update, 1/12/2016, explained in the A/N of Chapter 8 of Prometheus: Arya, originally from Carlsbad, California, is now from Glen Island, New Rochelle, NY.

Chapter 1

It was a day like any other day: completely unexciting. Arya was in her room getting ready for a day-out in the town. (Staying in an almost empty mansion all day could drive some people nuts.) She only had two other people for company in the entire house, and it wasn't that they were uninteresting; they were just… always busy.

Arya sighed in front of the mirror, giving herself another once-over. Her hair had grown longer again, and she was considering giving it a quick trim… again. It was getting harder to maintain. Tangles were becoming wilder; she couldn't even describe what her head looked like every morning. She'd also gotten thinner (or fatter, she had no idea); a little of both, possibly. When she saw her face, she frowned. Was it just her, or had the eye-bags grown even heavier? She stared at them for a moment longer before concluding that they had. If you think about it, she mused silently, it kind of makes sense. After grabbing her satchel bag off the floor, she headed downstairs.

The hallways were eerily silent, as they had been for a long time, but she could remember when students used to roam through the huge rooms. They would come and go, talking and laughing in-between classes. They weren't a lot, but they were enough.

Arya remembered when Banshee had tried to get some of them to drink, and when he ended up soaking in the pool than getting drunk in the bar with underage teens; when Alex tried to take one of the students out for a date. Charles was so disappointed with him, but it ended up being a good laugh afterwards—for Hank, mostly.

She remembered the many mutants the good professor had recruited to become teachers, including herself. To her surprise, the students actually learned some things from her classes. She took pride in that.

Of course, that was all before most of the students were drafted for the war. Students and teachers, actually. She recalled the day the soldiers came knocking on their door, and when some of the pupils and teachers actually went in their own free will. She remembered Alex and Sean walking out the doors, guiding a skinny boy of 19 in front of them. They had both thrown smiles over their shoulders before getting in the truck. She had watched them drive away, knowing that Charles was watching as well.

Once she reached the main hallway, with the front door only a few feet away, she turned her head and found Charles sitting in the living room with his back to her, a glass in one hand and an almost empty bottle of whiskey in the other. The sight wasn't as alarming as it once was. She'd gotten used to seeing him like this, and that fact was more alarming than anything else, in her opinion.

It's been seven years. Arya frowned, unbelieving, as she watched him empty the bottle into his glass. His hands were unsteady, and when he placed the battle back onto the desk beside him, Arya was quite positive that it cracked. Almost every night, she would watch him stumble into his bedroom; I'm not going to do this anymore, she would always tell herself, only to cave in minutes afterwards and help him get into bed. He would have tripped over his own bathroom mat if she hadn't.

Now, she realized that letting him drink his sorrows away was not such a good idea. The closing of the school had taken a great toll on both of them, but Charles most of all. He had a vision: to teach young mutants how to find their way as he had done with Arya. But all that was taken away from him, from them. Along with Erik and Raven, and Alex and Sean.

Neither of them had heard from any of the four, other than the fact that on November 22, 1963, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. "A sniper," the public said had killed him. But both Arya and Charles knew that it was a curved bullet that had killed the president, and that that curved bullet was the work of their friend-turned-enemy, Erik Lehnsherr. Only one year after the events in Cuba, and two years before the school's closing.

When Arya was once again able to focus on the present rather than the past, she found that Charles had already drained his glass clean and was standing up to get another bottle. She crossed her arms as he turned around. She expected him to freeze at the sight of her, but he merely continued on his way to the liquor cabinet. "Hello, Arya," he said casually, a drunken slur in his voice. "What can I do for you this fine afternoon?"

"We've been friends for ten years, Charles," she stated, putting an edge into her voice to get his attention. Only friends. Did he even notice that she didn't use the word "girlfriend"?

It seemed that he hadn't, and that sent a flare of pain from her chest. He froze for a moment and turned partly sideways to face her. "Sorry," he said simply, before turning around again.

