Chapter Two

"Do you understand, now? How it feels to have someone blocking you out?"

"You're not-"

"No, you're right, I'm not."

The students are supposed to be practicing their powers on the second floor when Charles comes back from the hospital. Instead they're crowded around the window, struggling to get a look at the long black sedan that's just pulled up the driveway. It slows to a halt; a tire crunching on loose gravel, and a man in a black suit gets out of the passenger's seat. Moira's there, in a charcoal pantsuit, opening the car's back door and speaking to the person inside. She leaves for a moment, going around to the doorway to wheel out the sleek white wheelchair that had been perched precariously on the cobbled walkway.

Hank frowns. "I hope it'll work alright. I spent hours trying to get it aerodynamic enough."

Raven smiles shakily, trying to be encouraging even though she feels like any second she may burst into tears without warning. "It'll be fine."

"Really? Are you sure? Does the back left wheel look a little wobbly, or is that just me…?"

"Stop worrying, Hank. Come on, be a big girl." Alex rolls his eyes. Hank growls, baring his pointed teeth.

"Guys, shut up!" Sean hisses. They turn their attention back to the view from the window, feeling slightly shamed.

Charles is pulling himself out of the car, sliding across the seat with his hands gripping the door tightly. The man in black approaches, arms outstretched as if to help, but Charles barks out something they can't hear and the man backs away. Their professor maneuvers himself into the wheelchair, settling into the seat with an even, measured look on his face. Moira grabs the handles of the chair and starts wheeling him towards the mansion.

Charles turns to look up at the window suddenly. They duck, falling into a pile on the floor. An amused voice spreads through their minds, warm and familiar.

I can tell you're up there, you know. You could come down and say hello.

They peek over the sill tentatively and see a last glimpse of an arched eyebrow and a faint smile before Moira wheels him around the corner. They glance at each other and then all four bolt for the door at once, jostling to try to be the first downstairs.

Charles is immensely grateful to be home. He had never thought of the mansion as "home" before, he realized, but then again the years he had spent there had never been very good. The house, which had been cold and empty for so many years, is now bursting with life. It radiates off of the place like heat from a stove.

He has his wits about him, thankfully. His dosage of pain medication has been reduced, and the fuzziness that clouded his brain and tore down his carefully built blocks has mostly melted away. He's still having a bit of a hard time keeping out all the thoughts, but at least now they sound more like dull whispers and less like screams. He's in pretty good form, all things considered.

Well, still a bit cranky, maybe, as the man in black who had offered to lift him out of the car would attest, but it is certainly his prerogative. He doesn't want pity. It's embarrassing.

He does, however, want a cup of tea.

Moira talks aimlessly as she wheels him through the courtyard, her bright voice badly hiding the guilt he can feel seeping off her body. It's not very strong, but it's there. A little concentration is all it takes for Charles to read her like a book. She feels bad about what happened, but she believes that she's done no wrong- she's convinced that she was not at fault, that her actions were not what has placed him in this chair.

Her strong conviction sings out like an operatic soprano, her thoughts louder than she thinks: Erik. His fault. Bastard.

It's not that black and white, Charles knows. His words on the beach aren't totally right. As much as he'd love to pin the blame on Erik, yell at him, throw him onto the street, he knows it wouldn't be right. It's just as much Moira's fault as it is Erik's; just as much Charles' fault, too. There's a headache starting to pulse behind his temples. The guilt he felt earlier isn't all coming from Moira, so it must have a different source, and it's been getting steadily stronger as they've been nearing the house.

He really wants that cup of tea.

Moira lifts the chair over the bump between ground and doorframe, angling the wheels so that he goes up, down, up, down before landing carefully on the wood floor. Charles is thankful that no one ever thought to install carpet in the mansion.

Swearing at each other and thumping down the stairs, the kids come barreling down into the hallway. All four are flushed, Alex and Sean pink and Hank and Raven a deep shade of purple. Charles can't help but laugh at their panting. He feels better than he has in days.

"Come down to join the party, I see." He teases gently, and their nervous looks turn into hesitant grins. "I'm very disappointed. Where's my marching band? I was promised a parade."

"What do you think we are, made of money?" Alex frowns jokingly.

Hank lifts a blue fuzzy hand uncertainly, and Charles raises an eyebrow. "Does the chair work okay?"

"It's perfect, thank you." He rubs a hand on the rim of one of the wheels. "It's really wonderful, Hank."

"Cool." His teeth look even larger when he's smiling. "I-"

"Made it completely out of plastic, I see."

Things get quiet almost immediately. Erik stands at the end of the hall, hands in his pockets. There are dark bags under his eyes and his shoulders are hunched uncharacteristically. Charles is hit with two opposing waves of emotion, one shooting out from the people gathered round him and the other soaking the air further away, like spilt wine bleeding out onto fabric. The first is anger and distrust, and it's coming from the students. And the other…

Charles realizes now where the guilt was coming from.

It hurts.