They were still sitting like that when Moira came home.

"Charles?" She called as she entered the house, shutting the door quickly against the now-driving snow.

Charles jerked awake with a start. He had not realised he had fallen asleep.

He quickly gestured for quiet. "Kurt's asleep," he whispered.

"I see that," said Moira, giving him a pointed look. "That wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that it's ten o'clock at night, right?"

Charles gaped. "Is it really that late? I didn't realise."

Moira gave him a disapproving look. "Have you eaten?"

Charles rubbed the back of his neck guiltily, careful not to disturb the sleeping child cradled in his lap. He needn't have worried. Save for a nuclear explosion, there is very little that will wake a truly exhausted small child.

"That's a no, then?" Moira guessed. She sighed as she removed her coat and unwound her scarf, the kitchen filling with the smell of perfume and damp wool. "Did you at least feed Kurt?"

"He never said he was hungry," Charles defended. "I would have gotten him something if he asked. Besides, there's food in the fridge, he saw me put it away."

Moira's voice was uncharacteristically gentle, and the poorly disguised pity in her eyes burned. "Yeah, no, Charles, that's not the way it works. Kids need a schedule. Which means you feed them every day, at regular intervals, when they expect you to. Actually, that's a good rule for puppies and all human beings, too."
She eyes him. "I take it that means that you didn't eat either?"

Charles shrugs noncommittally.

"When did you last eat?"

"I had some coffee this afternoon,"Charles points out. "Truly, Moira, I wasn't hungry. Relax."

She rolled her eyes, exasperated. "That doesn't count. You need to take better care of yourself, Charles. You're headed for an early grave, like this."

"You're not actually my mother," Charles pointed out mildly.

"I know, for some God known reason I give a shit about you. I'm going to go get changed- go put Kurt to bed, and then come out here and make some food. I'm starved."

Ten minutes later, he was in front of the stove, clad only in a pair of ragged sweatpants, watching a pot of tortellini boil.

He shivered. He really needed to go clothes shopping. His 'teacher' clothes consisted of two pairs of pants, three long sleeved shirts, a jacket, a cardigan, and a handful of ties- all of which had seen better days, a fact that became more and more evident with every successive outing between washes- but it wasn't like he had much choice.

He had collected all o them over the years as gifts or hand-me downs; there was something to be said for being the only one of his friends not to have grown since freshman year of university.

The jacket, though, was old, and well-made, and Charles was never sure if the faint lingering smell of cigars that clung to it was real or imaginary. It didn't much matter.
It has been a gift, from Raven.

Nobody had come to his graduation. Not that he expected them to. Cain had joined the army as soon as he was of age, ignoring the pleas from a crying Raven and Charles to take them with him. (He doesn't blame him; in retrospect, he wishes that he and Raven had not done so. It had been hard enough on Cain as it was, he was sure.)

Charles was unsure if he was dead or alive. (Alive, he prayed to a god he did not believe in, alive. Let this not be our legacy.)

As for his mother- well. It wasn't her fault. Charles knows she is dead, in spirit if not in body, and does not hate her because of it. He knows she loved him, once, but all people have a breaking point.

(Charles still remembers the wide, musty king-sized bed in the basement where they had slept in the later parts of the first year of Marko's residency, she and he and Raven, curled tightly together in the illusion of safety. It had been their sanctuary, until he had found it.

After that, Mother stopped coming downstairs before noon, and when she did she was not truly present. Charles had come to her instead, in her bright, airy room, brought food and books and anecdotes, fetched drinks and bottles of pills and pretended not to notice the flecks of blood on the bedspread. At night, he and Raven had locked themselves in his closet and pressed their hands to their ears, pretending not to hear her bitten off cries of pain and shame, interspersed as they were with Marko's grunts.

They would bear witness to so many sins with their eyes wide open, but that would never be one of them. He would not allow it.)

Charles had made his peace with- that- years ago. He did not need them. He was better without them. They were sick, had been broken from the start, and he could not help them, not if he wished to stay sane.

(Moira would remind him of this, many times, over the years.
"Why do you let him talk to you that way?"

"You're not his servant."

"You don't need him."

"You shouldn't need someone else to be happy."

"You're not his therapist."

"Charles- maybe you shouldn't date for a while."

She had showed up to his morning class the next day with a series of profoundly unhelpful pamphlets, and a heartfelt plea to "Talk to someone, for the love of God Charles, please."

Charles had stonewalled her, and she had backed off. It was to her credit that, two months later, when Charles showed up in her doorway nursing a cigarette and a broken heart, his tears disappearing in the driving April rain, she had merely nodded, and smiled, and given him a change of clothes and access to her facilities.

More importantly, he had introduced him to her mother.)

Charles did not need them, so he was surprised, to say the least, when Raven showed up to his afterparty dressed in a denim skirt several sizes too small and an artfully shredded black tank top.

