Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed.
A quick note about character age: Several of you have commented on the age of the characters, particularly in relation to Raven. While I know that the movies (First Class and Days of Future Past) like to portray her in her late twenties and early thirties, I do not feel that is the case. The movie timelines and ages for the characters do not jive, and I do not believe that Charles was thirty when First Class happened. As most of my readers from other fandoms know, I usually set my characters' ages around the same age as the actor playing them. Therefore, I have taken creative license with character ages for the sake of the story. And, as I'm writing for the movies and not the comic books, I haven't felt much need to be accurate for the comics.
I hope everyone enjoys the chapter! ~lg
~oOo~
The rain had let up a bit the next morning, but Anne woke feeling like she wanted to curl up somewhere and sleep. Still, it was time to start breakfast, and keeping Charles on a steady schedule was paramount. If she had learned anything in the last few weeks, she had realized that time slipped away before she noticed. The house had a magical quality, a way of transporting a person to a whole new world emotionally. For Anne, it gave her a respite from the city while keeping her from becoming too dependent on it. After all, it was Charles's house, not hers. And, as much as she liked living there and exploring the grounds, she knew she would leave one day.
Pushing out of bed, Anne grabbed her robe and then headed for the kitchen. The same peacefulness that had hovered the previous morning and settled during the afternoon followed her. She pulled out the tea kettle, tea pot, and all the fixings, preparing them quickly while her mind returned to yesterday.
Yesterday, she had spent hours in the same room as Charles, not speaking but still close. It had reminded her of their time in Oxford, of those nights that he gave her a safe place to read or study. She had sensed him watching her at times, but she had refused to let it bother her too terribly. Besides, he insisted that she work on her project, and she felt almost smug in the realization that he'd never seen anyone knit before.
Just what sort of life had Charles Xavier led? He'd spoken about working with the government and being shot, but he had not told her everything. The man was cryptic at his best times while still portraying an air of open friendliness, and that cagey attitude worried Anne. She cared a great deal for Charles, but she could not truly help him if he did not allow himself to be honest. Some moments, she wondered if he was trying to protect her from something. At others, she could almost guarantee that he simply wanted to protect himself. The longer she lived in his home, the more certain she was of this impression.
The kettle whistled, and she poured the hot water over the tea. Then, she went upstairs, her thoughts in a jumble as she dressed. Charles's propensity to care for his friends, from providing finances and a home to keeping secrets, came from a deep place within him. She had seen it during their years in Oxford. But, back then, he hadn't been dealing with depression or addiction. As the days passed, Anne saw more than Charles likely realized. She knew that, very soon, he would fall apart. Her presence here had given him a reason to get back to a daily life, but that daily life would eventually show him just how different it was from what he'd wanted. How had he termed it? A perfectly boring life? And he knew, better than anyone, how that life had destroyed him.
She returned to the kitchen as she continued to think. How should she prepare for it? Anne knew from personal experience that these breakdowns could take many forms. She had seen people turn violent, suicidal, emotional, or just plain rude. She'd had things thrown at her, curses shouted at her, and some had even physically attacked her. How would Charles react when life came crashing down? She hadn't been here when he lost his legs, but she doubted even that would compare to this time. When everything collapsed around him, she would see the real Charles Xavier, the one without masks or refined accents or wealth.
"Good morning." That very man chose that moment to enter the kitchen, though his expression looked a bit strained.
Anne blinked, wondering if he could see her thoughts written on her face and then realized that she hadn't even begun their breakfast. "Sorry. I'm running a little late today."
Charles waved her apology away. "It's a day like yesterday." He reached for the tea set, fixing their tea like any other morning. "Made for sleeping in, slow starts, and enjoying another fire."
She couldn't stop the smile that formed. "Maybe," she said. "But I took yesterday off. So I need to get back to work."
He stared at her, his hands frozen over the sugar bowl. "Don't you ever grow tired of cleaning?"
"Yes." Anne met his eyes. "But I never grow tired of what I find when I do clean."
"And what is that?"
"Peace of mind, for both myself and those around me." She reached for a bit of sausage and settled on a less-than-healthy breakfast. "A sense of accomplishment. A feeling that I can make a difference."
