September 12, 1968

"I don't care what they do to me," Moira said, "I will never tell the CIA where you are."

Charles gave her a long, sad look. She wasn't sure why he did that. He had become sadder in the past few days, more and more withdrawn. She had hoped that she had pulled him out of himself enough to see that Cuba hadn't been his fault, to see the strength that she did.

He had laughed, he had smiled, but now something seemed to be pulling him down again. The sadness in his eyes seemed to mellow somewhat before he smiled tenderly at her. She smiled back. They could continue on like this, getting a little better each day.

Charles would make it in the end. She was sure of it.

"Of course not," he said.

He reached up and Moira let herself lean in. His lips were familiar enough to her by now, almost as though they were part of her. She closed her eyes and sighed into the kiss, and then-

Moira woke up, her neck aching and her face tingling. She pushed herself off the table and held her head in her hands, trying to stave off the massive headache that she could feel coming. It always followed these dreams, or flashbacks, or whatever they were.

The pain began spreading as she pushed away from the table. Papers scattered in her wake and she moved towards the medicine cabinet. She measured out two aspirin, but she knew that it was probably useless. Moira dry-swallowed them both anyway.

She laid down on it, and winced at the way the springs creaked. She wasn't tired, not after her impromptu nap while reading her bills, but laying down helped. She put a hand to her forehead, trying to measure her breathing. In about thirty minutes the headache would pass.

She'd been having them ever since she woke up in her apartment in Virginia, the last few months a blur. The next few hours were still blurry to her. She remembered being called into a meeting with McCone, trying to focus on a room that was spinning. A few random memories had floated to the top of her head.

Levine had later taken her aside and told her that she'd mentioned a kiss. He'd had to, because he felt the need to explain to her why everyone was sniggering behind her back. At first she had been shocked. She couldn't remember what she'd had for breakfast that day, and now they were telling her that she had said that?

One of the first things that Moira had learned was not to let anyone at the CIA see her as a woman. It wasn't fair, but it had never led to anywhere good. It was one of the first things that could kill your credibility. Now she had made a fool of herself in front of some of the government's top officials.

Levine had told her that it was the fault of one of the mutants she'd been working with, a telepath named Charles Xavier. He'd been angry, practically spitting out the name. Moira couldn't feel anger though. The name caused a momentary pang, one she couldn't quite place. If she concentrated she could just conjure an image of what he looked like. Whenever she tried for anything else, she ended up feeling nauseous.

She'd thought it was just a stomach flu, and given how generous McCone had been with leave time after the meeting, she thought that she should at least try to get over it. It felt disgusting to take a favor from the very people who were using her as an object of fun, but she'd been so disoriented that she'd needed it. Levine had visited her a few times, the worry on his face clear.

Then the brief memories began flitting across her mind, resulting in painful headaches. When she returned to work, trying to ignore the gossip that was still going on behind her back as she was put on desk duty, the headaches had continued. As had the sniggering.

It had been the assignment back to the typing pool that had made Moira realize what was happening. Her career was gone, snatched away by inopportune timing and whatever had been done to her mind to make her utter those stupid words. This man, a man who she had obviously cared for if her scraps of memories were anything to go by, had abandoned her.

So she had resigned. Levine had told her that she didn't need to, that he would fight McCone on her reassignment, but Moira didn't see any point. Levine could no more save her from being sent to the typing pool than he could save himself if McCone got angry at him for standing up for her. So she had smiled sadly at him, promised to stay in touch, and left.

At first she hadn't known where to go. She had dabbled in a few clerical jobs, her knowledge of other languages proving useful. Then she'd had word that her aunt had died in Scotland and, as her aunt's sole relative, her property was being transferred to her.

Moira had gone down to make sense of it all. She'd had to quit her job to do so: her last boss had been a jerk. Her aunt hadn't been particularly wealthy, but there was a small island that had been in their family for years. It had been rented out by butterfly researchers in recent years, which had brought her aunt a decent amount of income. She'd owned a house in the neighboring town of Lincross on the mainland. Moira was currently living in it, trying to pay the bills for the funeral and figure out what she was going to do next.

