Archive of Our Own

Raven sighs as she drags herself up the stairs to the Oxford flat. It's been a long day of waiting on obnoxious customers, and all she wants to do is take a long bath, kick her feet up, maybe read one of her Mills and Boone novels. Or maybe she'll just go straight to bed; she feels strangely heavy as she gets closer to the flat, as if it's all she can do to stay upright. Apparently, she's more exhausted than she'd thought.

She finds the door unlocked—weird—so, just as a precaution, she leaves her blonde disguise on instead of shedding it the moment the door closes behind her as she usually does. The heaviness she was feeling outside is even more pronounced now that she's in the apartment, and she has to shake herself to keep from falling asleep right there in the entryway.

Charles? she projects, looking around. They don't normally communicate mind-to-mind at home, but if they do have any unwelcome guests, she doesn't want to alert them to her presence. On first pass, nothing seems out of the ordinary; but she's not about to let her guard down completely.

Here, he thinks at her, an image of the study appearing briefly in her head. It lingers for longer than usual, until she shakes her head to clear the after-images. Charles doesn't sound alarmed, though—just the opposite—so Raven allows herself to relax a bit. She hangs up her coat, then heads to the study.

A cloud of smoke hits her the instant she opens the door. She coughs, blinks her eyes to adjust. They're yellow when she opens them, but she doesn't have to worry; Charles is sitting alone on the sofa—lounging, really—with a joint held loosely between his fingers as he tips his head back and exhales.

That explains the heaviness she's been feeling, then. Charles has always had more trouble controlling himself when he's high, and his telepathy tends to bleed out, spreading slowly and unevenly like spilled honey.

"Hey," Raven says. She lets herself melt into blue, leaving her clothes in place, as she carefully picks her way across the mess of books and papers scattered on the floor. "Long day?"

No longer than most, Charles replies, his thoughts slow and faintly slurred. Hit a bit of a roadblock on the thesis, decided to take a thinking break. He lifts the joint to his lips and takes another hit, holding his breath for an impressively long period of time. Raven sits next to him, and he offers her the small white roll. Want some?

"You're getting stuck in your head, Charles," she chides him, without any real bite, accepting the proffered spliff. She takes a deep breath, feeling the smoke curl through her, the heady weightlessness as it starts to take effect.

It's good, "isn't it?" Charles says, remembering himself halfway through. His voice is even fuzzier than his thoughts, and pitched about a half octave lower than usual. "Gerald brought it last week, said it cost him a fortune."

"Only the best for you," Raven says dryly, taking another hit before passing the roach back to Charles, who extinguishes it and then holds it above his head as he unrolls it, dropping the remaining weed into his mouth.

"Mm," he agrees, sitting up slightly as he chews the bud, then washes it down with a sip from the glass of scotch resting on the table in front of him. Raven reaches out her hand, and Charles gives her a considering look; she rolls her eyes at him, and he concedes, handing it over. She drains the glass, just to make her point, and he laughs.

"Want me to roll another?" he asks, sliding closer to her and looping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into him. He's more tactile when he's high—and so is Raven, really; she buries her face in Charles's chest and lets him stroke her hair, allows him to smooth away the last of her irritation from the day. A distant part of her thinks she should be mad at him for messing in her head, but she can't bring herself to care right now—about anything, really.

A pulse from him reminds her that he'd asked her a question. She thinks.

"Not now," she says. "Maybe later. But you could put on some music?"

He laughs. As my lady commands, he says, getting up to turn on the record player. As Sarah Vaughan's deep voice mixes with the smoke still curling through the air, Charles settles back in next to Raven, and she presses herself against his side with a contented sigh, happy to just stay there for a while.

"I want to try something," Charles says absently, one day when they're standing out in the gardens, observing Raven and the boys sparring. Moira is...somewhere, probably reporting on them to her superiors or something, Erik isn't sure, and right now, he honestly doesn't care, not when his hand is resting next to Charles's on the stone railing and Charles's little finger has been stroking Erik's for the better part of the past ten minutes.

Erik, by now conditioned to respond positively (and with no small amount of arousal) any time Charles makes such a declaration, immediately says, "All right."

Charles smirks, slow and just this side of filthy, clearly aware of Erik's (lack of) thought process. "Tonight, then?" he murmurs, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Erik hates him.

"Tonight," he agrees.

----

If Erik is being honest with himself, he'd expected something less...tame. After all, the last time Charles had said he'd wanted to try something in that tone of voice, Erik hadn't been able to walk properly for a week, and had received strange looks from everyone for wearing a turtleneck in the middle of the Indian Summer they'd been having.

Sitting out on Charles's balcony, watching him pull out a bag of familiar-looking green leaves and some small white papers is—well, to be quite frank, Erik's a little disappointed.

"Patience," Charles says, looking up at him. He holds out his hand expectantly. "Lighter?"

Erik pauses and thinks for a moment about telling Charles to pull out the lighter he knows is in the pocket of his cardigan, but he knows what Charles is really asking. He floats his own lighter, the one he crafted with his own hands years and years ago, out of the pocket of his khakis and deposits it gently in Charles's outstretched palm. Charles flashes him a brilliant smile and presses a hint of arousal at him, gone before Erik can catch hold of it. He always loves these small uses of Erik's power—the more mundane, the better, it seems.

"I got this from Sean," Charles says casually, setting the lighter down and turning his attention back to the small baggie. "Poor thing," he continues, pinching out a relatively large bud and dropping it in the middle of a piece of rolling paper, "I think he was quite terrified when I walked in on him lighting up the other day. As if I mind." Erik finds himself strangely captivated as Charles shakes the paper to evenly distribute the pot, then deftly rolls the joint. He raises it up to his mouth to lick it, looking up in the middle to lock eyes with Erik.

Erik had never thought the act of rolling a joint to be particularly erotic, but he's going to have to re-evaluate his assessment.

