Chapter 37…

It was only five in the morning and somehow the Long Beach Freeway still managed to be overrun by traffic. Getting Angel where she needed to go was taking more effort than Sean anticipated, and as he inched the Imperial forward by a whole two feet, he couldn't help but glance to his right. In the passenger's seat, Angel sat, her face more glum now than sick. Her arms were crossed to her chest like she was afraid Sean would change his mind and take her back to the cabin.

"We're almost there," he assured her.

She didn't bother replying.

Sean drew his attention back to traffic. In the distance, he could see the ocean line of the Pacific; they'd get there faster if they hiked. Nonetheless, Sean kept to the road. Hank was right. They couldn't be like Erik. Sean wasn't certain what he and his mutant friends were, but he knew what they weren't.

Sean had already driven Angel to the Mount Sinai Hospital near Beverly Hills, and had her checked out. She had suffered a minor concussion and the doctors had monitored her the rest of the day and night. It had been a tedious several hours.

Nonetheless, caring for the girl hadn't relieved Sean's nerves all that much. Yes, they were playing nice, but that was only temporary. By tomorrow, Sean might end up having to face Angel, and knock her into the side of a bus or something.

"I'm sorry about the duct tape," he muttered anyway. "We were just trying to help our friend. That's all we want, you know."

The girl sighed like the apology was somehow bittersweet. "I'm sorry, too."

"Really?"

She nodded. But as her gaze met Sean's, a dark feeling jabbed him in the stomach. Her eyes held the slightest touch of guilt, like she knew something he didn't.

Pain. It struck like a heartattack—powerful and completely out of his control. With a gasp, Sean wrenched his head back in his seat. His foot jerked on the gas pedal and the Imperial slammed into the Buick in front of them.

He didn't care about that. What he did care about was the agony wracking throughout his head and where the hell it could be coming from. It could only be one thing.

The telepath, Emma Frost.

As soon as that thought grabbed his mind, a cloud of red filled the Imperial's backseat. Sean had only an instant to notice the amused look on Azazel's face before the other man snagged his hands to him and Angel, and then all three disappeared from the car.

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Another day, and Charles and Moira travelled all over Long Beach. They drove along the coast, up to Rancho Palos Verdes and then back down to Huntington and Newport Beach. Then, they journeyed inland, up the Costa Messa Freeway, passing Santa Ana, Anaheim and Norwalk until they finally reached Los Angeles.

The entire way, Charles submerged himself within his telepathy. He concentrated on the road ahead as if he was trying to move the traffic with his mind.

All his effort proved futile, however. Hank and the others were out of Charles' telepathic range or he was simply not catching their presence. Either way, by the time Moira and he found a hotel off of Olive Street in downtown LA, the determination in Charles' eyes had vanished.

After settling with the front desk, Moira got the room's keys and parked. From the passenger seat, Charles started to haul his wheelchair from the back before Moira had a chance to loop around the car. The footplates were stuck and as Moira reached the side, Charles had already given up on it.

"I've got it," Moira assured him.

Without protest, Charles rested his head against the door frame and waited for Moira. He didn't argue with her; he didn't try to help. As Moira tugged at the wheelchair, she tried to keep her attention ahead. Nonetheless, her eyes drifted to Charles.

They had purchased new clothes for him—some nice slacks, a buttoned shirt and vest. On his feet were a set of polished black dress shoes. Moira had insisted on getting him something besides sweats and undershirts. She was hoping the change might make him feel more like himself. But it was the nice attire that looked wrong on him somehow.

Hands straining, Moira finally pried the chair free. Unfolding it, she rolled it next to Charles; he gave a faint, "thank you," before transferring into the seat.

Moira entered the hotel room and instantly wrinkled her nose. The place reeked of cleaner like housekeeping was trying to cover up something. The walls were drab; the furniture looked like something trendy during the 40's.

It was also smaller than the one at Long Beach and that one was pitiful to start with. The beds were practically over-lapping each other, the space between them and the dresser as narrow as an indoor closet. Could Charles even get his wheelchair through? No wonder this was the only place they could find with an unlit "No Vacancy" sign.

Despite the concerns, Moira spun back to Charles with a smile. "I guess L.A. living is a little more 'quaint' than we were led to believe, huh?"

Grabbing the sides of the hotel's door frame, Charles heaved himself through and into the room. He observed the place with mild disinterest before shutting the door.

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Moira drew him a bath. Charles hadn't asked her to do it; he didn't really ask for anything. Her hair pinned back with an elastic band, Moira kneeled down and tested the water. Warm, but not too warm.

She twisted around. By the door, Charles sat. He was facing the sink outside of the room, his hands folded together in his lap. The doorway to the bathroom was too narrow for his chair; he'd need to climb out and drag himself inside. That fact neither upset nor angered him, it seemed, and strangely, Moira sort of hoped it would. Or something would—just to see some emotion cross his face.

His eyes were set to his feet, as blank as doll eyes. He sat exactly where Moira had put him and that's exactly where he stayed—more like a piece of furniture she was towing around than a man.

Pushing that thought from her mind, Moira tipped her head at him. "I have an idea."

Charles didn't react.

"I say," she continued regardless, "tomorrow morning, we forget about this whole 'mutant hunt' we're on for a couple hours, stop by that breakfast diner we passed on Broadway, and just…eat our weight in pancakes."

She waited for a response—nothing. He might as well have been on another planet.

Moira twiddled her fingers underneath the water again. "You know…you could always shave your face."

He blinked as if it took effort.

"Unless you plan to go pillaging with Erik the Red sometime soon," she added, "I'm not really sure the Viking look works for you."