"You do make a difference, Anne," Charles said softly, using the same tone he had the day before when she argued with him. It never failed to send a slight shiver down her spine. "More than you know."
She settled for smiling at his words and going to work on browning the sausage, baking biscuits, and scrambling eggs. By the time Hank appeared, all of his hair standing on end, she had finished the gravy.
Charles turned and laughed at the sight. "Hank, you look like you fought with a beast." He smirked at Hank's sudden glare. "And lost."
Hank reached for the third tea cup that Anne always set out, whether he joined them or not. He poured the tea black and then added a tiny amount of sugar, his movements slightly jerky and uncoordinated.
Anne set a plate in front of him. "Are you okay?" she asked softly. Charles's description was accurate, and she couldn't help but worry about him.
"I'm fine," Hank told her, completely ignoring Charles. "Just. . . ." He shrugged. "I finally got some sleep last night."
Breakfast passed quietly. Anne handed the paper to Charles, who read while he munched, helping himself to a second cup of tea and leaving Anne to her thoughts. Hank ate mechanically, almost as if he wanted to fall asleep in his plate, and she couldn't help but smile. She'd had mornings like that and almost told him to go back to bed.
Charles lingered at the table, even after she finished straightening the kitchen, and Anne left him to begin on the large upstairs hall. She had been focused on the smaller rooms, all of them set up like dormitories, but the hallway had been neglected for far too long. She glanced upward, knowing that Charles would probably come out of his wheelchair if she so much as thought about cleaning the chandeliers, so she left them alone. But she began at the western end of the hall, with its medallion-shaped window, and worked her way across the large house.
The hallway could double as its own room. Wide enough for full-sized couches and chairs to be arranged into seating areas, it welcomed her just as the rest of this house did. And, for the majority of the day, Anne contented herself with knowing that she'd soon be finished with her work. After finishing the cleaning, she wasn't certain what she would do with herself. But she determined she'd figure it out.
The sun came out just as she began setting the table for supper. It streamed through the windows of the dining room, turning everything a golden color and warming the area. Anne had cooked a pot of chili, something that could be made in large quantities and put in the freezer for easy preparation. But, suddenly, she just wanted to get out of the house and walk.
Charles and Hank arrived at the set time, both of them laughing at something. She'd seen Charles head up to Hank's rooms on the third floor, and it did her a world of good to know that the two men were at least speaking to one another again. Charles looked more relaxed than he had that morning, and Hank's hair had been tamed into its normal hairstyle.
Once the men insisted on cleaning up the dishes, Anne gracefully bowed out and made her way upstairs. She found a towel, a blanket, and a book, intending to enjoy every last ounce of sunshine she could before it faded. Maybe, after she took a few breaths of rain-soaked air, she'd be able to figure out how to help Charles.
If he still wanted her help when the reality of his life collapsed on top of him.
~oOo~
Charles made it to the library in time to see Anne slip around a corner and out of sight. He knew based on her thoughts that she intended to find a nook in the garden designed for reading on hot days. At least she carried a blanket with her, as well as a towel. He had worried for her health the previous evening, but she seemed to have suffered no ill effects from her walk in the rain.
Her thoughts, however, troubled him. She clearly expected him to fall apart at any moment, and Charles knew she wasn't far from wrong. As his life settled into a routine, he realized that he had nothing left for which to live. In the past, he'd had his school and work with young mutants who needed guidance. Now, he had a big house with only three people living in it. As the days passed, the uselessness of his life crept over him, changing him from the driven man he'd been to the aimless bum he was now.
How did he find a way to work past that? We need you to hope again, Charles. The words of his elderly self, fifty years into the future and facing certain death at the hands of a ruthless enemy, had given him the strength he needed at that moment. And he had hoped. He had hoped for Raven, for Erik, for every person affected by the threat of the Sentinel program. But the Sentinels had been scrapped, Erik had escaped, and he had left Raven to her own life. What did he have left besides a big, empty house, his growing feelings for Anne, and a friend who spent more time in a laboratory than in society?
Turning from the window, Charles resolutely moved to his study. It had lingered in a half-cleaned state for far too long, and it now gave him something to do. He furiously cleared the shelves of all clutter, threw away anything that even looked like trash, and wiped at the dust. The sun set, and Anne returned to the house, but he still worked. It felt good to have this room cleaned, to remove the dark shades from lamps and try to get it looking like the rest of the house.
