Disclaimer: Recognizable characters and places belong to Marvel, not to me.
Notes: I wrote this story as part of an attempt to tie together various canons. If something seems markedly against canon, I hope you'll take it with a grain of salt and trust it will be addressed at some point.
In this chapter and, indeed, throughout the story, various remarks are made about people with disabilities including words which, by today's standards, are very rude, and statements which are demeaning by any standards. This is because I tried to portray someone adjusting to a disability in a realistic way and to write like it was the 1960s in terms of attitudes; it is not meant as a just attitude or my own attitude.
Since his powers manifested, Charles Xavier had mastered many skills. He could be subtle; he could enter a mind unnoticed. He could freeze a small group of people. He could find forgotten memories, control actions, or communicate without a word spoken aloud. The finesse of his skills mattered, not his ability to impact a huge number of people.
The telephone rang again and Charles wondered how many people he could scan before the next ring. Surely not enough and likely not far enough to know who had called, which was a pity.
Knowing who was on the other end of the line would help him decide whether or not to take the call. He wanted not to. It was late. Only weak moonlight trickled in through the windows. The world outside had quieted, in that way the world does to make every snapped twig and rustled leaf blare.
Riiing.
Maintaining his optimistic demeanor since the missile crisis had been a challenge. How optimistic could anybody be after losing the two dearest people in his life? Raven and Erik were out there somewhere—alive. They were alive, but that was cold comfort when he felt them slipping further and further from him.
Some part of him still expected her to return. With all that had been done to Erik, he still had good in him—but might need more than simple circumstance to find it. Charles knew. He also knew that Raven had once been closer to him than anyone. She might come back.
Riiing.
In the past weeks, not only had Charles heard no word from Raven, two more friends had distanced themselves. Alex had taken off on a cross-country road trip, with so many double entendres Charles had been sorely tempted to telepathically influence him to leave several days away from being fully prepared, before having to hear one more remark about "seeing areas of exquisite natural beauty" and "hoisting my flag in unexplored territories". Sean, meanwhile, had applied months ago for an internship and decided not to pass up the opportunity.
Alex and Sean were young men used to a degree of independence. They had not abandoned the cause of peaceful mutant/human coexistence, but without the drama of the crisis, they were not ready to devote their lives to it, either. They likely would have stayed, anyway, but this wasn't the place for them. Charles knew that. He knew, and he did not want them looking at him the way they did, reminding him of what he had lost.
That was why he gave them a telepathic nudge out the door.
It was only Charles and Hank left now. Charles would be lying to say this was not disheartening, especially since Hank's choice to remain had likely been heavily influenced by his appearance. Since his experiment went awry and turned him blue and furry, Hank had managed to avoid speaking to anyone new. Where was he going to go, looking the way he did?
Riiing.
That was the tenth ring of the second call and when Charles pictured who might be calling, he did not picture Raven. He tried, but in his heart he knew it wasn't her. Alex might be calling just to say hello, but knowing Alex, the only likely thing about that was the call coming in the middle of the night.
Charles sighed. He could turn around, clumsily maneuver this stupid, awkward wheelchair to get himself back to bed. Whoever was calling would eventually hang up. How important could it be, after all?
He knew the answer: important enough for ten rings, for two calls. Alex would have given up, Sean would not call at this time of night, and Raven… that was simply the baseless hope of an old man. (Charles had not quite accepted that he was no longer in his twenties. Thirty felt like he ought to be going gray, or worse, bald.) Sometimes Charles felt old and alone, but he knew there was one person who might be calling.
He could go back to bed anyway.
Rii—
"Moira?"
"Charles, thank God!" Moira's voice was breathless. He heard noise in the background, voices, a door slamming. Without waiting for a response, she hurried on, "I'm sorry to call you so late but it's, I think it could be an emergency."
Emergency. Last time he saw Moira, he was in a hospital bed wishing he had someone with whom he could just be himself and sob and shout over the lost use of his legs. Time before that, he was on a beach with a fresh bullet wound and dozens of warships in firing range.
Since when did their relationship involve the concept of 'emergency'? And what did she want him to do about it? He was a cripple now. Didn't she remember that?
Yet the words that came out of his mouth were, "Where are you?"
"I'm at the police station, I've been working with the local authorities."
The words made him feel tired. Honestly, what did Moira expect of him? His days for heroics were over. He could not even walk! He doubted he would be any use to the police.
Nevertheless, Moira was a friend, and a good one at that. Charles tried to keep the weariness from his voice as he asked, "What sort of emergency is it, Moira?"
"Your sort."
Disclaimer: recognizable characters, places, etc. belong to Marvel Comics or a film studio or... something. But not me.
Notes: I wrote this story as part of an attempt to tie together various canons. If something seems markedly against canon, I hope you'll take it with a grain of salt and trust it will be addressed at some point.
In this chapter and, indeed, throughout the story, various remarks are made about people with disabilities including words which, by today's standards, are very rude, and statements which are demeaning by any standards. This is because I tried to portray someone adjusting to a disability in a realistic way and to write like it was the 1960s in terms of attitudes; it is not meant as a just attitude or my own attitude.