She meant it as a joke, or at least, a half-joke. Not even an upward twitch invaded his lips. It was like she wasn't even there. With that, Moira removed her hand from the water. She stepped away from the tub and then knelt by Charles' side.

"It'll get better," she said, curling both hands around his left armrest. "In the next couple days, we'll find Hank and the others, and then we'll get you back to that big house of yours where the doorways are a lot wider."

Her words caught him; he lifted his head.

"You remember," he said. It wasn't a question.

She sighed at that. "It came back a few days ago. When you were hooked up to Cerebro." A smirk teased her lips. "I should be pissed as hell, by the way. You could at least ask permission before erasing months from someone's mind."

The old Charles would have given her an uneasy smile, and made some quirky joke about how if he asked permission, she would have said no…or something like that. He would have apologized as well.

This Charles merely nodded like that was the new answer to everything.

Moira reached out a hand; she rubbed his shoulder. She wanted to ask him why he sent her away—why he felt it was necessary to battle this on his own. Was he trying to protect everyone—her and the mutants alike—from the CIA? Or was he trying to prove that he could handle everything without help? Perhaps, deep down, did he think Moira would leave on her own?

If he heard all her rambling thoughts, he didn't show it. The questions continued rattling on in Moira's mind, too many and too profound for her to address at once. She was right; she should have been pissed off—she should have even felt betrayed—but she didn't. Staring up the remnants of the man she once knew, all she could feel was sorrow.

Trying to hold herself together, she told him gently, "This isn't your life, Charles. This is a bad moment in a bad hotel. You'll see. When we leave this place, you can start putting this behind you. You can begin work on your school again."

It was subtle, but there was a trace of recognition on Charles' face like hearing an old friend's name. But it faded swiftly.

"Can you tell me about it?" Moira asked. "The school. How is all that coming along?"

"It's not," he said, and although his voice was soft, it still managed to sound dark.

Moira paused. "I don't understand. The last time we talked, you had all these plans…you were hoping to have students by the end of this year—"

"I can't help them. I can't help anyone."

On Charles' arm, Moira's hand tightened. "What do you mean?"

Charles' gaze finally met hers. Except, this time, the disinterest had fled away; in its place was an expression Moira had never seen on him before. It was a jumble of emotions, really, contorting his features like he was being suffocated by them. Sadness. Helplessness. Fear. The fear in his eyes alone made Moira's stomach ache. But the worst of it was the resigned look underneath it all. It was as if he had tried to fight it all back—whatever he was going through—and he had failed.

"Look at me, Moira," he whispered. "Do I seem like a person who could possibly nurture and guide a new race of people?"

"It'll get better," Moira repeated, but now the words lacked their previous conviction. "You just need to give it more time. Just a little more, okay?"

He was already shaking his head. "It can't get better. It can't get better because I…I can never be better. This," he opened his hands to himself, "this is it for me."

"That's not true."

"I can barely care for myself. Everyday, the endless schedules—the routines and stretches and medications—just to live. Just to…to function and I…" He broke off and closed his eyes for a breath. "This isn't living. This is hardly existing."

Swallowing hard, he peered up at the ceiling as if his own words were too painful for himself. When he brought his eyes back, however, a strange sense of certainty distorted them. "I can't help them, Moira. I can't even help myself."

The words seeped into her, and as they did, Moira dug her fingers into the armrest. Suddenly, she was very certain of something, too. "You're not thinking straight right now."

"This is the first time I've thought straight since all this began."

"No," Moira spoke more powerfully. "Charles, I can't begin to grasp what you've been through. With what happened at Cuba and now all of this…" She inhaled, trying to cool the anger abruptly stewing in her gut. "Erik had no right to do what he did, Charles—forcing you to use that machine. I can't imagine how horrible it had to have been to be put onto something like that against your will."

Charles' eyes dropped down again as if thinking back. From behind them, Moira realized the bath water was still running; she tossed a glance over her shoulder. Almost full—

"I'm not upset because it felt bad," Charles said. "I'm upset…because it felt good."

Slowly, Moira brought her eyes back around.

"It felt so good," Charles continued as if she weren't there. "I was a part of everything. Of every single mind on this planet, and this, " he gripped his legs, "it didn't matter anymore. None of it mattered anymore. And for a brief instant…" he finally looked at her and in his eyes, there was a glint of hope, "I was free."

Moira's heart sank; tears welled up in her eyes. For the last two days, she had wanted nothing more than to see something wishful on Charles' face. And there it was, but for all the wrong reasons.

Moira slid her right hand from Charles' arm up to his face. "You were dying, Charles. Do you understand that?"

The glint in Charles' eyes dimmed. He glanced at her up and down as if trying to find the reasons she was saying this to him.

"Tell me you understand that," Moira went on.

On his face, a frown emerged.

The words came up like acid to her throat but Moira couldn't stop them. She couldn't—because they were true. "Do you even care?"

Charles studied her. Curiosity enveloped his features like he couldn't comprehend what she was saying—like she was the one out of place with reality and he was centered. From behind them, the sound of water splashing the floor invaded Moira's ears. She held out a second longer, hoping Charles would suddenly see reason. It didn't happen. Swallowing hard, Moira rushed away from the man, and dropped to her knees beside the tub. Scrambling to shut off the water, she grabbed the levers with one hand and the tub's plug with the other.

In unison, the water stopped flowing and began draining. Her legs and arms soaked, Moira sat by the tub's rim, her hands still submerged. The water should have warmed them both but somehow they still felt like ice. Behind her, Charles sat. He didn't mutter another word.

End of Chapter