuate the area before it failed completely, before Magneto fully grasped the situation, and find the nearest safe house.

Inside the vehicle, only his labored, difficult breathing could be heard. Each inhalation felt like pulling a broken bellows. The familiar suffocation and dull pain were rapidly returning. The significant blood loss left him chilled to the bone. Steering with one hand, the talisman swung against his chest with the vehicle's jolts, a pendulum foretelling Death's approach. He could feel the thin thread sustaining his life slowly fraying.

He drove into the town, and following coordinates from memory, parked the SUV in an alley behind an old bookstore named "The Midnight Oil." Leaning against the wall, John forced himself upright, struggling to regulate his breathing, then pushed open the bookstore's wooden door, from which a Closed sign hung.

A bell chimed lightly. The shop was crammed with old paper, dust everywhere, smelling faintly of mildew. A short man, pale as a specter, dressed in an ill-fitting old suit, was standing on a stepladder organizing books on a high shelf. Hearing the noise, he turned his head suddenly like a startled rabbit, eyes filled with wariness. Caliban. John's old acquaintance. A famous intelligence trafficker among mutants, though now semi-retired.

When Caliban saw the staggering figure was John, his eyes widened, especially when the light fell on the expanding dark red stain on John's abdomen and the handcuffs locking his wrists. He sucked in a sharp breath.

"…… John?" Caliban almost slid down the ladder, utterly horrified. He hurried over, not immediately touching John, but first peering out the door, then swiftly locking it and pulling down a heavy metal shutter.

"What hell did you crawl out of?" Caliban's voice trembled, but he quickly moved to support John's near-collapsing form, half-dragging, half-carrying him towards a shabby sofa in the back room.

"Don't…… not me first……" John gasped urgently the moment he touched the sofa, cold sweat soaking his auburn hair, plastering it to his bloodless forehead. He raised his cuffed hands, his voice broken but insistent: "The cuffs…… get them off. I need to contact the Institute…… tell them…… my location……"

Caliban looked at his wound, then at the distinctly Brotherhood-style specialized cuffs, his lips quivering. "Who…… who in blazes did you piss off?"

"Erik Lensherr," John gritted out the name between his teeth. A violent cough made him curl up. The talisman flickered weakly under his clothes. "I…… just escaped his little…… party…… He'll come looking…… soon……"

"Magneto?" Caliban nearly jumped, his large eyes filled with the despair of "you've brought me a world of trouble". He looked at John, who seemed to have more breath going out than coming in, remembered the support this man had given him at his lowest, the relatively stable path he'd helped him choose, and finally gritted his teeth.

"Damn it! I can't believe you, Lennon!" he cursed under his breath, scrambling for tools. "Don't move, I'll get these off quick, then find the communicator. The blood…… it's getting on my rug! It's hard to clean!"

He found a thin metal pick. Though his fingers still shook, his movements were surprisingly deft, picking the magnetic lock on the cuffs in a few tries. The soft clink of metal hitting the floor let John relax slightly.

"The communicator…… give it……" John instructed weakly, his freed hands now lacking even the strength to lift themselves.

Frowning, Caliban carefully retrieved the encrypted communicator. He refused John's attempt to operate it himself, instead following John's strained instructions, adjusting the frequency, preparing to send a distress call and coordinates to the Xavier Institute.

Just as the communicator was about to connect, the talisman on John's chest, like a firefly exhausting its last glow, flared brightly once, then went completely dark.

John's body twitched faintly. His complexion, already ashen from blood loss and illness, now took on a deathly bluish-purple hue. The will that had been holding him up instantly vanished. His eyes rolled back, a terrible, choking gurgle came from his throat, and he went completely limp, collapsing into unconsciousness.

"John? John!" Caliban started, nearly dropping the communicator. He threw himself by the sofa, fingers trembling as he felt for the pulse in John's neck.

There was almost no beat to be felt.

Chapter Text

A deep, rumbling sound rose from the ground. The Xavier Institute groaned and shuddered, as if mourning some approaching calamity. The walls leaned inward, then outward. Paul, wide-eyed, swayed with his room like a bubble about to burst in a marble soda. There was no earthquake tonight, certainly no earth-shaking funeral. It was the sound of a fighter jet preparing for takeoff. But Paul felt a deep unease. He hadn't slept all night, tossing and turning, counting the stars, unable to find rest. Now, he ran barefoot to the window and saw the black jet being urgently activated on the grounds. The glowing blue figure of Dr. Hank McCoy was directing operations anxiously by the boarding ladder, while Scott's red glasses glinted as he seemed to be speaking with him.

Something was wrong. This wasn't a routine mission.

Paul wrung his hands. He thought of John, who had been gone for days without a word. The sense of foreboding grew overwhelming. Paul turned from the window, snatched his jacket, shoved his arms into the sleeves as he ran, not bothering with shoes, and rushed outside desperately.