Charles smirks at Erik as he twists the ends of the paper, sealing the joint. "I have my own stash, of course," he continues, in that same light tone, "but Sean swears his is the best on the East Coast. I have to admit to a certain scientific curiosity; it's been a while since I tried American cannabis."

Charles holds out the reefer to Erik. "And," he continues, picking up the lighter and looking at Erik from under hooded eyelids, "I've never had sex while high."

Erik raises an eyebrow, clearly disbelieving. It's true that he himself has never had sex while high, has never even lit up with anyone else, his constant need for vigilance preventing him from placing him at any sort of disadvantage, but Charles...from Raven's snide comments and Charles's own admissions regarding his hedonistic Oxford lifestyle, it seems unlikely that this would be something Charles had never even so much as attempted.

"Well, all right," Charles concedes. I haven't had sex properly while high. That means 'with telepathy,' of course; Erik nods, accepting the modification. Charles is infinitely more experienced than Erik, but when it comes to uses of their powers in bed, they're each as inexperienced as each other, making things up as they go.

Charles flicks on the lighter, cupping the flame protectively as he lights the joint dangling loosely from between Erik's fingers. Erik raises it to his lips and inhales deeply, savoring the taste, the feel of the smoke going down his throat. It's been a while since he last lit up, and while he hasn't exactly missed it, he does enjoy good marijuana—and this is definitely the good stuff, which begs the question of how, exactly, Sean ended up with it. But that's a concern for another time, if ever, he thinks, exhaling and passing the joint back to Charles. What the children get up to in their off-time isn't his responsibility.

They pass the joint back and forth for a little while, not saying anything, content to sit there in charged, but not uncomfortable, silence. After a few puffs, Erik can feel himself starting to relax, his usual hypervigilance easing just enough for him to drape himself loosely against Charles's side, occasionally pressing light kisses against the side of his throat. Charles's arm comes up to pull him closer, his hand sliding soothingly up and down Erik's triceps.

Several hits (and at least another joint) later, all the metal Erik keeps in his pocket is floating around them, orbiting in a lazy circle. Erik can't keep the wide grin off his face, though he's sure he looks like a dopey idiot, but Charles is just as gone, giggling every time Erik's control slips and one of the metal pieces dips in its course. The most interesting thing, though is the way Erik has become increasingly aware of Charles's telepathy; with every hit Charles takes, it becomes more present, until he's not even sure anything beyond the two of them exists, that anything is real. Their minds seem inextricably tangled, Charles's mind deeper in Erik's than it's ever been before, and Erik thinks he might be terrified, if he didn't trust Charles so completely, if he didn't feel so damnably safe with him.

"Mm," Charles hums, taking the now almost-finished joint from Erik. What a lovely thought, he says, voice echoing through every cell of Erik's body. Erik snorts and drops a kiss on the corner of Charles's mouth, not quite trusting his words. He knows that if he let himself, he could sink thoroughly into Charles, let the two of them blend until he's not sure where either of them begins or ends, a CharlesandErik/ErikandCharles hybrid.

But.

Hush, Charles says imperiously, his hand tangling in Erik's hair, tugging firmly. Erik groans softly and turns to nip Charles's ear. No thinking, thinking is for later.

Erik can accept that. He's in no state to be thinking clearly, anyway, mind too hazed with pot and the song of the metal all around them and Charles, Charles, always Charles.

"Still thinking," Charles murmurs. He raises the joint to his lips and inhales deeply, essentially finishing it.

"Sorry," Erik murmurs, nosing along the side of Charles' face. There's a shift in the tenor of Charles's thoughts, and then he turns, dropping the roach to the ground, hands coming up to frame Erik's face, hold it still.

Here, Charles thinks, pressing his mouth to Erik's; Erik instinctively opens his own in response, allowing Charles to exhale the smoke into it. Erik sucks in a breath, his lust—which until now has lain curled at the back of his mind, present but not urgent—sparking into something brilliant, all-consuming, and he reaches out and tugs Charles closer, closer, trying to melt into him. Charles makes a low, desperate sound in response, clutching at him, his mind catching the flame of Erik's desire and amplifying it between the two of them, until Erik can only sob and hold on, overcome. There's a distant patter in the background, like a brief burst of far-off rain, but in the absence of any water, he can't be bothered to care (he's not sure if he even would care if they were suddenly caught in a torrential downpour, nothing matters right now except Charles, and the noises he makes as Erik pulls him onto his lap, kisses him harder, and his mind everywhere, everywhere).

There's a brief moment of respite when Charles pulls back, breathing heavily, and Erik's head clears enough for him to see the mess he's made of Charles's hair, his bright red lips, bitten and kiss-stung, the flush suffusing his cheeks and traveling down his chest—and when did Charles's shirt get unbuttoned, and where has his cardigan got to?—and he can see himself through Charles's eyes, sees he's just as much of a mess, if not more, hair unsalvageable and his expression wild, a button on his polo missing. And then Charles reaches over and pulls off Erik's top, and as soon as it falls to the ground, Erik pulls Charles to him, shoving his shirt off his shoulders. They're naked to the waist now, and the fog of lust is building (in Erik, and Charles, and ErikandCharles, and CharlesandErik), and Charles pounces, bearing Erik to the ground, pressing bare skin to bare skin and lips to lips, their motions frenzied and desperate, and Erik can't hold on any longer, he can't, and then he's coming, coming, falling out of his skin and into Charles's, and Charles is coming too, and it's too much, far too much, and Erik lets go.

It's been a week.

Hank lets that sink in as he looks up from rearranging his papers for the tenth time in half as many days and admits with a sigh that he might as well attempt to sleep. Someone has to try to keep up a semblance of normalcy, though Hank is starting to wonder why he even bothers, when Charles...well. Hank looks over at the centrifuge in the corner, the various test tubes that have sat untouched since the message arrived a week ago, and he thinks that maybe a week is long enough, that it's time to get back to that project. God knows they could use some degree of hope these days.

