The Queens Centre for Children's Neuropsychology was almost oppressively bright.
The building itself was dingy enough, the ugly grey brick tempered by half an inch of soot and dust that blended perfectly with the dull brown-grey slush that coated the ground.
The inside, however, had clearly been decorated with children in mind: primary colours abounded, and the waiting room was well-stocked with toys and books.
It did nothing to ease the knot that was forming in Charles stomach.
Charles has a healthy respect for authority. He believes in it, believes that people are generally good, that rules exist for a reason, and that the mere fact that someone is a cop or a teacher or a judge or a doctor does not automatically make them untrustworthy.
But it doesn't make them trustworthy, either, and Charles spent a long, confused time believing that they were the enemy.
"Shh. Shut up, Charles, ok? Sh. I'm trying to help you, you little freak- shhh. Dad's gone to bed. Stay still, goddamnit!"
Charles groaned quietly. He was shaking, and he tried to push himself up, only to hiss at the agonising pain as raw, bruised flesh pulled tight across his back.
"Shut up, kid. Let's get you cleaned up."
Charles curled in on himself.
I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry
"Don't be sorry. Just don't do it again. Now, c'mon. Stand up."
He does so, and stumbles. There is a divot in his back where the belt buckle had torn into soft young flesh, and it is weeping freely.
Cain helps him up, and dabs his wounds with iodine, his broad, callused hands surprisingly gentle.
Charles is confused- this is Cain, Cain who is bigger and stronger and angry, Cain who alternates between hating him and ignoring his existence entirely- why is he being so nice?
He doesn't voice the question.
In truth, perhaps he is scared that in doing so, the spell will be broken, and the possibility of this gentle young man will again be hidden beneath the smell of cigarettes and black eyes and resentment.
When he is done, he turns the boy around to look him in the eye.
He is eight years old, and small for his age, and the thirteen year old Cain has to kneel to look him in the eye.
"You can't tell anyone, Charles, do you understand?"
The boy's brown eyes were serious, and he held his gaze until Charles nodded.
The school counsellor had been only too happy to believe Charles.
He was 12 by then, and in retrospect it should make him angry, to think that it took four years for someone- anyone- to look at the boy in the corner, the silent, thin boy who always wore long sleeves and who shrugged away any attempts at conversation or physical contact and whose movements were sharp, his expression strained, in the presence of those who were larger than him, and ask the question that someone should have been asking all along.
Charles? Is everything all right at home?
Mr. Arthur's honest, ruddy face had been soft and compassionate, his booming voice lowered to a calming whisper, and Charles had looked him in his kind blue eyes and nodded.
He cannot help but think that if he were a different sort of boy, if he had not been an Xavier, if his schoolwork had been less perfect or his clothes less impeccable, they would have noticed.
(Maybe they wouldn't have. The rational part of his brain knows that people slip through the cracks sometimes.
Still, his subconscious will argue, How could they not have known?)
It is summer, and Raven lies on his bed beside him, their long, thin limbs tangled up in a sweaty embrace.
Charles is reading aloud.
"Make your choice, adventurous Stranger;
Strike the bell and bide the danger,
Or wonder, till it drives you mad,
What would have followed if you had"
Raven shivers slightly, and presses closer to him, the smell of her nail polish astringent in the hot room.
Charles absentmindedly strokes her hair as he reads.
His strong, quiet voice is almost enough to cover up the sounds of glass breaking in the dining room.
"Kurt Wagner?"
A pretty, dark-haired woman sticks her head around the corner. She smiles.
"Ah, there you are. And you're Charles Xavier, yes? I'm Lil, we spoke on the phone. Come on back,"
Kurt clings tight to Charles' leg as they follow the woman down the hallway.
"So, we'll start with an exam- I'm going to pass you over to one of our residents, Dr Ironside, she'll take good care of you, and then, once Dr Munroe has had a chance to look over the file, she'll be coming in and doing some developmental testing, ok? Do you have any questions?"
Charles shook his head. "No, thank you."
Dr Munroe had a kind smile and tired eyes as she explained her suspicions.
" The most common form of developmental delay...
"Difficulty with social cues, language, money, abstract concepts..
"Routine activities..."
Charles' head was buzzing. He barely heard her.
He had been expecting it, to some degree.