Arya tried to ignore the ache in her heart and cleared her throat. "Well, I'm gonna head into town again, maybe get a few drinks. You want to come?"

She hoped he would say yes. Sometimes, she would get lucky and he'd agree to go have dinner out with her. She hoped, and prayed, in her head that he would say yes this time, knowing that he couldn't read her mind anymore so that he wouldn't know what she was thinking. Of course, he didn't know what she was thinking—or feeling, because he didn't even turn around when he shook his head. "No thank you, Arya. I think I'll be staying here."

Drowning in my memories, she thought he would add, but he didn't. He only turned around again to walk back to his armchair; he sat down and continued to stare at the window, taking occasional large gulps from his glass.

Arya sighed, already starting the countdown in her head as she made her way in front of him. Five… His head slumped sideward. Four… His legs stretched out in front of him. Three… His eyes closed. Two… Before he drifted into unconsciousness, Arya slipped the glass out of his hands and set it on the side table. The serum Hank had made for him, to temporarily let him be able to walk again but take away his mutation, sat there was well. She looked away immediately, hating it with every fibre of her being.

He wanted to walk again. She understood that. But she couldn't understand why he would pay the price without even a second thought.

"Arya…" he murmured. "Love…"

"Get some sleep, Charles," she replied in earnest, looking down at him with sad eyes. His hair had grown longer, wilder, just like Arya's. And he had a slight beard now, which didn't suit him. The worst were his eyes; they were soft and so filled with hope before, but now they were just empty, black holes that Arya refused to look into.

Charles' eyes opened the slightest bit, a long sigh escaping his lips. "Still love me…?" he said, the words slurring in his barely-open mouth that Arya almost didn't catch it. Offering a small smile, she leaned down and placed a kiss near his lips. His stubble scraped against her lips, but she didn't mind. She missed him.

"I never stopped," she whispered into his ear.

When she pulled back, he was already snoring.

Sadness bloomed in her chest, and she had to resist the urge to take every goddamn bottle of alcohol in the house and empty them all outside, or sell them; either looked to be a good idea. She made a mental note to do just that as she breezed down the hallway. She stopped at the final door from the entrance. Opening it, Arya yelled down the dim staircase. "Hank! Keep an eye on Charles for me! I'm heading out!"

"Got it!" came the reply, before there were footsteps rushing up the stairs. When she saw the familiar head of brown hair running up the steps, she pulled out of the doorway and exited the mansion, not wanting to have to deal with another one of his geeky rants.

All she wanted was a large plate of fries in front of her, and an ice cold beer.

Her fingers tapped on the table loudly, attracting unheeded stares from the people sitting on the bar beside her. She kept doing it though, even until after the tips of her fingers hurt. She didn't care. She'd probably already made a name for herself in this particular bar.

Arya tried to escape from the rather depressing events that had happened recently, and focused more on the happy. She remembered the first time she'd visited Chloe after what happened in Cuba. Chloe had practically squealed in delight when she saw Charles trailing behind Arya. When they were finally alone and Charles had gone to get gas for the trip back, Chloe only said one word to her: "Spill." Arya hadn't been surprised, but she wondered if her friend thought that Charles was her dad or something, considering the fact that he was in a wheelchair.

Smiling at the memory, Arya nibbled on a French fry and thought back on when Charles had challenged her in a game of chess. "Winner gets to make plans for tonight," he had said; by the way his eyes shone with mischief, Arya was rather reluctant on taking on his challenge.

She lost, of course, and that night, they had dinner on the balcony with a canopy of stars shining above their heads.

Another memory: the first time he'd tutored her on how to gain better control of her powers. He'd used the word remarkable quite a few times, and it saddened her that he didn't say those kinds of things to her anymore.

Her thoughts once again took a dangerous turn. Arya decided on not thinking about anything for a while. She took a large swig from her glass, emptying it until the last drop with a single gulp. Her mind dulled, and for a glorious minute, all her worrying ceased. She let total blackness fill her head, concentrating on the constantly-moving white spots that weren't actually real.