But not tonight. Tonight, Hank is going to get some of the sleep that's been eluding him for the past week—no, for the past year. He hasn't had a decent night's sleep since the first round of letters came, and he's got less with every round that's come since, as the school has shrunk, and Charles with it.

The halls are quiet as Hank pads up to his room, as they have been for a while. As he gets closer to the teachers' quarters, he feels increasingly tired; clearly he's more sleep-deprived than he'd thought. Or maybe he's just anticipating finally sleeping in his bed instead of on his lab couch for the first time in the past few days—but no, now he's starting to hear things.

Hank shakes his head, but the noises don't go away. In fact, as he gets closer to his room, they get louder, until he realizes he's hearing music: something instrumental, a constant rhythm underneath bright trumpet punctuations and rambling synthesizer. He sighs, resigning himself to not sleeping for a little while longer as he walks down the hall, passing his room, stopping two doors down. The light's on inside, some of it peeking out from under the door, and the music's pretty loud even with the door closed. The sense of exhaustion is almost oppressive: it takes Hank two tries before he can even lift his hand to knock.

As expected, there's no answer, so Hank pushes open the door—it's thankfully unlocked tonight—and walks into Sean's room to see clothes and records scattered all over, and Charles sitting by the record player in the middle of the room, humming along to whatever's playing, as he's done every night this week.

Bitches Brew, Charles says. Miles Davis. It's brilliant, isn't it? Sean had such good taste. In everything, really.

Charles's voice is fuzzy, and when he looks at Hank, his eyes are wide and glassy. The smell of pot suffuses the air, there's a mostly-full glass of scotch on the table by the record player...and several empty plastic baggies scattered around Charles's chair. He's been getting into Sean's stash, then. It was only a matter of time, Hank thinks with a sigh; Charles wasn't going to be satisfied with drinking and wearing down Sean's records as he mourned.

Come on, Hank, Charles says, offering up the joint he's holding loosely in his two fingers. Take a hit. For Sean.

"I'm not sure this is how Sean would want you remembering him," Hank says as he walks over, picking up clothes and records as he goes.

"Nonsense," Charles drawls, taking a hit. He spends a long moment exhaling, and then says, half to himself, "The night before he shipped out, we sat up together, listening to Hendrix and getting stoned out of our minds. It was meant to be a sort of last hurrah—and, well." He trails off and glances down, swallowing. After a moment, he shakes his head and picks up his scotch, eyeing it evaluatively before downing half the glass.

"Charles," Hank says helplessly, looking down at him. "I miss him, too, but—"

"Stop pitying me," Charles says harshly. He looks up, his gaze suddenly focused and almost too intense. I can feel it, you know. I don't need it, or want it.

"I don't pity you," Hank lies. Charles snorts.

Yes, you do; you've pitied me ever since the doctors told me I couldn't walk. He shakes his head, then looks down at the record player. Sean didn't pity me.

Hank's suddenly, irrationally furious. He wants to yell at Charles that Sean isn't here, Sean left, like Alex left, like everyone left, and Hank's the only one still here, and can't Charles see that, why won't he face the fact that it's just the two of them, barely holding it together on their best days? But that's not fair, he knows it's not fair, and so he settles for holding out his hand to Charles.

Charles frowns up at him, clearly distrusting. Hank sighs.

"Charles," he says.

As long as you're not going to flush it down the toilet, Charles says. There's a special circle of Hell reserved for men who waste pot as excellent as this.

"I promise," Hank says. There's a pause, and then Charles hands him the joint. Hank nods, holding it awkwardly, and then he lifts it to his mouth.

"To Sean," he says. He inhales deeply, holding the smoke in, and then lets it out, taking a shaky breath as he lets the memories wash over him along with the very faint high. Charles wasn't the only one who used to light up with Sean: Hank remembers sitting in here with Alex and Sean late at night, those months after Cuba, waiting for Charles to recover and having no idea what they were going to do; late-night "course planning" sessions after they started the school; and the night Sean got his letter, all of them quiet and apprehensive, fearful of what was coming.

They were right to be afraid. Now it's just Hank, Hank and Charles and the remnants of the school, big and empty around them as the world changes, leaving them behind.

"To Sean," Charles repeats quietly, finishing off his drink.

They sit in silence, passing joint after joint between them until the record finishes, the crackles and pops suddenly abruptly loud.

"You should turn that off," Hank says, from where he's sitting on the floor, back against the wheel of Charles's chair.

"'ll buy another one," Charles slurs. He doesn't say he's afraid of the silence, that the voices will get louder; he doesn't need to. Hank thinks back to the centrifuge in his lab, but keeps quiet.

"Charles," Hank says. Charles sighs and moves the needle, then switches off the player. He doesn't immediately start screaming or crying, which indicates he's probably stoned out of his mind—and right now, Hank thinks that's probably for the best for both of them.

"Come on," Hank says, pushing himself up to stand. He wobbles for a second as his body gets used to the change in position, and then he takes the handles of Charles's chair and starts to push him toward the door. "Bed."

"Why, Hank, that's terribly inappropriate of you," Charles says, as he always does. As usual, Hank ignores it, pushing in silence. Charles doesn't mean it, has never meant it. Hank's not sure what he'd do if Charles did mean it, but he doesn't think that's likely to become an issue any time soon.

Hank is quiet as he helps Charles with those elements of his routine that need an extra pair of hands—it's practically second nature at this point. Charles, too, says nothing. It's a thoughtful silence; Hank can practically hear Charles's brain working. He doesn't ask—as he's found, it's often better not to. Charles will tell him if he needs to know.

Hank is just about to leave, hand on the door, when Charles says, quietly, seriously, "Hank."

Hank turns around to see Charles sitting in the doorway to his bathroom, looking more serious than he has in weeks—months, even.

"I think..." Charles hesitates. "In the morning, we should talk about closing the school."

Before Hank can say anything, Charles turns around and goes into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him, effectively ending any further conversation.