He soon reached the grounds, sweating.

"Damn it, his watch went offline ages ago, and the talisman's signal is gone too!"

"We just got confirmation from Caliban. The bookstore is located. But the Brotherhood is closing in on that area, they'll probably get there before us."

"……We have to find him before Erik does!"

The hurried conversation between Hank and Scott, standing by the fuselage, reached Paul's ears. They were both in uniform. Scott had one arm in a sling, his yellow and black suit was still stained with uncleaned blood, and he looked exhausted. Hank appeared deeply frustrated, even his fur seemed to droop glumly. Paul didn't need to hear more, he knew exactly who the "him" in their conversation was. It confirmed his worst fear: John was in trouble, and in mortal danger.

"Take me!" Paul rushed up to Hank, grabbing his arm without regard for propriety. "Mr. Lennon needs me! My ability, only I can……"

Hank looked at the still-youthful boy, disapproval clear. "Paul, it's too dangerous! The situation over there is unknown. Magneto could be nearby."

"That's exactly why I must go!" Paul was unshakably firm. "Without me, he might not last until you can bring him back. Please, Dr. McCoy! Mr. Lennon needs me there in person!"

"Hmph. The kid's got guts," Logan leaned against the hatch above, taking the cigar from his mouth and flicking ash. "Bring him, Blue. I was already scrapping with brainless Victor in the mud at his age. We're not asking him to face Lensherr and his tin cans head-on."

Hank still resisted. His large, furry hand made a negating gesture in the air.

"Absolutely not!" Hank's voice was agitated, louder than usual. "Logan, you can't measure everyone by your standards. Your healing factor lets you be fearless, but Paul isn't you! He's just a boy still learning to control his ability, not a soldier!"

He turned to Scott, and Jean, who had come down upon hearing the commotion, seeking support, his eyes behind his glasses full of worry.

"And you all know perfectly well, if John were conscious right now, he'd be the first to object—even if it cost him his life. He didn't bring that boy out of the lab just to throw him into another fire! Sending Paul onto a battlefield to rescue his protector? It's absurd. John would never forgive us for this."

Hank took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, adding in a more reasoned tone, "We need a swift action, not more variables. Sending Paul to the frontline is a consequence we can't afford, tactically or emotionally." With that, he started up the steps first, urging everyone with his actions to hurry and board.

Paul's heart turned to ice at Hank's resolute refusal. Seeing Hank's massive form blocking the jet's hatch like a wall, Paul threw all caution aside, ducking his head and trying to squeeze under Hank's arm. But Hank's strong, thick arm remained immovable as a steel portcullis, easily blocking him.

"Let me in!" Paul struggled, his vision beginning to blur.

"Paul, listen! Go back inside." Hank said sternly, though his voice held a note of anguish.

Blocked by absolute physical strength, anxiety and despair flooded Paul. Tears finally welled in the corners of his eyes, he felt he was about to cry. Visions of his days and nights with John flashed before his eyes—the hand reaching for him in the cage, the beautiful, stuttering melody inside him, the reliable arm in the rain-streaked car, the slow, gentle smile, the low voice, the brown eyes that seemed to watch him forever when bestowing the new name of his ability, and the resolute goodbye as they parted. John had promised to take him home. Just the two of them, home together. Paul couldn't lose John. He absolutely couldn't!

In that moment of stalemate, a calm voice spoke in all their minds, bearing a gentle, undeniable authority:

"Hank, let him go."

It was Jean. She stood a few steps away, behind Paul and Hank, her eyes shimmering with gold-red light.

Hank's body visibly stiffened. His conflicted eyes met Jean's serene gaze. The telepathic push on his subconscious was something he couldn't withstand. His blocking arm, under the influence of that superior force, involuntarily loosened.

In that instant, Paul felt a strong shove from behind—from Scott. He stumbled into the fighter jet's cabin.

"All personnel, board!" Scott remained expressionless, as if nothing had happened. The hatch sealed shut behind him, cutting off the outside world.

In the pilot's seat, Logan grinned, a somewhat savage expression. He immediately fired up the engines, glancing at Jean in the rearview mirror. "Nice one, Jean." Logan completely ignored Scott, and Scott clearly had no intention of engaging with him either, steering Paul directly into the main cabin.

The plane began taxiing on the makeshift runway on the grounds. Jean looked apologetically at the defeated Hank, her gentle voice speaking directly in his mind: "I heard Paul's thoughts, Hank. He has to go. The resolve to sacrifice himself burns like a torch. I heard yours too. You know John's time is running out. Paul is our only hope right now, isn't he?"

Hank clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. He hung his head in sorrow, responding hoarsely, "Yes, I know…… I know better than any of you! But I promised John I'd protect Paul when he couldn't. I respect John's choice, his wish to protect that boy…… The battlefield is too dangerous. We saw what happened to Ororo! You know what facing Magneto means!"

