Hank was waiting in Charles's study when he returned to it – a familiarity Charles did not mind in the least, as Hank was a dear and intimate friend. It was a great sadness to Charles that this troubled man and the two other people he loved best in the world – Erik and Raven – should always be so much at odds. He smiled reassuringly at the blue mutant, who had leapt to his feet as the door opened.
"She's absolutely fine, my friend. And please, don't worry, you did nothing wrong." Hank sagged with relief.
"It all happened so quickly, professor. One minute she was fine, and then-" Charles waved his explanation away.
"As I said, you couldn't have foreseen it. I should have; I apologise. Madeline has had some bad experiences in hospitals, and I should have realised she was not yet so well-recovered as she so wants everybody to believe." Hank raised a curious eyebrow.
"Bad experiences?" Charles nodded.
"I don't want to lie to you, Hank, so let's just leave it at that. Suffice to say that like too many of our kind, her mutation has led to her being mistreated and exploited. I really can't say any more than that at present. It's a question of her safety, and of yours. You understand?" Hank seemed about to protest, but then, reluctantly, nodded his head.
"Whatever you say, Charles. I know you wouldn't keep anything from me that I needed to know."
Charles felt a twinge of guilt at the trust Hank so guilelessly placed in him. He tried to reassure himself that he hadn't lied, except by omission. It was true that the less people knew about Madeline's gift the better - the more people who knew, the quicker it would get back to Fiskel where she was. But he hadn't mentioned his other reason for keeping her secret – that if Hank (or Raven, or anyone who cared about him) knew, it would put them into the same torment Erik was going through, desperate to know if she could help him but forbidden to find out. Just like Erik, and just like me, he thought, then firmly pushed the errant thought aside. He gestured for Hank to sit down, which he did gingerly, still not at ease in his new, bigger body even after several months.
"So tell me, how were things back in Idaho? Madeline suggested that they might not have gone so well?" Hank tensed and then, caught in Xavier's gentle, sympathetic gaze, opened up all in a rush, the poison of the last few days escaping in a burst of misery.
"They could hardly look at me, professor. None of us knew what to say. At least they didn't call the police, or the zoo, I guess. But they don't look at me and see their son; they only see the monster." He paused for breath, then put his massive head into his paws. "I know I'm lucky really. I was a total idiot, testing out a new drug on myself without any trials, or – I could have died, been poisoned, paralys-" Hank's head came up in horror as he realised what he had nearly said. Charles simply shook his head, excusing the slip-up without a word, patting Hank on the shoulder, encouraging him to carry on. More slowly, Hank continued.
"It could have been much worse. But sometimes I still feel like it's more than I can bear. I can't stand looking like this, feeling like this. All my life I've felt like a freak; all I've ever wanted was to be normal, and now-" He broke off, dropped his gaze to the carpet once more. Charles said nothing, knowing that he could not make Hank's peace for him. He could only be with him while he struggled with his pain, support him as he made his own slow way to acceptance. It was so pitifully little.
Charles never felt the burden of responsibility his power placed on him as heavily as in these moments, when someone good and innocent was weighed down with more grief than anybody should have to bear, when all they wanted was for something to just make it go away, and Charles knew that he could – but mustn't – do it. People's experiences, good and bad, made them what they were. It would be utterly wrong to take that away from them, even if they wanted him to.
Charles thought about Erik, about the nightmares that still sometimes shredded his sleep, the anger he carried around with him like a stone in his chest. And yet Charles knew that if he offered to take all of that away – to excise the horror from his lover's mind, Shaw, the camps, his mother's death, the Cuban beach – Erik would die before he would let him do it. Erik's anger, his suffering, his regrets – they were his strength and his penance, they were his meaning, for so long they had been all that he had. It was one of the things Charles loved about him – that doomed, devil-be-damned courage, to always look life in the eye, to stand by who he was, what he'd done. He loved him for that, as much as for everything else; and yet it broke his heart.
Hank spoke softly, not taking his eyes off the carpet. "How do you stand it, Charles? What's happened to you is so much worse than what's happened to me. But you just carry on. You even forgave Erik, while I don't think I'll ever forgive myself. Please help me. Help me understand how you go on."