When his burst of energy faded, he had a very clean credenza and desk. If he sat back at the door and ignored the couch where he'd drunk himself into a stupor more times than he could count, he could almost see a bit of hope. Maybe nothing as big as he'd originally imagined, but hope that it could be finished. And hope that he could, one day, forget what sort of room this had been.
However, at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to pour a strong drink and stare into a fireplace while he mulled over his life and what he truly wanted with it.
Tired of his thoughts, he telepathically traced both Anne and Hank to their respective places. Hank was once again in the lab, puzzling over some piece of metal. Anne, however, had returned to her rooms and was preparing for the night. Resigning himself to an evening of solitude, Charles took himself to bed, staring out the window and trying to forget the thoughts that made his head hurt. After a while, he flipped on his lamp and forced himself to read the book he'd left there.
The next day, Anne once again slipped out of the house after spending her time in one of the dormitories upstairs and then cooking dinner. Hank begged off from dinner, citing a project he was finally making progress on, and Charles did his best to be sociable. But the last thing he wanted was to talk to Anne when he didn't quite know what topic to pick.
Once he'd assured her that he could clean the kitchen by himself, she left him alone. Once outside in the setting sun with the cool breeze in her hair, she paused and took a deep breath. It seemed as if she had let the stress of the day slide from her shoulders before she set off, her pace meant to bring exercise and her intention to return to the house before the sun went down.
Charles finished in the kitchen and wheeled himself into his study. He supposed he could ask Hank what he was working on, but something told him to wait. He'd been trying to avoid accidentally invading someone's mind, and his practice seemed to be paying off with both Anne and Hank. He'd just tidied up the couch in his study and decided to get rid of it that he realized Anne was back inside. In fact, he hadn't fully noticed until he felt a sense of the same meditative thought process that her knitting brought on.
Abandoning the study—again—Charles quietly moved to the library, returning the book that had failed to hold his interest the previous evening and picking another from the shelves. Anne was curled into the corner of the couch, knitting away after lighting a small fire. Deciding he could do with company as well as the meditative peace of her thoughts, he moved to "his" couch, transferring from his wheelchair.
Anne glanced up, a concerned look on her face. "You okay?"
"Yes." Charles smiled, though his gaze was drawn to her hands and how she seemed to knit almost automatically. Realizing he was staring, he opened his book and forced himself to read. However, he found his attention constantly drawn back to Anne and her hands, fascinated by the rhythmic motion and the effect it had on her mind.
~oOo~
Charles was watching her. Anne could feel it every time he turned a page. It was as if her knitting completely drew him away from his book. Thankfully, the pattern was pretty basic, and she simply had to pay attention to her increases and when to knit the center stitch of the shawl.
Finally, she could stand it no longer. She glanced up to see him watching her hands, his book held open but forgotten as his brow drew down in a contemplative scowl. Waiting for him to notice her, she fought to keep a smirk from her face. "Would you like to learn to knit?"
Charles laughed at that, his expression ranging from fascination to embarrassment. "Oh, no. I think I'll leave the knitting to you, love."
Anne blinked at the endearment. It was one that Charles had used numerous times during their time in England, but he had yet to pull it out this time around. Now, she tried to ignore the warmth that spread from her stomach as she snickered. "Just thought I'd ask. Especially since you seem so. . . ."
"Fascinated?" Charles closed his book, tilting his head to one side. "It is fascinating. I've watched a lot of people in my time, Anne, and I can't say I've seen one quite as peaceful as you are when you knit."
She paused long enough to re-position the yarn in her hand. "Knitting is therapeutic," she said simply.
"I can see that."
"No, I mean, it really is therapeutic." She shrugged, going back to what she'd been doing before she started the conversation. "When I was at the rehab center, I'd always have my patients try to knit."
"Did it work?"
"For some." She stopped knitting and let her mind travel back a few months. "Most of them were there because it made them look good, so I really can't speak to how well it worked. But the ones in rehab because they wanted help, those are the ones that knitting helped."
Charles leaned forward slightly. "Why is that?"
