Charles was exerting just the merest fraction of his power over Madeline, just enough to help her gather herself, to ease the terror that he had felt from across the mansion. It was a shame that to help her he would have to reveal the fact he had managed to conceal from her thus far. But ultimately, he had known he couldn't keep his secret forever. If revealing it could allow her to keep hers a little longer, then that was just the way it had to be.

"Welcome back, Hank. Don't worry; I'll look after Madeline. We'll talk later." Hank hesitated, didn't take his hand off Madeline. Charles felt his concern, mixed with something – already? – more tender. He sighed; Hank's heart was so starving for love in the wake of his abortive affair with Raven, it was almost inevitable that he would latch onto a girl like Madeline – why hadn't Charles predicted that? Or, come to that, the Madeline's theoretical desire to be a doctor might come up against the very real trauma she had suffered? He was letting people down, he worried, so wrapped up in his own troubles, with Erik, with his legs. He owed these youngsters better. With that in mind, he put a friendly hand on Hank's arm, took him aside.

"I'll take good care of her, I promise. And I will explain. Just let me calm her down first, there's a good chap." With one last reluctant look after Madeline, Hank acquiesced, ceded the lab, and Madeline, to Charles.

Madeline had pulled herself up into a kneeling position, so their eyes were level. They were swimming with tears, but the terror was gone.

"Did you do something to my mind?" she asked.

"Only a tiny bit. I'm sorry. I was worried about you – I felt your fear clear across the house. What happened?" She blushed.

"I lost my shit is what happened. Not to mention my lunch. Poor Hank. He must think I'm completely crazy." Charles shook his head, took her hand.

"He doesn't think any such thing." When she looked doubtful, he tapped his temple. "Take my word for it! In fact, I think he likes you very much. Why did you get upset?" By way of answer, she pointed back into the sick bay, and tentatively broadcast to him the memory of her panic attack. Charles nodded at this confirmation of what he'd suspected. He put a hand on her shoulder comfortingly.

"I'm sorry; I should have realised it was too soon, should have had you wait." She shook her head, put a hand on his arm.

"It wasn't your fault! I shouldn't have let myself get so upset. I feel stupid now; it was just – too much. All at once. I'm over it now, I think. I just should have thought more about it first." She stood up slowly, and walked back towards the sick bay door. Charles watched her set her shoulders and stride in, touched by her courage as she faced her fear. He rolled to the doorway and watched her as she stood as still as stone in the dead centre of the room, her eyes closed, her nostrils quivering as she forced herself to breathe in all the smells that had catapulted her back in time. He gently slipped into her mind and marvelled at the richness of her sense – even with her eyes shut, she knew exactly where each item in the room was, what it was made of, could smell exactly where he sat, the hint of sweat in his armpits from rushing up to the lab mixed with his own aftershave, the warm wool of his jacket, the tangy leather of his shoes.

The girl opened her eyes as he returned into himself. Charles watched as, very deliberately, she walked over to the trolley by the operating table, reached out and picked up a scalpel, turned it over in her hands, put it back down. She crossed the room to the hospital bed, ran her hands across the clean sheets. Finally, she sat down, kicked off the leather boots she was wearing, and in one graceful motion pulled her legs up and lay down flat on the bed. She gave a deep, shuddering sigh, and then began, as naturally as breathing, to cry.

Listening to her, Charles realised that weeping wasn't actually an ugly sound. The ugliness came when people fought it, as they inevitably did – when they choked and gasped and tried and tried and failed to get control over the feeling passing through them. Madeline did none of this. She simply gave herself up to the tears, let them come, breathed through them until they were all gone. He approached her, reached out and took her hand. She squeezed his gently, and then slowly opened her eyes.

"I think I needed that." He tried to interpret the feeling emanating from her now – a sort of thin, spent peace which, along with the tremulous smile she found for him, made his heart go out to her, this poor, fragile, good-natured girl who asked for so little and had lost so much. "I'll be OK in here from now, I think. I hope Hank will still want to teach me; could you try and reassure him that I'll be alright? Or at very least, he's not going to have to hold my hair back while I barf again?"

Charles choked on the laughter that exploded out of him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed. She joined in, and for a moment he revelled in the feeling he had almost forgotten – easy, unstrained laughter with a friend.

"He is a doctor, you know, at a mutant school – I promise you, he's dealt with worse." She grimaced.

"I don't know, it was pretty epic. Have you ever forgotten to put the lid on the blender before pressing the button?" Another snort of mirth escaped from Charles, but Madeline suddenly looked serious. "It was a lot to take on top of his visit to his family falling through. I know I don't know him very well, but he seemed kind of – bleeding. I'm really fine now, professor – maybe you should go and make sure that Hank's OK?"

A wave of shame came over Charles – he hadn't even asked Hank how his trip had gone. "I'll go and see him now. Do me a favour though – don't spend the day in here. You've faced down enough demons for one day. Go outside, take a bath, watch a film or something. Just be kind to yourself; you've earned it." She nodded obligingly, slipped her boots back on, jumped off the bed.

"I don't need to be kind to myself; everyone here's taking good care of that. Thank you – again – for being there, for helping me. I'm already starting to rely on that."

"It's nothing, my dear. We'll speak again soon. Enjoy your evening." And she was gone. Charles looked at the slightly rumpled sick bed, and remembered how she had taken her grief, like a tree takes a heavy fall of snow, bending with it, then letting it go. He thought of Erik, battling his every emotion with a desperate violence that did more harm than good. He sighed. He wasn't religious – he was a scientist, and although he acknowledged that he was an idealist, he found enough hope in the human spirit that he didn't need to believe in a grander scheme. However, for a moment he rested his chin on his hands, screwed his eyes shut tight and let his longing find a voice: please, let them help each other. Let him help her to be strong; let her teach him how to be weak. Let something good come out of all this pain.