Charles winced. Hank's words stripped through his debonair façade, straight into the dark home of every swallowed sob, every broken night when he had lain helpless and immobile in the dark, and clenched his teeth and screwed his eyes tight shut and thought I can't, I CAN'T. He tried to think of something glib and kind to say, something that would protect him from that place, turn the focus back on Hank. But in all conscience, he could not. Hank was his friend; he had been honest with his pain, his need; he deserved an honest answer. Charles breathed deeply, and then spoke.
"I carry on because I must, my friend. There are people who need me, who rely on me, people out there that only I can help. I can't abandon them. And so I carry on, and in doing so I find that there is still so much in life that is sweet and worth living for, even now." Hank looked at him, his yellow eyes round with shock.
"I never realised. You always just seemed so – composed." Charles gave a tight laugh laced with pain.
"I have my moments, Hank, believe you me. Just ask Erik. You never had to watch me try to dress myself in the early days. There are quite a few items of clothing hanging from the chandelier in our bedroom to evidence the fact that at times I've been far from composed." Charles smiled, allowing Hank to do so too. The young doctor quirked an eyebrow.
"A chandelier?" Charles shrugged.
"It's my mother's old room." He put his head on one side pensively. "Really ought to re-decorate, now that I come to think of it. And not just by festooning the fixtures with undergarments when I'm in a rage." The two men laughed together at that, and the intensity faded from the atmosphere. Charles leaned forward and put a hand on Hank's massive shoulder again.
"The sweetness of life will come back, Hank, I promise you. Right now, it's hard to see it, but it's still there." Hank smiled – a wan sort of smile, but still. Charles felt the tenor of his mind shifting – a faint flicker of hope sparking amidst the fog of misery that had enveloped Hank ever since they returned from Cuba. He clapped him one more time on the shoulder, then pushed himself behind the desk, drawing the interview to a close.
"I gave Madeline the rest of the day off – poor girl, she's gone through it a bit today. But please do look for her tomorrow – she's still very keen to learn what you have to teach." Hank nodded and made for the doorway, where he paused. Charles felt the hesitancy rolling off him, and then he turned back, making up his mind.
"Professor, when I found her, she was talking to Magneto – I mean Erik. He was filling her head with all sorts of his nonsense, about mutants replacing humans, bastardising your thesis out of its right sense. She was lapping it up; can't you call him off of her?" Charles laughed.
"As it so happens, Hank, it was me who set him on her in the first place! I think he'll be good for her – and her for him, actually. They have a lot to learn from each other. Don't worry about all that business, it's just his way. She's not as impressionable as you might think, and she is anything but stupid. She knows to take him with a pinch of salt." Hank ground his shoe into the carpet, clearly concerned he was on shaky ground but reluctant to let it lie. He muttered something Charles didn't quite hear. He cocked his head, and Hank repeated, louder than he'd meant to:
"He's corrupting her. Just like he did with Raven." Charles sighed. This rivalry between Hank and Erik – although Erik would have scoffed at his calling it a rivalry – was not, as he had hoped it would, resolving itself as time went on. But what could he do? They were both grown adults; he couldn't force them to shake hands and put Raven and Cuba behind them.
"Erik did not 'corrupt' Raven, Hank. If anything, he helped her where I'd always failed – he made her proud to be herself. People change; we don't always like it, but if we love them enough, then we find a way to make room for it." Hank scowled, and Charles winced, thinking of Hank's parents. But he carried on regardless. "Erik would never harm Raven – or Madeline. You have to trust me. I know him better than you, and I know he's not capable of that."
Hank snorted.
"Well you'd know best what he's capable of, I suppose." That stung, and Charles knew it showed in his face. Frustration and remorse warred in Hank's eyes, resolved into shame.
"I'm sorry, professor. I shouldn't have said that." An awkward silence fell between them. "I'll start teaching Madeline tomorrow," Hank supplied lamely, clearly not knowing what else to say. Charles began organising papers on his desk, quite unnecessarily, and tried to keep his tone light.
"Good, thank you. Don't work her too hard, though – she's never had a chance to go to school before, but she's got a voracious mind and a photographic memory – she may not know how to pace herself. Just make sure she gets out and about now and again, that's all." Hank nodded, and then the study door clicked shut behind him.