"Because it's almost meditative." Anne met his eyes. "I can knit and be completely focused on my project, but my mind could be miles away. Say, working through whether or not I should testify in a hearing against my former employer. But, instead of letting it get me worked into a frenzy and having a panic attack, I can think on the options I have. For example, I'm already established in another job, a better paying job—thank you for that, by the way—and I have already moved on in my life. My previous employer is just that. However, on the other side of the coin, I saw and reported things that were clear violations of ethics. I have a responsibility to the people who go to that rehab center to make certain they receive the best care they can. How can I do that without testifying? But what if the defense brings up my past? It's not pretty, and it's not something I want known. How will I handle that?"
"You think about all of this while you're knitting?"
"Tonight, yes." She shrugged. "Most of the time, I'm thinking about what to make for dinner the following day or which room to clean next."
Charles chuckled at that. "So, basically, you free your mind to work through your problems without stress?"
"Yes." She took a moment to consider how best to put it. "I call it 'subconscious thinking.' But it doesn't always work. Sometimes, it just puts me to sleep."
"And what is tonight?"
"Tonight it's the debate between what I should do about my last job." She couldn't help the tension that crept into her voice. "I've been invited to participate in a hearing concerning what I witnessed, but I can choose to submit my deposition in writing. The attorneys think it would look better if I appear in person, though."
Charles sat back in his seat, his book set aside and one arm stretched across the back of the couch. "What do you want, Anne?"
She sighed. "I don't know." Looking him in the eye, she let him see the helplessness she felt. "I just want to move on. I'm here now, working in a much better environment and away from everything that kept me knitting just so I didn't kill people out of sheer frustration. I'm not being yelled at, being cursed at, or being attacked by spoiled, drug-crazed celebrities. I go to bed each night with the memory of two friends laughing, not with the echoes of some patient's dry heaves or addled rambling. And that's just how it is at times. The counseling sessions are worse because that's where the emotional pain starts coming out." She looked down at her hands, hardly able to stand his patient, direct blue gaze. "I don't want to go back there again."
She felt him studying her but ignored it while she fiddled with the yarn in her lap. The tears that pricked her eyes startled her, and her tirade about her old job and everything she'd hated about it had spilled out almost without any thought. She wished she hadn't, especially to Charles, who had once listened in much the same way when she finally told him how Franklin treated her.
Finally, he spoke, drawing her gaze back to how he sat comfortably on the couch, arm outstretched and legs crossed in spite of their paralysis. "You'll make the right decision, Anne. You always do."
"That's just it, Charles." She leaned forward, her knitting forgotten for a time. "I may not have a choice. I chose to work in that field because of my past, and I did have a calling for it. But. . . ."
"You're tired." He nodded. "Burnt out, so to speak." When she nodded, he gave her a slight smile. "Anne, everyone has a time when they get tired. Even me. What matters is whether or not you retreat, rest, and return to your calling when the time is right." He frowned. "And, now that I say that, I realize how hypocritical it is. Telling you to do something that I'm not willing to do."
She stared at him. Just admitting that he wasn't willing to move on had been a huge step, even if it had been done in an offhanded way. However, it was more like the Charles Xavier she remembered from Oxford, though the years had given him wisdom that youth could never imitate.
She sighed. "If I have to go back. . . ."
"You'll take the car and then come back here when it's over." Charles made it sound so simple. "You're my friend, Anne, and you're becoming part of this house. Nearly every room has your touch in it, and I, for one, am glad about that. Hank is, too, even if he's spent most of his time in his lab recently."
"What is he working on, by the way?"
"I have no idea." Charles's confused tone broke the tension, and Anne chuckled. "I will say that I'm happy to let him work. He's spent too much time looking after the house."
And after me. Charles didn't have to say it, but Anne knew he meant it. "How are you doing?" she asked a moment later. "I mean, you sat there and let me spill everything going on in my mind."
He eyed her, obviously debating what to tell her. Then, he sighed. "I'm. . .here. I'm in this house all day, every day, and it gets frustrating that I can't even wander around my own garden. After a while, the walls of something this big close in, and I just. . . ." He shook his head, his hair moving as he obviously struggled with his thoughts. That he was talking at all indicated a genuine desire to heal. But his open expression from a few moments ago had darkened, and it seemed as if his eyes had gone a little flat and emotionless.
