He is Scott Summers, leader of the X-Men and instructor at the Xavier Institute. Normally, he would spend his weekends waxing and changing the oil of his car or maintaining the X-Jet.
But not this weekend. Dressed in simple jeans and a sweatshirt, he clambered up the sturdy tree trunk with a hammer and a box of nails.
"Nate!" He called to the boy below. Though he had a head of brown hair, it had an extremely strong tint of red under the bright sunlight of this sweltering afternoon. In a clear tone, he instructed the boy to load the wooden planks onto the simple pulley system he had devised. Later in the day, he had to repair the satellite dish on the mansion's roof-top. Another powered up baseball game the previous day had knocked it out of place. Scott was ready to strangle them for having the guts to complain about poor TV reception this morning.
He had to contort his body slightly to get the roof of the tree house in place. The beads of perspiration were getting into his eyes. He blinked them away. From his weird angle, he caught a glimpse of the mansion's side door (which led to the gardens and field) open. A redhead walked out, in her hands what seemed a pot of soup, and floating a jug of lemonade and three glasses behind her. She set the pot, jug and glasses on the table on the small patio. At this time of day, even the patio was barely but sufficiently shaded. She wore flip flops and a white flowy dress. Absently, her hand went over her rounded abdomen in circles. That sight put a smile on Scott's face.
"Mom!" His hyperactive five-year-old bounced across the lawn and into the arms of his mother. She enveloped him in a hug and he pressed an ear over her swollen tummy. Telekinetically pulling out a chair, she sat herself by the table, pouring a glass of lemonade for the boy.
"Scott, aren't you coming into the shade for awhile?" she called from her seat. You know what too much sun does to you, hon, she relayed telepathically.
Coming Jean, he sent via their psychic link. Hammering the last nail to hold that plank in place, he climbed down cautiously and made his way across the freshly mowed lawn.
He walked towards his wife and greeted her, capturing her lips in a tender caress. She kissed him back. Pulling away, he licked his lips distastefully.
"Jesus, how can you drink that stuff?"
Jean arched an eyebrow and returned to sipping her tom yam soup. During her last pregnancy, she had a craving for Japanese sushi. This time, it was Thai cuisine.
"Being pregnant does funny things to you." She added, and shrugged.
Crouching down, he put a hand and ear over her abdomen. She was five months pregnant. "How are the twins today?"
"Oh, they started kicking today," she basked in the pride of a mother-to-be.
Then there it was; he felt a bump. Then another. He smiled and she ran her fingers through his hair, fingering the tips.
His son perked up from his lemonade. "I wanna feel them too!" He climbed onto her knee. His lively chuckle filled the air whenever he felt his baby brother or sister give his mother a kick.
Scott watched intently, as if his mind were a camera capturing a snapshot of this very moment.
He is Scott Summers, loving husband and father.