Moira takes a deep breath as she pulls up to the gate of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. She can't shake the feeling of déjà vu that's dogged her since she turned off the highway, growing stronger as she's got closer to the school. She knows she's been here before, even if she can't remember it, and she can feel her brain trying to align the pieces. It's giving her a terrible headache.

Terribly sorry about that, darling, says a voice she hasn't heard in decades. Why don't you come up to the house and we'll see what we can do about it?

I'm still mad at you, she thinks. Don't think you can sweet-talk your way out of that.

Wouldn't dream of it, Charles replies. The gate swings open. Welcome back, Agent MacTaggert.

And doesn't that just make her want to punch him.

The drive up to the house is almost impossibly long, acres of perfectly manicured greenery as far as the eye can see. The itch in the back of Moira's head is growing stronger, though how much of that is her general irritation with Charles and having to be here and how much of that is her continuing sense of something being off is impossible to determine. There's a moment where she starts to feel calmer, almost against her will, and then she realizes, tensing.

Out of my head, Xavier. There's no reply, so she's just going to have to take that as an affirmative.

She's met at the door by an older, bearded, but nonetheless unmistakable Hank. He smiles at her as she steps out of the car, barely resisting the urge to slam the door behind her (but it's only because both Howard and Phil will pout for a week if she so much as scratches the paint).

"Hi, Moira," Hank says, pushing his glasses up his nose, a gesture she remembers from a lifetime ago. He holds out his hand for her to shake, and after a moment, she takes it. Her problem isn't with Hank.

"Hey, Hank," she says. "Charles hasn't driven you away yet, I see."

Hank snorts. "No, not as yet." The tone of his voice suggests there's a story there, but Moira refuses to let herself be interested. She's here for the mission, and the mission only; if Charles, and Hank, and whoever's still here, had wanted to reminisce, they've had years to reach out.

"He's waiting for you," Hank says, as he leads her up the front walk and into an opulently grand front hallway. Children are running up and down the staircases, calling after each other, mutant powers evident everywhere. One of the older children—possibly a teacher?—claps her hands, eliciting a thunderclap, and everyone falls silent before running in different directions.

"That's the end of the morning break," Hank explains, as the hallways clear out rapidly. The young woman who clapped her hands shoots him a smile as they walk past.

"Is Charles sure he wants to trust me with seeing this?" Moira says. Her eyes catalog everything even as she asks: the imperfectly covered-up marks on the walls, the lack of valuable or breakable decorations, the reinforcement evident through every inch of the walls and ceiling.

"Charles has a habit of trusting even when he probably shouldn't, as I'm sure you'll remember," Hank says, with a faint smile. Moira doesn't smile back; that cuts a little too close to what—and why—she doesn't remember.

Finally, Hank reaches a door marked Headmaster's Office. He pushes it open to reveal a large, wood-paneled room, lined with bookshelves but otherwise surprisingly sparse, given what Moira remembers about Charles. Then again, she supposes, as he wheels out from behind the desk, she doesn't remember everything.

"Thank you, Hank," Charles says. "Tell Ororo to tone it down with the thunder, will you? I had at least five terrified children come running to me this morning."

"You tell her yourself," Hank says, unfazed. "I'll be in the basement if you need me."

Charles nods. "We may be along soon." He looks at Moira. "Depending."

Hank nods and leaves, closing the door behind him.

Moira takes a moment to look at Charles Xavier for the first time in twenty years. She's seen him in pictures, of course; but there's something different about being able to see him in person, to catalog the new lines on his face, the gray in his hair, the receding hairline. As she thinks it, Charles's hand goes up to the back of his head, and he smiles at her sheepishly.

"I'm terribly self-conscious about it, I'm afraid," he says. "I was always more fond of my hair than I had any right to be, so I suppose this serves me right."

"I'm not going to disagree," Moira says. She crosses her arms, refusing to let Charles's easy manner fool her into letting her guard down.

"Please, sit," he says, indicating the armchairs next to her. "You've had a long journey; can I get you anything? Water, tea?"

"I'm fine," Moira says, though she does take the offered chair. Pride is one thing; not being at 100% capacity because her feet are killing her is another.

"You do look well," Charles says, smiling affably. There's a hint of flirtation in it, and that Moira remembers. She glares.

"I'm not here to catch up," she says curtly. "I'm here on a mission—"

"Yes, I know," Charles says, suddenly serious. "We've been following the same trends as you, and we've come to similar conclusions."

"How—?" Moira starts, but then she remembers. Telepath.

"Not just that, though it does help," Charles says. "You're forgetting just how brilliant Hank is. He's been scanning all the airwaves—television, radio—and he's developed some truly ingenious algorithms for detecting patterns. Something's coming, nothing good, and you're right to be concerned."

"I suppose it's too much to expect you to tell me what's coming," Moira says, leaning back and crossing her arms again. She's a little thrown off; she'd expected she'd have to come and lay all the facts before Charles, convince him to trust her, to trust SHIELD. She wasn't expecting this to be so...easy.

"We don't know," Charles says. "That's the worrisome part. We've tried to figure it out, but there's only so much we can do with the resources we have." And there it is, the sense that he's holding something back.

"Sorry, love," he says, with a smile that is anything but. "Just as you have your secrets, we have ours."

Moira shrugs. "You didn't trust me when I was on your side; I didn't expect you to trust me any more now that I'm not."

"Oh, I very much hope you're on our side, Moira," Charles says, seriously, wheeling forward slightly. "We need all the allies we can get."

"We?"

"Mutants," Charles says, though it's clear that's not all he means. "There's far more at stake here than you may have realized."

"Look," Moira says, shaking her head. "I didn't come here because I wanted to; I came here because SHIELD sent me, because they wanted to exploit the fact that I have a personal connection to you, much as either you or I might want to forget that. I'm not falling for the recruitment spiel, Xavier, fancy as your resources are. Pulling on my heartstrings by showing me the kids isn't going to work."

"Sharp as ever," he says, smiling. He leans back. "I have missed you, Moira."