Paul listened, his heart tightening. He wanted to shout aloud: "But you didn't respect my choice!" However, seeing the distress contorting Hank's face, the words stuck in his throat, unable to come out.

Jean seemed to hear his unspoken words. She walked over softly and sat beside him, her warm hand enveloping Paul's cold, trembling one, offering silent support and understanding.

Then, Scott walked over and crouched in front of Paul. He used his uninjured hand to adjust his signature red quartz visor, his expression its usual serious self.

"Storm is temporarily out of action. I am the captain in temporary charge." he stated clearly and firmly. "As of this moment, I am formally assigning Paul McCartney to this mission team. You will accompany the X-Men on this rescue operation."

He stared directly into Paul's eyes, enunciating each word carefully. "You must guarantee you will follow orders and prioritize your personal safety above all else. Understood?"

Paul was stunned. He looked at Scott and nodded vigorously.

"Good," Scott stood up, presenting his clearly fractured, unnaturally bent arm to Paul. "Your first assignment: fix this. We need everyone at their best."

Paul looked at Scott. He knew this was a unique initiation, in Scott's own style. Summoning his courage, Paul pushed aside the turmoil in his heart. He reached out, grasping Scott's injured arm with newfound confidence. Light surged from his palms, enveloping the injury. The familiar process of weaving began again, the jacket over his shoulders dissolving. He could feel the broken bones aligning and knitting back together under the guidance of his energy. Minutes later, the light faded. Scott flexed his arm, perfectly healed.

"See, Hank," Scott said. "The kid is remarkable."

Then he turned back to Paul, his gaze sharp. "Paul, from this moment on, I will trust you as I trust any member of my team. And I need you to trust us fully as well. We will cover you until this mission is over."

"Final objective: Rescue John Lennon," Scott announced clearly. He paused, then delivered the mission launch call in his signature concise, efficient manner, his voice carrying through the cabin:

"X-Men, move out!"

……

The jet flew at maximum speed, finally descending over a remote town and hovering above "The Midnight Oil" bookstore. Paul looked out the window. The sky was slowly lightening, but the streets below were deathly still, seemingly devoid of life. Yet, the X-Men's ample combat experience allowed them to quickly detect the abnormal movements lurking in the shadows.

"The Brotherhood got here faster than we anticipated," Scott growled. "Jean, provide cover! Logan and I will lead the assault. Paul, you stick with Hank!"

The hatch opened, wind whipping in. Jean's telekinetic barrier instantly spread across the entire block. Logan roared, leaping out first without even using the ladder. Scott followed closely, rappelling down the ladder, his red optic blasts flashing in succession, cutting trails through the morning mist. Hank scooped up Paul and, using his enhanced strength, landed steadily in the alley behind the bookstore.

They burst through the door. Caliban was cowering inside, holding a gun nervously. Seeing them, he immediately pointed towards the back room. "In there! He is in bad condition!"

The door to the back room slid open. The sight inside nearly stopped Paul's heart. John lay sprawled on the sofa, his auburn hair splayed out, soaked in a dark, reddish-black pool of blood, all its luster gone. His face held a deathly gray pallor Paul had never seen before. The rise and fall of his chest was so faint it was almost undetectable. Only the terrifying cyanotic purple of his lips proved life hadn't entirely fled. The talisman into which Paul had poured his hope, once warm, now lay like a discarded stone, fallen from John's slackened grip.

Hank's form rushed forward, urgently checking John's vitals.

"No pulse, respiratory failure! We need to—" Hank's voice trembled.

But Paul was faster.

The moment he saw John, all hesitation was swept away by a more powerful instinct. Paul pushed past Hank, threw himself beside John, and dropped to his knees, clutching John's frighteningly cold hands tightly.

"No, you can't die……" Paul forgot to cry. Grief blurred his vision, but he forced his eyes wide open, pouring all his will into their joined hands.

He stopped trying to control his power, stopped building barriers. He released all restraints. Energy poured out of him like a bursting dam, torrential, vibrant, infinitely alive, flooding without reserve into John's failing body.

A brilliant, gentle light erupted from their joined hands, instantly filling the entire bookstore, even seeping through the door cracks, dispelling the gloom outside. Hank and Caliban were forced back a step by the powerful force, watching the scene in awe.

In that never-extinguishing, tower of the sun like radiance, Paul knelt barefoot on the floor, eyes tightly shut, his whole body trembling, like a deity steeped and infused with the light of the brilliant moon and sun, issuing commands to a planet not his own.

Paul McCartney, refused death itself.

John's guttering life flame began to flicker again. The ashen hue of his face regained a trace of color. The faint heartbeat grew gradually stronger. The blue-purple lips slowly regained their redness. His shattered, broken body was being stitched and repaired by the most skillful needle and the toughest thread in the world, like reeling a drifting kite back to this shore.