He'd known Raven was on drugs, that she drank more than she should, but, well- so did he, at that age. He had been frightened, and alone, and trying desperately to muddle through the pain and the terror as best he could.
It- God, she probably hadn't even realised that she was pregnant until it was too late.
Charles has to believe that. Has to believe that, had she known, she would have stopped.
Has to believe that she wasn't so irreparably broken by his departure as to keep living the way she had been while carrying a child.
So she hadn't known, she musn't have, but where does that leave Kurt?
(Intentions don't matter, Erik says in his head. But they do, they must, because otherwise where does that leave him?)
It's not his mother's fault.
She's sick.
Charles knows this, has always known it, knows that there is a reason she takes so many pills, that there is a reason that sometimes she closes her drapes and locks her door and does not come out for days, leaves him at the mercy of Kurt and Cain and struggling to find something to cook for dinner, and sometimes she is affectionate, clutching him tightly, singing songs and making grand pans for trips, just the two of them, that even at nine Charles knows they will never take.
There is a reason that sometimes she screams, and shouts, and slaps him for things he did not do.
There is a reason.
There is always a reason.
"-Mr Xavier?"
Charles shakes his head, dispelling the memory. "Sorry. So, I'm not quite- what do we do now?"
He feels lost, like he's drowning, and he wants to run, to leave, to forget everything that has happened in the last month- but he can't.
(Charles has been running all his life. He's not sure he knows how to stop.)
"We're going to help you," Dr. Munroe says. "We can set you up with a social worker, a speech therapist- we're going to try and make this as easy as possible."
Charles is shaking his head even before she finishes speaking. "We can't- I'm only covered for three visits a year."
Dr Munroe purses her lips. "I understand that this can get expensive, but surely-"
"-Do you have some kind of sliding scale?" he asks hopefully.
She regards him silently for a moment, then nods, the pity clear in her eyes. "Mr Xavier, if you don't mind me asking- what were the circumstances of your guardianship of Kurt?"
Charles blinks. She smiles encouragingly, and he feels painfully young.
"My sister- she- Kurt's my nephew. My sister died."
"My condolences," she says, and actually seems to mean it.
Charles nods his thanks.
She looks at him again, and Charles twitches.
"Mr Xavier, if I may- parenthood is a very stressful event for anyone. How are you coping?"
Charles gives a choked laugh. "I'm fine. It's not like there's much choice in the matter."
She nods. "Have you considered talking to someone?"
He looks at her, the lines of his limbs drawing sharp and precisely.
She writes something on a pad of paper. "Here- this is the number for Dr. Adler, over at CEAC. She operates on a sliding scale- I'd be happy to refer you."
Charles shrugs, but pockets the scrap.
_
That night, when they're back at the apartment, he checks his messages.
One is from Moira, asking how it went. Another from Principal Fury, asking him if he can cover a section of 11th grade physics the next day- one of the teacher's has that new flu going around, two from Erik, one apologizing, the other asking him if he'd like to meet the next day for coffee- Charles snorts at that, their track record with caffeinated beverages is hardly stellar- and one from a voice he does not recognise.
"Charles? Charles, I hope this is you. Uh, it's me. Cain Marko? I just wanted to let you know- I don't know if anyone's told you- Kurt's dead. Uh, I'm back in the country. They gave me leave. So, if you want to meet or something, maybe call me back? Right. Yeah. Uh. Take care of yourself, kid."
-beep-
Charles sits down heavily on the futon, the metal frame creaking slightly.
He is glad that Kurt is already in bed, because he's shaking, and his muscles are tight, and he bites his tongue until it bleeds because if he opens his mouth he's not sure what might come out.
He is still sitting like that when Moira comes in, and he says nothing.
He is silent as she asks him what's wrong, as she attempts to force the truth out, as she touches his hair softly.
He is silent as she manoeuvres him off the futon and into his bedroom.
He is silent as she hands him his pyjamas.
He is silent as she realises that his hands are shaking too much for him to manage the buttons, and so dresses him herself.
He is silent as she finds the piece of paper and threatens him with immediate death if he does not call her the next day.
He is silent as he nods, slightly, and Moira breathes a sigh of relief.
He is silent as she strokes his back softly, carefully, roughly delicate hands tracing over warm flesh and faded silver lines.
He is silent as she falls asleep, head on his shoulder.
He is silent as the clock strikes two.
Then, and only then, does he cry.