Anne waited, her mind already working through her thoughts from the previous day and what he chose to reveal. The depression was hovering again, and it could bring back old ways of thinking. And acting. When he didn't continue, she asked, "Ever considered just getting out for the day? Going to lunch or tagging along when I buy groceries?"
He stared at her. "And slow you down?"
"You. . . ." Anne growled at him and glared. "How dare you! You're the reason I'm here in the first place, the reason I do what I do. And you think you would slow me down?" She took a deep breath. "Sorry. But. . . ."
He grinned at her. "You're rather cute when you're mad."
"So you made me mad so I'd be cute?" She closed her eyes. "Charles, slowing down while I shop for groceries wouldn't be a bad thing. I have a habit of racing through the store and forgetting stuff anyway. And, for the record, I'd love to go to lunch with you any time you need to get out of the house. And I'm sure Hank would happily take you along whenever he heads to town for anything he needs. Just like Hank and I, you need human interaction, time when you're outside, away from home, and just involved with something else. It doesn't have to be an extended length of time, but it can be helpful."
He sobered, but his eyes still sparkled when he looked at her. "I'll think about it."
Anne accepted that and went back to knitting. However, after their conversation and the irritation that had flared, the activity had the opposite effect on her than she wanted, and she caught herself nodding off once or twice. After the second time, she heard Charles's warm voice. "Go on to bed, love. I'll be here in the morning."
Anne wanted to glare at him for assuming that she stayed awake just because she wanted to spend time with him. She did, but she worried. His words about slowing her down showed a glimpse of how he felt about his own disabilities and why he disappeared so often. And she hated to leave the evening on such a low note. Plus, he'd used that endearment again, the one that never failed to affect her.
Frowning at him, she began packing her project into her bag. "Just promise me one thing, Charles." She waited until he nodded. "If you need to talk, come find me or Hank. Don't let things get so out of hand in that brain of yours that you do something stupid."
He lifted his chin, immediately defensive, but it melted away a moment later. "I'll do my best."
"That's all I ask." She rose then, trying and failing to smile gracefully. "Goodnight, Charles."
He returned the smile. "Dream well."
She left the library, thankful he hadn't added that infuriating "love" to the end that. She probably would have dreamt well if he had, but she hated that he could charm his way out of anything. It made keeping an eye on his mental health a lot more difficult, and she knew she had no defense against it.
~oOo~
Charles watched Anne go, regretful of how he'd irritated her. Sitting back on the couch, he stared at the ceiling and thought over her words. Anne had been asked to testify against her former employer, and she worried about him. To the point of making him promise to find someone to talk to should he need it.
I'll do my best.
Your best is enough.
The conversation came back to him now, reminding him of a promise he'd made to Logan. However, he had no way of finding these X-Men. The name that Moira had given his team had fallen into disuse over the years, and Charles struggled to see it reinstated. After all, he was so focused on finding a reason to continue that he ignored the obvious one.
But could he do it? Could he reach out, feel other people's pain, and embrace it when he could barely stand his own?
Leaving the library after returning his book to the shelf, Charles prepared for bed and retired as well. He was exhausted from the previous night's thoughts, and he found himself staring out the window as the moon moved overhead.
If there was one thing he could say for alcohol, it was that he could sleep. But that wasn't the answer, no matter how much he wished it could be that simple.
He stared at the night sky until sleep finally overcame him, and he was still asleep when he sensed Hank in the room. Cracking open one eye, he frowned. "Hank?"
"You missed breakfast." Hank shrugged. "Anne is worried."
Charles blinked, feeling the grit in his eyes. "I'm fine," he said softly. "Just. . .trouble sleeping."
"Voices?"
"Yes. My own." Charles pushed himself up on his elbows. "Tell Anne I'm sorry I missed breakfast."
Hank nodded and slipped out the door, leaving Charles to flop back onto the bed. He really should get up, finish cleaning in his study, and find something on which to focus his mind while he worked. But, at the moment, he wanted nothing more than to stay in bed, ignore the world, and pretend that the last ten years had never happened.
~TBC
