Charles misses the bus the next morning.
He doesn't mind too much. He makes a point of arriving early to work anyway, and he has a good half hour before he actually needs to leave. He still isn't used to accounting for a child in his daily plans.
Normally, it takes Charles less than fifteen minutes to get ready. A shower, clean clothes, and a cup of coffee is all it really takes- he could do (and has done ) it with his eyes closed.
Now, though, there is breakfast to be made- and yeah, okay, so a bowl of cheerios with sliced banana isn't exactly gourmet cuisine, but it seems to take Kurt ages to eat it- and there is hair to be brushed, buttons to do up and laces to tie.
It's… strange. Good, perhaps, but strange none the less. He's not bad at it, per se; Lord knows he had enough practice with Raven, but it's… well, it's the mental adjustment more than anything.
He tries saying it to himself in the mirror sometimes.
I, Charles Xavier, have a child.
I, Charles Xavier, am a- a father.
I, Charles Xavier, am not going to fuck this up.
Maybe he's focusing on the wrong things. All parents fuck up their children to some extent, right? Maybe he should focus on the least harmful way to do so- instilling an intense work ethic, or something. Then he looks down at Kurt, who is happily gabbling away in a nonsense language to being Charles cannot see, and his heart sinks.
Maybe he should be concentrating on just getting the two of them through this.
He makes a mental note to talk to Kitty. After all, she ran the school's daycare centre- surely she would know where they could go for an evaluation.
(And yes, he does feel slightly awkward taking his child to the centre that is probably intended for the offspring of teenage girls, but, well. He's hardly going to pass up free childcare, now is he?)
The morning air is crisp, and clean; the few inches of snow temporarily covering the grime of the city in a pristine sheet of cleanliness.
Steam rises off his coffee cup, turning his pale skin red.
For a moment, everything is pure, and soft, and simple.
A father and his son, waiting for a bus.
It doesn't last, of course. The bus arrives, spraying them both with grey-brown slush, and the spell is broken. The illusion fades, replacing it instead with a city of dust and dirt and grime, with sticky seating on a broken-down bus, with a damaged young boy and an exhausted young man out of his league.
For a moment, though, there is peace.
When he arrives at his classroom, it is already open. This is a surprise, to say the least. He shares this room with two other part-timers, in a wing that is a broken down relic of the seventies where the administration tends to shove all of the lower-level science courses.
(The principal, a man with an eyepatch- seriously, who wears an eyepatch? and the bearing of a soldier, had been brutally honest.
"Look, kid," Principal Fury had said, chewing on an unlit cigar. "We're not expecting miracles here. Most of those kids aren't going to college. Hell, some of them ain't gonna finish high school. It's 9th grade general physics and biology- you're gonna get some real assholes. You have to be firm with them, or they'll eat you alive- but don't expect Einsteins, alright?"
Charles had nodded. He had thought he understood. Moira's mother was a teacher, and had made a point of thoroughly disabusing him of any romantic notions he may have held about his trade.)
"Hello?" He calls out curiously as he enters the room, breathing in the vaguely comforting odour of ink and sweat and a clearly malfunctioning fume hood. (Someone was going to have to look at that, sooner rather than later. It could be dangerous.
Well, it could be dangerous, if they ever used it in this class. Charles is still adjusting to the idea that potassium is considered too expensive to allow the children to do experiments with.)
"Sir!" Charles looks in the direction of the noise, and raises his eyebrows at the sight of a thin, pale boy near the front of his desk, his baggy sweatshirt dripping water onto the floor.
"McCoy?" Please let that be the right name.\
"Yes, sir, um, sorry, sir, I was just- um, Mr. Stark said it was okay, sir, so I just thought- I can leave now, um, sorry to bother you."
Charles was puzzled. "Why are you in my classroom? School doesn't start for another-" he glances at his watch- "Another hour and a half."
The boy shook his head distractedly. "Uh, right, sir, but Mr Stark said that you had the latest issue of The Biophysical Journal, and I was hoping I could borrow it for a while?"
"Sure?" Charles responded, wincing as he heard it come out as a question. "Just take good care of it."
"I will, sir."
The boy left, leaving a trail of water droplets in his wake. Charles scratched his chin. That had been... bizarre.
He shrugged and gripped his mug of coffee tightly. He had work to do.
Charles glanced up at the sky. It was dark, and ominous; the clouds heavy with snow.
He shifted slightly, readjusting Kurt's weight, when he saw the park.
He glanced at his watch. It was only 1 PM, and, yeah, he was definitely going to have to find another job for the afternoons, because two sections of high school science does not an income make.
There was snow on the ground, and in the dark afternoon the park was nearly empty. Still, wasn't this the sort of thing that fathers were supposed to do with their sons?
He glanced at the boy in his arms, who was smiling and occasionally murmuring things to himself.
At least he was happy. Nothing else mattered, right?