She was thin, and wan, and her eyes were glazed, but her speech was clear.

This did nothing to appease his worry.

It was the first time he has seen her in four years.

(She must have had Kurt then, she must, only 17 and with a two year old child- Raven, my beautiful Raven, why didn't you tell me?)

He had run to her and hugged her, suppressing his shock at her appearance. A lot can change in four years.

They had left the bar, gone outside. She had not shivered in the cold night air, and declined Charles offered jacket.

She had lit a cigarette, and stared at him blearily. "Why didn't you take me with you?"

Her voice had been plaintive, and lost- a little girl afraid of the night.

"I tried," Charles smiled bleakly. "You wouldn't come."

"You should have made me. I was a kid, I didn't fucking know-"

"Know what?" Charles had asked gently, unable to get over his joy at seeing her face.

She had closed her eyes, smiled a bitter smile that was incongruous on one so young. "How much you were protecting me."

He hadn't known what to say to that.

"Raven, please- stay with me. It's not too late, we can still-"

She had laughed bitterly. "Always the optimist, eh, Charles? Even in the face of cruelty. You always were the strong one."

"Please, Raven, I can-"

"-Save me?" she had smiled. "Can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved, Charlie-boy. That's what you never figured out." She had paused, and her eyes had seemed to clear. "I'm so proud of you for that. Me and Cain both."

"Raven, how did this-" How did this happen to you? You were supposed to be better- safer- sweeter. Why else did I protect you?

Raven had smirked, but her eyes were dead. "Why? Like what you see? Do you think I'm beautiful, Charles?"

Charles had felt as though he had been punched in the gut.

"I've always thought you beautiful, Raven. Please, love, stay with me. We can help each other."

He had been too proud to admit that he needed her. He wonders, later, if that would have saved her.

Raven had shaken her head. "There's only room for one of us to burn brightly, Charles. One of us had to make that sacrifice. You did it for so many years- it's my turn now."

She had shoved a package in his hands and kissed him on the cheek.

"Congratulations, Charles. Brian would have been proud."

And with that, she had walked away. Charles had watched her loose, rolling stride, resisting the urge to cry, as she disappeared into the night.

"Charles?"

Charles jumped.

Moira held up her hands. "Sorry, sorry, you were a million miles away. The pasta was going to boil over."

Charles forced a smile.

Ten minutes later, they were huddled beneath a quilt on their futon, eating tortellini and watching The Naked Chef.

"Has it ever occurred to you that this is the closest thing to a sex life either of us have?" Moira looked at him.

Charles raised an eyebrow. "And by 'this', you mean you and I, boxed wine and pasta, or..."

She swatted him. "I meant the food porn, actually."

Charles sputtered. "It- it's not porn, Moira, it's educational! Honestly, the things you-"

At that point, he was interrupted by a particularly breathy moan from Jamie Oliver as he swallowed a spoonful of gravy.

"Yeah, okay, maybe it's porn." A though occurred to him. "That's not really fair, either. I had a sex life until someone said I wasn't allowed to bring people round anymore."

"There was an orgy in our living room, Charles. An orgy to which neither of us was apparently invited."

"That was not my fault!"

"A real relationship wouldn't kill you, you know."

"That's supremely unfair- you ou never like my boyfriends. You always scare them off."

"That's because your boyfriends suck."

Charles sighed, settling into the familiar argument like a well-worn sweater. "I don't actually need your protection, Moira."

Moira smirked. "Yeah, you do, kiddo."

Charles rolled his eyes. "I'm five years younger than you, Moira, not fifty."

They had been, respectively, the oldest and the youngest people in their freshman biology class at Columbia.

Moira grinned and wrapped an arm around him. "I'm still older than you."

"Yes, and I've been more grown up than you since the day we met."

Moira raised an eyebrow. "Actually, Charles, as I recall the day we met you threw up on my shoes."

"I was sixteen!"

"Not actually helping your case, here, Xavier."

She drank deeply from her cup of wine, staining her lips a dark cherry against her pale skin. She looked at him carefully.

"So how did it go today?"

Charles avoided her gaze. "Good. Fine. It was- fine."

"When is the next meeting?"

Charles avoided her gaze.

"Charles. You said you'd give it a fair shot."

"I did! I went once, didn't I?"

"Did you even say anything?"

"Yes! I- Moira, you weren't there. People were crying. In public." He shuddered.

She smacked him.

"Ow!"

"Serves you right, you brat." Moira stuck her tongue out at him.

"Sorry, were you momentarily stricken deaf? Did you miss the part where they were crying?"

Moira did not smile. "Charles. Listen to me. You're fucked up. You know that. And it's not your fault, and you can't change it, but it happened. You're fucked up, and you don't get to fuck up another kid, okay? That's not happening."

Charles sighed.

"You know I'm right."

Charles nodded slowly.

"Good. Now, hush, Jamie's back on."