John's eyelashes fluttered. His eyes opened with immense difficulty, just a slit. In the blackness of his vision, John saw the dark-haired boy whose hands clasped his. At this close distance, he could clearly make out Paul's beautiful eyes, the way they stared at him, unblinking, full of emotions, bordering on attachment. He suddenly realized Paul's eyes weren't brown. When using his ability, as the magical spinning wheel manifested, a deep green luminescence appeared around his pupils, pulsing as if breathing, pulling John back to spring. Warm grass, sunlight, youth and sorrow melted in the sun. They were the eyes of a pitying angel.

John's lips parted slightly. He whispered faintly, "Paul……?"

Hearing that call, tears finally streamed down Paul's face. Deep in his soul, he wanted to rain down violently, a downpour of joyous relief. But in the end, Paul chose to bite his lip, pouring out energy even more desperately. He didn't want to appear weak before John. He didn't want John to worry about him anymore. He reached out, smoothing a stray lock of hair from John's forehead, tucking it gently behind his ear.

The most important stitching of its existence — the very reason for its being — was now the life's work of The Bear with a Heart of Patchwork.

Chapter Text

The astonishing energy Paul had released not only pulled John back from the brink of death but also inevitably drew the attention of all—including some unfriendly eyes watching from the shadows.

Every blessing has its curse.

Almost the moment John regained consciousness—

BOOM!

A deafening roar! The bookstore's heavy rolling shutter was torn away by an irresistible force, flung aside like a thin sheet of paper to smash against the wall. A familiar figure followed, hurled inward amidst a hail of broken bricks and wood splinters, crashing through a bookshelf on the opposite side and embedding into the wall. It was Wolverine.

"Logan!" Hank cried out, his blue fur bristling in shock.

The rubble shifted. The bloodied figure struggled, pushing himself up with an arm that was only bone and rapidly regenerating. Coughing bloody foam, Logan rasped, "Not dead yet……"

Before anyone could react, the entire bookstore—no, the entire block—let out a deep groan, like a gravely ill man gasping for breath. The ceiling, walls, floor—every structure containing metal—twisted and tore apart. It was as if an invisible giant hand had seized the buildings, ripping them open like cardboard boxes, effortlessly tearing the above-ground sections away and hurling them aside!

"I knew, I knew this would happen……" Caliban whimpered, cowering behind Hank.

The instant the chaos began, Paul threw himself over John on the sofa, shielding him with his own body. The violent magnetic storm, carrying a blizzard of metal shards, swept over them like countless tiny, sharp knives, cutting Paul's arms and cheeks. He gripped John's arm and the sofa's armrest, his nails digging into the soft cotton. However, the massive expenditure of his own energy had lightened Paul, making him abnormally weightless. In the violent currents, he felt like a dead leaf, being torn to pieces and flung towards the dangerous vortex outside.

"Hold on to me, Paul!"

At the critical moment, Hank's immensely strong arm wrapped around them, anchoring Paul, John, and the sofa firmly to the ground. Beside him, Caliban lay face down, hands over his head, trembling.

At that very moment, Paul watched, horrified, as Logan, who had just barely gotten to his feet, was seized by a stronger magnetic force and flung ruthlessly into the distant night sky like a sack of discarded trash. His unbreakable Adamantium claws, now his greatest vulnerability, left him utterly helpless against Magneto.

Paul trembled in terror. He instinctively looked up, towards the source of the storm.

And then, Paul saw him.

Erik Lensherr.

Magneto hovered above the chaotic street like a deity descended to earth, not even deigning to look down upon the desperate struggles of the ants beneath him. His deep red cape hung motionless in the howling gale. The crimson and dark purple helmet covered most of his head, revealing only a jawline of cold hardness and utterly calm, pitiless eyes. He didn't even seem to be exerting himself, his hands merely raised slightly, palms facing the sky, as if holding up the world itself.

Around him, a storm of death composed of metal raged. Bent steel girders, shattered car wrecks, broken pipes, street lamps…… every metal object in the block seemed imbued with life, transforming into steel serpents obeying his will, slowly rotating and colliding around him—a barrier of utter destruction. The rising sun was blotted out. The very clouds seemed to hum with a low, ominous drone.

"Magneto's helmet blocks telepathy!" Hank yelled over the gale, trying to make Paul understand their hopeless situation. "Jean's powers are useless against him!"

Following Hank's gaze, Paul saw Jean Grey and Scott engaged in fierce combat with other Brotherhood members, trapped outside the storm. They couldn't possibly come to their aid in time.

The scent of death had never been so thick, whispering against the nape of his neck. For the first time, Paul felt so utterly small and powerless before absolute power.

Yet within the eye of the storm, there was an eerie stillness. Magneto's gaze swept over Hank, who stood solidly blocking his path to Paul and John, not yielding an inch.