The headache passed, and she sat up and looked out the window. It was winter, so it got dark early. Moira rubbed her temples and looked around. When she was younger, her family would take her on vacation there. Moira hadn't really liked the damp, rural area. She had liked her aunt though. As a little girl, her aunt's scientific studies and European travels had seemed like the stuff of high adventure. It was then that Moira had started to have grand ideas about her own life, about the adventures that she was going to have.

She bit her lip. How had it come to this? Jobless, alone, her health suffering, and all but friendless. She had never been one to feel sorry for herself, but she wondered bitterly if she should start. The past few years hadn't exactly lived up to her hopes. Moira couldn't even remember what she was being punished for.

Tears threatened, and she pushed them away angrily. She had to focus on the things in front of her, practical reality. If she spent all day thinking like this than nothing would ever get done. It was easier to think of it like that.

Charles sighed and looked up at the ceiling. It was starting to crack. Part of him dully told him that he should get someone to come in and fix it. The other part of him didn't give a damn. If the house fell apart and killed him then at least he wouldn't have to bother any more.

He supposed that Hank would care though, and that nagging feeling was the only thing that allowed him to get up in the morning. Not that there was anything for him to do. The last of the teachers and students had left three weeks ago. Or had it been three months? The days and weeks seemed to merge together now.

Hank and he were the only ones left, leaving the school to be his latest failure on a rather long list. He chuckled to himself, the sound bitter and sharp. He was up now though, and sleep was no longer a refuge.

One thing was though. Charles opened the bottle of brandy and took a swig. The alcohol burned soothingly going down his throat. He was glad now that he had laid up a supply in his room. It meant that he didn't have to go downstairs for anything. The elevator always made so much noise, and he hated the wheelchair ferociously. He was sure that Hank was starting to worry, but he'd deal with that later.

He turned his head and saw Raven's picture. He sighed. She hadn't spoken with him since Cuba. He hadn't even seen her. Alex had been adamant that they needed to go after them, to do something, but what had been the point? It would have just instigated a manhunt that they had neither the power nor the resources to carry through. All they could do was a few rescue missions, repair and preventative work against the Brotherhood.

Alex had argued for a manhunt, right up until Sean had been killed. Some of Alex's fight had gone after that, although Charles had still clashed with him. Not that he needed to argue with Alex about anything anymore. All he had to worry about was the boy getting killed horribly in an overseas war.

Charles took another swig. There were pictures he didn't have on that table, pictures he wished he did. Charles wanted a picture of Erik, if only so that he could have something to break and curse at when the mood struck him. The betrayal still hurt. Erik had been his first real friend, the first one that he had trusted with his life, and instead he'd left Charles without his sister or the use of his legs.

There was one more picture that he wanted though. He finished the bottle and hung onto it limply. Charles closed his eyes and thought of brown eyes and auburn hair. If he concentrated he could just feel the caress of her lips on his, the way her hair had felt when he threaded through his fingers.

"Moira, you should go."

"No."

He shook his head, willing her to understand so he didn't have to say it out loud. He didn't want her to see him this way. It was better for him to just say goodbye now, for her to leave the hospital and never come back.

Charles was never going to walk again. The doctor had been quite adamant about this. It meant that, in addition to having lost two of the people he cared about, he had also lost the use of his legs. The beach had washed everything away, and now, the final humiliation was to ask the last people in his life who meant anything to him to teach him how to do everyday tasks again. He wouldn't do it.

However, her beautiful eyes were fixed on his with determination. Why couldn't she understand, see things from his point of view? She, like the boys in the hall, had a picture of someone he wasn't, someone he couldn't be.

Her strength and bravery had made her so different from any woman he'd ever seen before. It was what had attracted him to her, but he wished she wouldn't fight him anymore. He was so tired of fighting.

"Moira...I...I don't want..." he tried.

"Charles," she said.

She reached out, surrounding his hand with her own. It was warm and gentle. Moira gave him a sad smile.

"It doesn't matter. I swear it doesn't," she said.

"It's going to matter," said Charles, "It does matter."

Tears had welled up in his eyes, and he saw them pool in hers. Moira brought his hand to her lips.

"It's going to be alright," she whispered.

Charles opened his eyes and flung the bottle at the wall. It shattered and he buried his head in his hands. It hadn't been alright though, and she was gone, just like everyone else. The only difference was that, unlike Erik and Raven, he had forced her away.

At least she hadn't had to see what he'd become.