"I can't say the same," she retorts. "Not that I knew there was much to miss." She's viciously, furiously proud when Charles flinches.

"Would it help if I apologized?" he says. "I really am sorry."

"Twenty years too late, Charles," Moira says. She's suddenly unable to keep playing this game, so she stands. "I'll go tell my superiors that you're aware of what's been going on and willing to help, and I'll have them find a different agent to work with you. Thank you for your time."

"Moira, wait," Charles insists. "I don't want to work with a different agent, I want to work with you."

"Too bad."

"I won't work with SHIELD unless it's with you," he says firmly, and oh, hell, no.

"No," Moira says, advancing on him. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to pretend that the past twenty years didn't happen, that you didn't invade my mind and wipe my memories and then completely abandon me, that you didn't destroy my career and any credibility I ever had with the CIA. It took me years to undo all the damage you did, and I'm just lucky that I landed up where I did." Given their relative positions, she can't poke Charles in the chest the way she wants to, but she shoves his shoulder, hard. "You're an asshole, Charles Xavier, and it'll take a far sight more than an apology before I even begin to think about letting you anywhere near my career, or my life, again."

She's breathing heavily by the time she finishes. Charles is looking at her, really looking, for the first time since she stepped through the door, and it's a good feeling. She thinks he might finally be starting to get it, even if he is a few decades late to the party.

"I didn't think," Charles starts.

"No, you didn't," Moira says. "Or, well, you did, but you cut me out of the whole decision-making process. That hurt, Charles. It hurt a lot."

"I know," he says. He smiles, a little bit crooked. "Trust me, I've regretted it ever since."

Moira frowns, puts her hands on her hips. "And yet you didn't do anything about it."

"I rather thought I'd burned all my bridges," he says, backing up just a little so he can properly look her in the eye. "I thought you'd as soon shoot me as look at me."

"There was a time where that was true," she acknowledges. "A warning shot, definitely."

Charles smiles. "Would it help if I...undid it? The memory block, I mean."

Moira snorts. "It won't hurt."

"No," Charles says, thoughtfully. "I suppose it won't."

"Idiot."

"Guilty as charged, I'm afraid," he replies. "Won't you sit back down?" He gestures at Moira's vacated chair.

"Charles..." Moira's not sure she likes the glint in his eye, but she hesitantly edges back.

"Please," he says.

She sighs. "Fine."

She's barely settled into the chair before Charles is wheeling forward and placing his hands to her temples. Before she can protest, there's a sensation of a door opening in her mind, and she's suddenly beset with memories, sensations from twenty years ago, people she's long since forgotten: Darwin, Angel, Alex, Sean, Raven. There's the whirlwind of training, there's that stomach-turning flight, there's—oh God—the beach, then the hospitals, all these things she'd forgotten.

It's...overwhelming.

When Moira comes back to herself, she's slumped in the chair, Charles's hands still holding her head. He smiles sheepishly at her.

"You're an asshole," she says, her voice hoarse. She touches her face, unsurprised when her hand comes away wet. "That's the second time you've done that to me."

"Sorry," he says, clearly not meaning it. "I know it's a little much to take in at once."

"You think?" she snaps. She sits up, shakes her head. "I'll take that glass of water now. And a tissue box."

"I'll do you one better," Charles says, wheeling to his desk. He comes back with the tissue box, and a small ziploc bag full of—

"You've got to be kidding me," Moira says, even as she takes the tissue box and wipes off her face.

"Not at all," he replies, opening the bag and taking out a pinch of weed. He produces a rolling paper from somewhere, and proceeds to roll a joint with a deftness no headmaster of a school should have. "I've found marijuana to be extremely helpful with memory overload. I often use it myself, if I need to clear my thoughts."

"Now, that I remember," she snorts. He offers the joint to her; she shakes her head. "No, thank you. I'm here on business, or had you forgotten?"

"Of course not," he says. "But it'll do you good to mix some pleasure with your business."

Moira rolls her eyes. "Your lines haven't improved with the years, Charles. In fact, I think they might have got worse."

Charles laughs and holds out his hand. "Come on, live a little."

"I live plenty, thank you," she says brusquely. "I imagine I live more than you do."

"That's likely true," he admits. "Still." He nods at the joint. "Indulge me." He smiles. "I promise, you'll feel better."

"I bet you say that to all the girls," she mutters, but she can't deny that her head is pounding.

"Only the truly exceptional ones," Charles says. She knows he can feel her wavering; and then he pulls out a lighter and holds it out to her with the joint. She sighs and accepts them, taking a moment to turn the lighter over in her hand. It's both familiar and not; she's never seen the exact pattern before, but she's seen others like it, extensively worked metal with curls and flourishes that somehow seem sharp and dangerous. She shoots Charles a look, but says nothing; the events surrounding Trask and the Sentinel program make a new kind of sense now.

"Go on," he says, perhaps a little more sharply than before.

"Sheesh, Xavier, lighten up; you'll get yourself arrested for pushing if you're not careful," she says, flicking open the lighter and lighting up. She inhales deeply, closing her eyes and letting the pot wash over her; it's been ages since she's smoked anything, and she's almost embarrassed by how much she's missed it. She takes another puff, then opens her eyes and hands the joint back to Charles, who takes a hit of his own.

"Better?" he asks, with an infuriating knowing look.

"Possibly," she says, holding out her hand; he grins and hands the joint back to her, watching as she takes another hit. She holds the smoke in for longer this time, then tilts her head back and exhales, letting it out in a slow stream. Charles laughs, deep and low.

"See?" he asks, leaning forward. "When was the last time you relaxed, took some time for yourself?"

Moira snorts and inhales again, blowing the smoke into Charles's face before she says, "I'm not sleeping with you, Charles."

Charles shrugs, taking back the lighter and slipping it into his pocket. "I don't see why you're objecting. It'd just be a bit of fun—"

She rolls her eyes. "Charles, don't you think we're a little past having 'a bit of fun'?"