"Step aside, Hank," Erik's voice wasn't loud, but it had a grating quality that cut through the storm's roar, reaching everyone's ears. "You know only Charles can offer me any real sport. Do not struggle pointlessly." He sound as if stating the simplest truth.

"I mean no harm." Magneto's gaze moved past Hank, settling on Paul. It was appraising, curious, like he'd discovered a rare treasure. "I'm merely…… interested. In how Charles found such a gifted student and hid him from me."

His words were like a spell, spoken persuasively. "Come with me, child. Fight for the future of mutantkind. A talent like yours should not be wasted here. Come with me, and I will spare your comrades."

Paul looked at the hellish scene around him. At Logan, lying broken in the rubble, condition unknown. At Jean and Scott, fighting desperately in the distance. At John, weak and needing his protection beside him. And at Hank, standing alone before Magneto, shielding them all. A profound sense of powerlessness washed over him. Perhaps sacrificing himself truly could buy his teammates' safety? Paul's fingers twitched. His body involuntarily began to rise, to answer the call of the god hovering in the air.

But the moment his knees bent—

"Lensherr!"

A voice, weak yet unyielding, pierced the heavy air. John's voice.

He leaned against the sofa, his face pale, breathing rapidly. But his brown eyes were cold, locked fiercely on Magneto.

"Look behind you. Look at your secret base," John gasped, the words almost a taunt.

Magneto's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. He instinctively turned to look into the distance, towards the direction of his factory stronghold. Thick, black smoke and raging flames met his gaze, accompanied by the dull thud of frequent explosions. It was a scene of utter chaos.

"What have you done?"

For the first time, clear anger tinged Magneto's voice. The metal storm around him roared louder, its shrieking intensifying. The sharp fragments swirling around him seemed on the verge of losing control, ready to pulverize everything below.

John managed a grim, triumphant smile. Even now, his words carried their characteristic, near-cruel mockery.

"Left you a little present," John breathed laboriously, each word forced out. "A special directional signal transmitter. Immune to your magnetic field. As for its target……" He paused, savoring the other's rage. "Is those generals who would always like to keep an eye on you……"

Back when he was dying on the factory floor—no, long before that—John had planned this contingency against the Brotherhood. He'd retrieved Hank's piece of black tech from his pocket and set it up amidst the chaos of the stronghold. The lie he'd spun while impersonating Mystique to escape—about a military ambush on the base—he now turned into a real strike against Magneto.

Magneto's face darkened instantly. He could feel his distant base crumbling under a government assault. He'd been fooled! Fooled by a human he considered beneath notice, a fragile weakling, and struck precisely where it hurt most!

Shame and fury churned in Erik's eyes. The magnetic storm vibrated wildly. He committed the name John Lennon to memory—the human who had dared to manipulate him, Magneto.

But the crisis at his base was imminent. Erik knew he had to return immediately. He shot John a final, murderous glare, filled with the promise of certain reckoning.

"This isn't over, Lennon," Magneto left the icy declaration hanging in the air. The next second, with a wave of his hand, the metallic tempest surrounding Paul and the others coalesced into a torrent and shot skyward, streaking back the way it had come.

……

Back at the Xavier Institute, John was taken directly to Hank's medical bay. This latest collapse was worse than any before. Even with Paul's all-out healing, his body would require an extremely long and careful convalescence. John was forced to abandon all work, to step away from the flickering screens and endless data streams, letting the AI he'd developed handle everything.

The Institute's infirmary always carried the lingering scent of disinfectant, but in this private room, it was a pervasive, heavy silence that dominated. Paul had been here too long, so long that the shadows cast by the sunlight outside had shifted significantly.

John lay propped against pillows, drifting in and out of sleep. He could feel Paul's steady presence, a soft, restless light illuminating the room. Sometimes, with his eyes closed, John would sense a gaze resting quietly on his face—intent, carrying an emotion he dared not examine. When John opened his eyes, that gaze would swiftly, casually, shift away.

Amidst these brief exchanges of glances, John soon began to feel the boredom of hospital life. Electronic devices were strictly forbidden; he could only pass the time reading. Once, reaching for a book on the bedside table, his fingertips hadn't even brushed the cover before Paul picked it up and handed it to him.

Their fingers brushed against the book's spine, a fleeting contact.

A tiny current, originating from the skin Paul had touched, shot through John, making him shiver. Not from Paul's healing ability, but something else, more unfamiliar and unsettling. Something hidden deep within John's own heart.

Paul, however, snatched his hand back as if burned, the tips of his ears tinged pink. "Sorry, Mr. Lennon," he murmured, avoiding eye contact.

"It's fine," John took the book, trying to dismiss the momentary strangeness. He opened it, his eyes falling on the words, but his thoughts couldn't immerse themselves in the world of political intrigue. The small patch of skin Paul's finger had touched still felt warm, with a peculiar itch, as if a dormant dragon stirred beneath, struggling to break free from its cage.