"Hey, Kurt," he said, in an attempt at cheerful jocularity. "Wanna go to the park?"
Kurt looked at him curiously. Charles wonders how much of that he understood. He has a business card for a Ms Ororo Munroe, an appointment he will have to make sooner rather than later. He wonders, belatedly, whether insurance covers this sort of thing.
"Play?" Kurt says, as though unsure if this was a trick.
"Yeah, buddy. Wanna go play?"
"Okay!" Kurt squeals, and practically leaps from Charles' arms, who has to race to catch up.
They run through the snow drifts, and Charles manfully restrains from freaking the fuck out when the boy trips on an exposed tree root and lands, face first, in the snow.
It helps that he pops up instantly, red-faced and grinning, and shouts "Charrrles! Chase!"
Charles sees no choice but to comply.
Somewhere along the line, his rucksack is abandoned by a tree- within eyesight, of course, Charles isn't a complete idiot- and they are both laughing.
Kurt gets a devilish look on his face and reaches into the snow, his fingers red from the cold, and flings a handful at Charles.
"Can't catch me!" he shouts, and dissolves into giggles.
Charles lets out a rather undignified squeal, and ponders the ethics of flinging snow back at a small child, and perhaps he isn't watching where he is going quite as much as he should be, because he runs smack into a tall, broad man in a leather jacket, landing flat on his back in the snow.
For a moment, he just lies there, dazed, feeling the scratch of ice on the exposed skin of his lower back as the snow seeps through his worn wool coat and long-sleeved shirt.
He stares at the sky, and catches his breath. It is quite peaceful, really.
Kurt's head pops into view, his black hair sticking up messily. He is panting, and his cheeks are cherry red, but his face is marred with worry.
"Up, Charles!" he orders sternly. "Okay?"
Charles smiles. "I'm just fine, Kurt, just let me catch my breath, okay?"
"UP!" he repeats, and there's a hint of worry in his childish tone.
Another face appears in his field of view. It is rough, and sharp, and ruggedly handsome, and although a woolen scarf and hooded jacket hides much of it from view, Charles can't help but find it familiar-
"Erik?"
The man laughs, and pulls down the scarf to expose his mouth.
"And just what are you doing out on a day like today, Charles?" he asks, a smile playing baout his mouth. "Shouldn't you be in school?"
Charles attempts his firmest teacher glare. It is stunningly ineffective.
"I could ask the same to you," he points out.
"I work the night shift," Erik responds easily. "While you-"
"Charles! UP!" Kurt interrupts.
Erik grins. "Well, you heard the man. Would you like a hand with that?"
Charles tries to grumble, but fails miserably. He is sure he flushes darkly pink with embarassment.
Erik doesn't seem to mind. If anything, his grin broadens, his teeth gleaming in the dim light.
A few minutes later, they are both situated on a bench, watching as Kurt rolls around in the snow.
Charles flushes with guilt. He really should be wearing mittens.
"So, Charles," Erik says. "What brings you here?"
Charles raises an eyebrow. "It's a park. I have a kid. Seems like a rather logical mix, wouldn't you say?"
"It's winter, during the school day, and your kid isn't wearing any mittens."
Charles rubs his face with the palm of his hand. "It's not that cold, I only work mornings so that the bastards in administration don't have to pay me full benefits, and I'm rather terrible at this parenting thing, in case you haven't noticed."
Erik smiles, but his eyes turn serious. "He clearly likes you- you must be doing something right."
Charles begins to open his mouth to argue, but lets the matter drop.
"Besides," Erik adds, "You can't keep doubting yourself, not if you expect others to listen to you. You're a teacher and a parent- the least you could do is respect yourself."
Charles looks at him wryly. "Hmm, someone's in therapy."
Erik shrugs sheepishly. "Not my idea."
"So you said," Charles says, and there it is- the awkwardness he had been expecting as they were both reminded of their last meeting.
"Yeah, listen," Erik begins.
"Erik, I'm," Charles says.
They laugh, and both stop.
"Go ahead," Erik says.
"I'm so sorry about yesterday- truly, it wasn't anything you did, an dI don't normally react that way- I've just been a little, uh, overwhelmed recently. I suspect it's put me a bit off my game, so to speak."
Erik smiles sadly and shakes his head. "Charles- don't apologise." He takes a deep breath, and the smile fades away. "You should stay away from me. I, I'm not a good person. I- I'm not good for much, really, except- well, that doesn't matter. I lived my life for revenge for so many years..." He stops. "Whatever, it doesn't matter. I just- look, I'm an asshole, okay? You probably shouldn't hang around me. Not when you have a kid?"
Charles looks at him, before reaching up a reddened hand to wipe a snowflake of Erik's cheekbone.
"Oh, Erik..." He says softly. "My friend.. There is so much more to you than that. There is goodness in you, Erik. I can see it."
There is a snowflake on his lip.
Erik kisses him.