He casts a significant glance at the joint in her hand.

"Different," she says, waving her free hand. "As you have so astutely noted, this is stress relief."

"So is—"

"No, Charles." Moira sits up straight, gives him her most serious look. "You can't just give me back my memories then expect us to be able to pick up where we left off. We were friends, good friends, and you wiped my mind." She gestures with the joint. "This all helps, but you've got a long way to go before you get my trust back. You can't pretend that nothing's changed."

He sighs, holds out his hand. She takes pity on him and passes the joint back.

"Would it be so awful?" he asks, staring at the glowing ember. "Acting like nothing's changed?"

"It's unfair to both of us, and you know it," she says. "And besides," she pauses, and waits for him to look up at her before continuing, "I don't really think you want that any more."

He snorts, a little bit of smoke escaping his mouth. "Twenty years, darling, and you can still read me like a book." He tilts his head. "You're sure I can't convince you to stay for a little while, teach the students some basic intelligence-gathering and self-defense skills?"

Moira laughs, shakes her head. "I have a job, one that I like, even if they sometimes make me come and do things like see you—"

"Oy," he says.

"And besides," she says, more seriously, "I'm not meant to be sitting still. Desk work was never for me." She shrugs a shoulder, takes back the joint. "For all that you fucked up my life for a while, I landed on my feet. I'm not about to give that up, not for a long, long, time."

Moira closes her eyes as she takes another hit. That was honest, maybe a little too honest when she's still not sure she's comfortable being here. No—that's not entirely accurate. She is comfortable, a little too much, and that's concerning. She can't let her guard down again; she's not stupid enough to let herself get burned twice.

"Moira," Charles says. Something in his tone of voice makes her open her eyes, meet his level gaze. And in that moment, she realizes: he's just as lonely as she is, maybe even more so. "I—"

"Don't," she says. "Not now."

She hands him the joint, a gesture of what-the-fuck-ever. He takes it and nods, glances away. He fiddles with one of the buttons on his ridiculous (and upsettingly dashing) vest and then looks back and says, beseeching, "Will you at least stay the night, instead of going to that hotel?" Moira rolls her eyes, but before she can tell him off yet again, he says, "Not for that. I've...well. I've missed you." All of you, he doesn't say, but she hears it all the same, can hear it in the silences that surround them, empty places where the others should be.

Moira holds out her hand for the joint; he hands it over. She takes a long, long drag, until there's nothing left but the roach.

"I'll consider it," she says, then nods at the bag still lying on the table next to them. "Roll us another."

"Okay, that's it for today," Jean says, looking up at the clock. "Read through your syllabi tonight and make sure you understand what's due and when, and then bring your questions to class tomorrow, along with your thoughts on the reading for tonight." There's a moment of hesitation before the usual flurry of movement that signals the end of class, and before Jean can even think about reminding them that class will be outside tomorrow, the room's empty.

She takes a deep breath and leans against the desk with a sigh. Her first day of teaching is officially over, and by all considerations, it's gone well: no one cried (including her), no one yelled, nothing was broken or exploded, no one threatened to call their parents; she didn't even have to threaten anyone with the Professor. It's almost anticlimactic, really. After Scott and Ororo's horror stories about their first days of teaching, she'd at least expected to have to send someone out of the room or call Ororo to put out a fire.

"Survived?" Scott says, poking his head into the room. She smiles.

"As you can see," she says, holding out her arms to the sides to indicate the lack of property damage. He grins at her, walking over.

"I told you you'd be fine," he says, kissing her briefly. "I'm sure you did great."

"Well, I definitely did better than you," she says, dropping her arms and collecting her books. "I didn't even make anyone cry."

"Give it a few days," he says, following her out of the room.

"Not helping," she replies, with a mental poke.

"Not trying to," he retorts, poking her side.

"How'd it go?" Ororo asks, as they reach the stairs.

"No one died," Scott says.

"Give it a few days," Ororo replies.

"That's what he said," Jean says, jerking her head at Scott.

"That's because he knows."

"I think you guys are just jealous that my first day went better than either of yours," Jean says.

"Psh, as if," Scott says. He wraps his free arm around her. "But really, good job making it through without any major disasters. We'll have to celebrate tonight after dinner."

"I can't," Jean says. "I'm meeting the Professor to debrief."

"Oh, that's right," Ororo says, exchanging a glance with Scott. "The first debrief."

"You can't miss that," Scott says. They both grin.

"What?" Jean says, coming to a halt and narrowing her eyes at them. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing," Ororo replies, at the same time that Scott says, "You'll see." They glare at each other.

"You'll see," Ororo concedes. "It's better if we don't tell you."

"There's nothing to worry about," Scott says. "But it's a...special meeting."

"Okay, don't tell me," Jean says with a roll of her eyes, turning and walking in the direction of the Infirmary. "But you guys are freaking me out."

"It'll be fine," Ororo reassures her. She's about to say something else, but then she's distracted by one of the kids literally bouncing off the walls.

"Definitely," Scott says, as Ororo runs off. He leaves Jean at the end of the hall, kissing her forehead. "I have dinner duty, but I'll come find you after your meeting with the Professor and we'll celebrate then, okay?"

"Okay." Jean kisses him. "Don't blow a hole in the ceiling if they get mashed potatoes on your glasses again."

"That was one time!" he exclaims, before he walks away. He pauses halfway down the hall and turns around. "One time!"

Jean rolls her eyes and heads to the Infirmary, trying to lose herself in her samples instead of letting herself worry about what Scott and Ororo were saying. She can't think of what about the meeting with the Professor would make them grin like that; and after ten minutes of trying to figure it out, she shrugs and lets it go. She'll find out soon enough, anyway.

----

Three hours later, Jean's standing outside the door to the Professor's office, all her nerves back in full force. She thinks today went well, but maybe it didn't. What if the Professor tells her she did a horrible job and she's fired and she'll have to leave the school and then she'll never see Scott again and—

Jean, the Professor's voice comes, calm but firm. Why don't you stop standing outside in the hall and come in? She hesitates. I promise I don't bite.