Quickly, John lowered his head, refusing to dwell on it. His gaze wandered unconsciously through the pages until it fell, unexpectedly, into a Dothraki tent. A burning fire, a sickle of a pale yellow moon.

"Look at the moon, my sun-and-stars," Khal Drogo said to Daenerys. John's hand traced the sentences, those finely crafted, breathing words. They continued.

"It goes," Drogo said, "and comes back again. The khalasars boast that the stars are made of fire, that the great heroes of past ages burn in the sky for all to see. But I am a humble man, not nearly so bright as a star…… But so long as you are with me, I can find my way, even in the darkest night."

Reading this, John's breath caught. Almost panicked, he snapped the book shut, not daring to read more.

Looking up, he met Paul's concerned gaze directly. The boy's eyes were clear, reflecting his own flustered image.

"Mr. Lennon, are you unwell? Should I adjust the pillows?" Paul asked, his voice full of concern.

"No," John said, his voice rough. He cleared his throat, trying to dispel the awkwardness. "Why are you always so nervous, Paul?"

"I'm not," Paul denied immediately, a hint of guilt at being seen through.

Silence stretched between them, the atmosphere growing increasingly awkward. Paul fidgeted, seeming to reach a decision. "I…… I'm probably disturbing your rest. Maybe I should go?"

Watching him prepare to leave, a powerful thought seized John. Don't leave me, Paul. A wave of agitation washed over him. With you here, this damned room feels less like a prison cell. I feel less alone. I don't want to be alone, don't want to count my own heartbeats, don't want to remember anything about hospitals, about death.

But these words, tumbling in his throat, came out differently.

"Don't go," John said, pausing. "Having you here… it feels warm."

Paul was taken aback for a moment, then nodded in understanding, clearly attributing it to his unconsciously emitted energy field. He sat back down, quiet as a statue.

The setting sun cast an orange-red glow through the window panes, slicing the room into segments of light. In this gentle twilight, Paul suddenly spoke, his voice soft, as if afraid to disturb the peace.

"I was afraid." he said.

John's heart sank. He had most feared hearing this. He thought of the raging metal storm, the god-like pressure from Magneto. Guilt gripped his heart like an icy hand. It was his plan, his failing body, that had dragged Paul into such danger. He was always like this, thinking he could control everything, only to end up endangering those he cared about. Powerless. Helpless. The familiar feeling was suffocating. Wasn't hiding behind screens precisely because he didn't want anyone to see this wretched and incompetent shell?

Suddenly, a melodious voice from memory surfaced—his long-departed mother. Julia, in her long skirts, teaching him piano, chasing birds and singing with him. She was gently brushing dust from his shoulders, dispelling the haze of self-loathing. During his countless trips to the hospital, his most desperate hours, his beautiful mother was always there. She and her love, which never faded.

Suppressing the surging emotions, John replied in as steady a voice as he could manage. "You did very well on the battlefield, Paul. You were truly brave…… I'm very proud of you."

He expected a response about the fight, but Paul shook his head, his gaze unfocused, directed towards the burning sunset outside the window.

"I wasn't talking about the fight, or Magneto," Paul corrected softly. "I meant…… I was afraid you'd end up like my mother. You work in intelligence, and you must know…… she's been gone a long time."

John was stunned.

"When she was in the hospital, I didn't visit her enough. Then one day, Dad called. I was helping Mike with his homework. It was a sunny afternoon. I'd told Mike if he solved this math problem, I'd take him out to catch frogs. We usually visited Mum on weekends. But after Dad's call…… we never needed to go to the hospital again."

Paul paused for a long time, so long John thought he wouldn't continue.

"She was gone. Not coming back. Mike and I, both late, rushed to see her in a panic. I held her hand…… but it was so cold. I let go, startled. I let go…… I didn't understand why. Why was I afraid of my own mother?"

Paul's pained voice trailed off. Silence filled the room, broken only by their shallow breathing. The setting sun cast a golden edge around Paul, illuminating the moisture gathering in his eyes.

John looked at him, unblinking, thinking of his own mother. Also in a familiar hospital. He'd been taken there, struggling and resistant the whole way, unable to believe it. He hadn't even gotten to say goodbye, unlike Paul. He'd run out then, furious and grief-stricken, into the rain. The Paul before him now was just like his former self. John slowly opened his palm towards Paul. It was a long-fingered, capable hand, accustomed to typing and manipulating data.

It was a sincere request.

"Paul, I want to hold your hand now. Will you let me?"

Paul turned his head. His damp eyes met John's gaze. There was no pity, no judgment there, only a deep, profound understanding.

After a moment's hesitation, Paul reached out and carefully placed his hand into John's open palm.

This time, there was no lightning-fast withdrawal. John's fingers closed gently but firmly around the smaller hand. The feel of the skin was intensely real. Its warmth dispelled the memory's chill and soothed the unsettled soul of the present.