She remembered asking Charles what they were, and he had always said, "It's all in the mind." But then she remembered that she wasn't supposed to be thinking about him.

It seemed that everything she thought about always led to her telepath, one way or another. When she thought about Chloe, or Glen Island, or volleyball, or sand, or school, or sunlight, or grass, or rain—it all traced back to him.

Frowning, she tried to recall how and why that ever started when she felt someone poke her shoulder. Arya looked up, blinking. She hadn't realized she'd placed her head in her hands with her elbows propped up on the counter. It probably made her look drunker than she really was.

"What's up?" she asked, looking at the one who had poked her.

It was the bartender, and he was wiping a champagne glass clean with a towel. He was attractive, she could give him that. With his dark blonde hair and blue eyes, Arya would have mistaken him for a surfer if they weren't so far away from the beach.

"A little young to be a day-drinker, aren't you?" he said, raising his eyebrows slightly as he slid the now-clean glass into the holder.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Arya rubbed her face, and the bartender leaned forward slightly. "You alright?"

"Rough day," she answered, and then held out her glass. "Another, please?"

She frowned when he didn't take it. He, however, threw her an apologetic smile before taking it; though he didn't pour more of the golden liquid into it. "I think you've had enough."

"You don't know how much I can take," she replied, right before hiccupping into her hand.

"Oh, really?" The bartender laughed. His eyes travelled downward to her hands. "What's with the extra accessories?"

"These?" Arya raised her hands so he could see the gloves more clearly. "Needed precaution." Why did she say that? She was never supposed to say that to any human. She learned that lesson years ago. She was supposed to say that it was a bad rash. Charles hated the need to lie as much as she herself did, but it was a necessary evil.

The bartender grinned. "Are you dangerous or something?"

"Don't underestimate a woman," she said, raising a finger and smiling slightly. "But yeah, you could say that."

To her surprise, the bartender started backing away, his hands up beside his head. Arya frowned. "What?"

"Are you gonna beat me up now?"

She started giggling, very, very loudly. When she finally sobered up, half the bar was giving her odd glances from the corner of their eyes. The bartender had a serious face on, too. Arya cleared her throat awkwardly, pushing her stool back. "Yeah," she drawled. "I should probably get going."

"Probably." He chuckled. "You need a ride?"

"I'm good," she replied, already waking away.

"You sure you can drive?" the bartender called from behind the counter.

Arya whipped her head back and looked at him over her shoulder. "I'm more sober than you think!" The accompanying hiccup hadn't exactly helped her. It only decreased her chances at successfully lying. In fact, she was drunker than she'd expected.

Luckily, the blonde didn't notice and he shook his head, smiling. "I suppose so," he said.

After throwing him one last smile, Arya walked out the bar.

The drive back was unceremonious and quick. She'd hoped to stay in town until the sun had set and it was dark out, but there was a growing pit in her stomach—and she wasn't sure if it was because of the booze. There was no way Charles or Hank was in danger, right? Nothing exciting had ever happened in that mansion for more than four years. Why would anything happen now, at the height of solemnity? The Vietnam War was close to ending, and the military had drafted more of their students than she could count. They wouldn't come for Charles or Hank so far into the fight. What other dangers were there? Raven? She wouldn't hurt either of them, never. Erik? He was in a locked down facility even Arya couldn't dream of breaking into.

As far as she knew, none of them had done anything to force the government into harming them. They were supposed to be safe and sound.

When she arrived at the house, there was an unfamiliar dark green Impala parked on the driveway.

Arya's heartbeat sped up.

She parked Charles' car a little ways behind the Impala and got out, rushing up the porch steps. The driver of the dark green car wasn't in it, and Arya safely assumed that he was inside the mansion, either having a chat with one of his old friends, or getting into a fight he wished he hadn't started.