Jean sighs and pushes open the door, rolling her eyes at herself. This is the Professor, she's known him almost her whole life. She has nothing to be afraid of.

"I'm glad you've reached that conclusion," the Professor says, from where he's sitting by one of the armchairs. He pats the seat of the chair. "Come, sit, tell me how your day was."

"It was good," Jean says, walking over and sitting down. "At least, I think."

"You think?" he says, with that familiar don't think, know look. He turns around to fiddle with something on the table next to him while she thinks.

"It was good," she says, more confidently. "I felt comfortable, and they listened to me, and I knew how to handle their questions, and no one tried to blow anything up."

"That's quite an achievement," he says, turning around. She blinks; he's holding...no. That's not—

"Professor," she says carefully. "Is that—"

"A bong, yes," he replies cheerfully. "It's become something of a tradition for these first debriefs, ever since we opened the school." There's a hint of something behind those words, a certain sadness that Jean can't quite parse, something linked to this specific bong; but the Professor shuts it down before she can follow it.

Jean watches with a mixture of awe and scandalized fascination as he expertly packs the bowl. He looks up when he's finished, a quizzical expression on his face.

"You have smoked pot before, yes?" he asks.

It's a hazy memory, from soon after she and Scott started dating, when Alex was visiting and had decided getting high was a valid method of sibling bonding. (In his defense, taking care of Jean as she'd giggled and keeping her from trying to fly had brought him and Scott together, if not in the way Alex had been hoping.) She doesn't remember most of the details, aside from waking up with a horrible headache and Scott handing her a glass of water and smoothing her hair back from her face.

"Once," is all she says. When it becomes clear the Professor is looking for something more from her, she adds, "It was...okay, I guess."

He raises an eyebrow. "It must not have been very good, then." He takes a look at the bong, then says, seriously, "Jean, if you don't want to—"

"I do," she says determinedly. "Everyone else did, right? So I want to."

"You don't have to," the Professor says again.

"I know," she says. She feels her chin rising, an old habit. "I'm an adult, I can make my own choices."

He laughs and returns to shredding leaves. "You are, at that." He hands her the bong. "Here, this is better pot than anything Alex Summers would have given you."

Jean laughs and takes it, placing it to her mouth and following Charles's projected instructions as she levitates the lighter he's holding over and, after a few attempts, manages to ignite the pot. She inhales deeply, closing her eyes and focusing on holding her breath, but her inexperience shows: she coughs slightly as she pulls out the slide and hands the bong back, some of the smoke escaping her mouth. In comparison, the Professor looks almost dignified as he takes a hit off the bong, clearly practiced.

He snorts at the thought and hands it back to her. Take another, he says.

And maybe it's the higher quality weed, or the fact that she feels safer around the Professor than she ever did around Scott or his brother, or maybe it's the fact that she's older and more in control of herself and her powers, but this is definitely better than that first time. Jean can feel herself getting looser with each hit, slowly sinking back into her chair. The Professor appears somewhat less affected, but she can feel the way his telepathy is starting to bleed out at the edges, lapping at the borders of her own powers. It's an odd sensation, but it's comfortable, almost familiar.

"Mm," he says, tilting his head back. "I haven't got high with another telepath in quite some time." I'd forgotten just how... He trails off, looking contemplatively at the bong in her hand.

Trippy? Jean suggests.

Charles laughs. My dear, if you think this is a trip, I don't know what we've been teaching you at this school. This is child's play. He looks back at her. Now, LSD, or acid—those are trips. You should try them some time; they really do some interesting things to your telepathy. She can vaguely sense what he means, faint memories of visions and hallucinations,

Professor, (Charles, he corrects) she giggles, both amused and a little bit horrified, you're a secret druggie.

Hardly secret, my dear, Charles snorts. Or have you all stopped gossiping about my sordid past?

Jean shrugs. She thinks there's been talk, but she's never participated, and it's died out over the years. She certainly hadn't really suspected any of those stories had been true.

Oh, that is disappointing, Charles says. I'd rather hoped those stories would keep circulating. It's so much more fun when you all don't think I sit in my sexless Professor cave being good all the time.

We don't— Jean starts.

Yes, you do, and it's to be expected, he says, cutting her off. But I do like to level the playing field a little, so to speak. Better if you all know that I can have fun, that I've made mistakes, too. He smiles, a little sadly. I'm only human, Jean. Sometimes I wonder if you all forget that.

Jean reaches out, telepathically and physically, and holds his hand, projecting reassurance. He covers her hand with his other, patting it gently. They sit like that for a little while, and then Charles shakes his head, as if to clear it.

Look at me, getting terribly maudlin just from a little weed, he says. This is for you, to celebrate your first day of teaching! Hand me that bong, let's light another one.

Are you sure? Jean asks, handing it over. She feels pretty high as it is.

Trust me, Charles says. You haven't lived until you're so high you're floating between here and the astral plane. He grins as he repacks the bong, then lights it up.

Come on, Jean, he says, holding it out to her. Take a trip with me.

Logan can't sleep. He's been back for a little over a day, and he's still adjusting to how things have changed, how far more things than he'd thought have stayed the same. It's weird, this feeling of being home but not, and while Charles assures him that he'll get over that sooner rather than later as his memories meld together, it's still leaving Logan jumpy, unsettled in his skin.

He sighs and gets out of bed; he's not going to get to sleep any time soon, and there's no sense in lying here staring at the ceiling as he tries to make sense of everything. Besides, maybe wandering around the halls will help reassure him that yes, he's really here, he's not just having one of those dreams that plagued him night after night in the Blackbird.

He walks aimlessly through the school, absently cataloguing the different artwork, the slightly different marks on the walls, the very slightly altered layout of the student rooms. He chuckles to himself as the students who are sneaking around after hours frantically try to hide themselves from his notice; he'd forgotten that aspect of teaching—and, much to his consternation, he finds he'd missed it.