They didn't speak again. In the deepening twilight, they sat quietly, tending their wounds. As if the whole world existed only for each other.

Chapter Text

Taking advantage of the lull while Magneto was preoccupied with the military and the Brotherhood lay low, the Xavier Institute enjoyed a brief period of tranquility. Under days of continuous treatment, John was soon back on his feet, having had his fill of lying idle. Before departure, Hank gave him a new medical watch and, after repeated urging from John, finally released him with a furrowed brow. On a misty morning, John took Paul, as he had promised, set off for the homeland.

Setting foot on the damp, cold soil of England, Paul took a deep breath of the familiar, sea-scented air, a wave of nervous apprehension washing over him as he approached home. He hadn't expected the promise made in a life-or-death moment to be fulfilled so quickly.

The car carried them through the streets. Paul pointed excitedly out the window, telling John that was the route he used to take to school, the bus stop where he'd get off, and over in the corner was a great record shop where he often hunted for second-hand records. For once, words poured out in an endless stream, Paul's face alight with excitement and nostalgia.

John, bundled in a heavy coat, leaned back in the comfortable seat, watching Paul point things out, a faint, unconscious smile touched his lips. He didn't interrupt, just listened, occasionally offering a word or two to response.

When the car passed a quiet lane near Penny Lane, John fell into a silent reverie. He spoke softly, interrupting Paul's chatter about the school band. "I lived here once too. A long time ago."

Paul turned to him, surprised.

"I grew up with my mum. After she passed, my father came back home and took me to America." John's tone was flat. "The rain in Liverpool is very different from the East Coast of the States."

"You're from Liverpool too?" Paul felt the strangeness of fate.

"Once." John smiled, a touch of melancholy in it. "In America, at first, it was just about surviving in that cutthroat environment, making money desperately, building an intelligence network. Money and information were the real currency there." His gaze drifted to the scenery flying past the window.

"Later, I'd made more than enough money, and carved out a bit of a name for myself with my skills, but I found there were too many things in the world that neither could solve. Like an incurable illness…… or persecution born from prejudice."

John's voice grew quieter. "Three years ago, this body finally reached its limit. The doctors were helpless. My father called in countless favors and used immense resources to contact Charles. It was Charles and Hank, with their knowledge and abilities, who pulled me back from Death's grasp." He paused, looking at Paul. "That was my first real encounter with mutants, not as intelligence reports or statistics, but as saviors…… I thought, since they could do for me what I couldn't do for myself, perhaps I could help clear some of the obstacles for what they wanted to achieve but couldn't."

Of course, there were many stories John might never tell Paul. He wouldn't tell him what the house he grew up in looked like, the grey brick walls, the tall chimney, the wildly overgrown bushes. How his mother would play hide-and-seek with him until, afraid her child had silently collapsed somewhere, she'd search for him frantically, calling his name until her voice grew hoarse. And how John only felt smug about his clever hiding spot. He wouldn't tell Paul about his Aunt Mimi, who took him in after Julia's car accident. Mimi now lived in a villa by the sea. After joining the X-Men, John had someone inform her that her nephew had died of his illness. Mimi believed it with no doubt. Every year, on the fabricated anniversary of his death, she prayed for him, wishing him peace and health in the next life. Nor would he tell Paul about the quiet of the ICU, his brief reliance on placebos and painkillers, or how bitter and prickly he was when he first arrived at the Institute.

The car stopped in front of Paul's house. The somewhat aged terraced house had soft light glowing in its windows. Paul's heart began to race.

John didn't get out. He handed Paul an encrypted communicator. "Go. Spend some proper time with them. I'll wait here for you. If anything happens, contact me immediately."

Paul nodded gratefully, took a deep breath, pushed the car door open, and walked towards the front door he had missed for countless days and nights.

John watched his retreating back, murmured a few instructions to the driver, and the car pulled away slowly, parking in a corner where they could observe Paul's house. John leaned against the window, closing his eyes wearily.

……

The familiar front door still shone with white paint, framed by red trim. The narrow steps were the same colour. Pushing the door open, the living room was just as he had left it, as if life hadn't changed, as if Paul had just been on a short trip and would be home for dinner as promised. The light blue fabric sofa with its pink camellia print, the curtains stirring slightly in the breeze, the flowers outside the window, all seemed so peaceful, yet it felt strangely distant to Paul. Everything here was frozen in time, while he tried to grasp life in another new world.

Jim McCartney was sitting in the old armchair in the living room. He wasn't reading the paper or listening to the radio, just sitting, as if waiting specifically for Paul's arrival. Hearing the door open, he looked up, his gaze resting on Paul for a second before shifting away.

"I already know the situation." Jim began, his voice low.

All the explanations Paul had prepared on the way—about the Institute, his ability, the dangerous encounters—were stifled in his throat by this offhand remark. He just nodded, ultimately saying nothing. Paul walked past his father's armchair, took off his coat, and hung it on the hook that belonged to him, just like before. Then he silently headed for the stairs. He wanted to go to his room and be alone.

"Have you eaten?"

His father's voice came from behind as his foot touched the first step, interrupting his escape.

Paul stopped. "I have." he said stiffly.

"How long are you staying?" Jim's question followed immediately.

Paul's heart tightened. "About an hour," he said, trying to sound normal. "I have to leave soon." He didn't explain why the visit was so short. The words on the tip of his tongue—about the government potentially tracking his energy signature, surveillance, even threatening his family—pricked at him like needles. Paul couldn't say it out loud. He couldn't bring that fear into this house.

"Alright," Jim replied. Silence filled the living room once more.

Paul stood still, a sour helplessness welling up inside him. He noticed that although his father seemed unruffled, he looked older, with much more grey hair on his temples. Before coming home, Paul had rehearsed this moment repeatedly in his mind. He had to tell his dad that he loved him, that he missed him. But when the moment came, those simple words felt immensely heavy, crushed by this familiar silence. Ever since Mary—his mother—had passed away, no, even when Mary was alive, there had always been an indescribable, thin veil between him and his father. He was long accustomed to following his father's brief, clear instructions, not to initiating expressions of feeling or making demands.

Just then, a rapid, "thump-thump-thump" of footsteps sounded from upstairs, like a cheerful drumbeat breaking the stagnant air.

"Paul!"

His brother Mike shot down the stairs like a cannonball, his eyes wide with disbelief and wild joy, and threw himself at Paul, making him stagger. The boy's arms tightened around his waist, his voice choked with emotion:

"You're finally back! Are you staying? Are you okay? We were so worried!"

Instinctively, Paul hugged his younger brother, who was pouring out his genuine feelings, tears of joy dampening his neck. In that moment, all the frustration of controlling his ability at the Institute, the raw terror of facing Magneto, all the heavy secrets buried in his heart, seemed to find a temporary refuge.

He closed his eyes, resting his chin lightly on Mike's head, and answered in the steadiest voice he could manage:

"Yeah, Mike. I'm alright."

……

An hour later, Paul returned to the car, his eyes slightly red and swollen, but his face glowing with happiness and relief. He slid into the seat, pressing close to John, bringing with him the warm scent of home.

"They're fine…… Dad is still as serious. He doesn't talk much. He was disappointed when I said I'd eaten, because he'd prepared a big meal for me. Mike has grown so much taller. He promised me his schoolwork is fine and he doesn't need my help tutoring anymore. He bought a new camera, spent a lot of money on it. He swore to me he's going to be a great photographer……"

Paul chattered on, sharing every detail of the reunion. Then, carefully, he pulled a red "Get Well" card from his pocket and handed it to John. He was so cautious, as if afraid of damaging a single corner of the paper.

John took it. He turned the card over. There was a text "KAIROS THE BEAR" on the front cover. On the back was a short letter.

_________________________________________________

To Paul,

Because only time can mend all wounds.

Love,
Mummy

_________________________________________________

"This was my mother's, Mr. Lennon. Her keepsake," Paul said sincerely, looking directly into John's eyes. "I want to give you her wish."

It was an immensely precious gift. John knew he couldn't refuse it. He had to accept.

John placed the card gently, carefully, into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, close to his heart. That spot had been reserved for Paul's talisman pendant.

Having completed this act of safekeeping, he suddenly said to Paul, "Just call me John from now on."

Paul was startled for a moment, feeling a warmth spread through his chest. He nodded, and softly tried the name: "……John."

The name, spoken slowly from Paul's lips, was clear, carrying a faint hint of reliance. John heard it and found it sounded more fitting than the previous formal address. He gave a slight nod, smiling at Paul in response.

On the flight back, Paul, exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster, fell into a deep sleep. John watched his sleeping face, remembering his desperate healing when John was dying, his tears at the bedside, his firm declaration of protection…… This boy with limitless potential, whom he had brought out of the lab, was maturing at an astonishing rate, and without John even realizing it, had carved out a unique place in his world, a world that was stingy with its trust.

The plane cut through the clouds. Below lay the vast Atlantic, the clouds rising and falling like ocean waves. John knew that even though the Institute they were returning to was still fraught with danger, with countless challenges awaiting them, and Magneto's threat remained, watching Paul sleep peacefully beside him, he felt a long-absent, almost luxurious sense of tranquility. Perhaps chasing ideals didn't necessarily mean forsaking bonds.

Beside John, the slumbering boy dreamed of the past. He heard the jingling of bells, a conversation he couldn't forget. Under the ancient, verdant oak tree at the Institute, Jean had said his ability was a song. And for John, Paul was willing to pick up a guitar and write a real song. He vowed to write many, many songs. One day, they would surely find their rhythm, play their melody together, face to face behind a microphone, singing forever.