Before long, Logan finds himself in front of the door to Charles's study. He hadn't even realized he was heading here, but it makes perfect sense; he's always come to Charles with things like this, and at least this hasn't changed.

But, he realizes, as he pushes open the door and walks in, it has. Charles is in there, as he always is, but instead of sitting behind his desk, he's curled up on one of the couches with Magneto, a chessboard sitting on the table in front of them. Jean and Scott are standing in the corner, talking to each other (and, it seems, not fighting, for once); Storm's laughing at something a woman with dark glasses and a cane just said. Kitty and Rogue are there, too, arguing with Bobby over the record player, which is currently silent as they debate what to put on.

"We were wondering when you were going to join us," Hank says from his position in the corner, where he's pouring himself a scotch. He pours another and holds it out; Logan accepts it, clinking his glass with Hank's.

"Well, here I am," Logan says. That feeling of unsettlement is back, worse than before; he doesn't know how he fits in here any more. Everyone's clearly comfortable with him, but he's missing all the history, the context for their interactions. He doesn't even know what to talk about, too terrified he'll start referencing things that never happened—or, worse, ask how they're here when he saw them die entirely too recently.

He looks around, trying to figure out where his normal place is; he locks eyes with Charles, who nods almost imperceptibly at the empty armchair near the couch.

"I'm glad you don't seem to have forgotten where my alcohol is," Charles says good-naturedly as Logan sits down. Erik snorts, not looking up from the chessboard.

"Charles, the only person who's less likely to forget where it is is you," he says. He waves his hand; one of the pieces moves forward two squares. "Check."

"Point taken," Charles says, regarding Logan for a long second before turning back to the board. He frowns, then lets out a frustrated noise.

"That's not check; that's mate," he says, shooting a glare at Erik.

Erik grins. "It is, isn't it."

Charles sighs and tips his king. "Your game, then. I'm still winning, though."

"I keep telling you, games we've played in your head don't count."

"Rubbish," Charles says. He sits up and reaches into his pocket, frowning as he rummages through them. "Darling, where's—" He's hardly got the words out before a metal tin floats off his desk and lands in his lap. "Thank you," he says, smiling up at Erik as he opens it. Erik smiles back, stupidly soppy in a way Logan hasn't seen before. It's...disorienting.

"Oh, don't give me that look," Charles says, when he glances up from rolling a joint to see Logan's expression, deliberately misinterpreting. "You know it's medicinal. Besides, both my doctors are here to supervise me." He nods at Jean and Hank, who exchange an exasperated look across the room before turning slightly to observe Charles.

"Half a gram, Charles," Hank calls.

"Yes, yes," Charles replies, clearly adding more than that to the rolling paper. "I'm sharing," he says, in response to Jean's disapproving look. She shakes her head, a faint smile on her face as she turns back to Scott; Charles smiles as well, clearly responding to something she just said in his head.

Charles finishes rolling the joint and then holds it out to Logan, who shakes his head and pulls a cigar from his pocket. As Charles shrugs and turns to Erik, who flicks on the lighter hovering between them and raises it to the joint between Charles's lips, Logan's struck by a memory, one from a few weeks and a lifetime ago.

+++

They're somewhere in the middle of Asia, sitting inside the Blackbird while Storm and Magneto finish their sweep outside. Logan doesn't know how long it's been; he's not even sure it matters, any more. He's lived long enough, beaten enough odds, that each extra day is bonus. Sometimes, he thinks the only things keeping him going are the promises he's made, things he said to Hank, to Rogue, to Jean...

To Charles.

He turns to look at the Professor, who's poring over a stack of papers at the desk Charles had convinced them to rescue from some old university a week ago, the dark wood out-of-place against the sleek black and chrome of the Blackbird 2.0. Charles insists that it's comforting; Erik had rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath about Charles's eternal need to prove a point.

Logan's still not used to that, the back and forth between the Professor and Magneto. It's been an eternity, it feels like, since they met him in that airport, but it doesn't get any less weird to see them snarking like an old married couple—which, for all intents and purposes, they are. Ororo doesn't even seem to notice it, but, well, she's always been practical, and they've had bigger fish to fry.

Charles sighs and shakes his head, pushing back from the desk. "It's getting worse," he says, floating over to join Logan by the window. "Our maps are completely out-of-date, and matching geocoordinates from Cerebro is growing almost impossible." He sighs again, sounding old, so old. "Even then, there are so few of us left that it's becoming almost pyrrhic to keep going."

"Professor..." Logan starts, but Charles waves his hand.

"I'm not giving up hope, Logan," he says. "But it's becoming increasingly difficult to come by, and we're starting to get to the point where only the most ludicrous and improbable solutions are still viable." He glances back at the desk. "Kitty's sent a message mentioning a possible solution, but it's a last resort sort of thing, and if it fails..."

"It won't."

Charles looks up, smiles faintly. "Your confidence in me is terribly misplaced, I'm afraid, but it's reassuring nonetheless." Before Logan can say anything, Charles closes his eyes and places his hand to his temple. He scans for a long time, long enough that Logan's claws slide out of his knuckles with a quiet schick.

You can put those away, Charles says, not opening his eyes. There's no one around. There's hardly even any wildlife. There's a deep sense of sadness to Charles's thoughts, something that borders terrifyingly close to hopelessness. He opens his eyes. We'll stay here for the night to let the engines recharge, and push off in the morning.

Charles shakes his head, still looking out the window as he reaches into one of the numerous pockets of his suit.

"It's so quiet," he muses, as he pulls out a small ziploc bag. He holds it up at eye level and shakes it, looking at its contents evaluatively. He shakes his head again before he opens the bag and offers it to Logan, as he always does.

As ever, Logan shakes his head and pulls out one of his cigars and a lighter. He's running low; they all are. Erik had muttered around the plane for a week when they ran out of gin; the whiskey had barely lasted any longer. It's not worth rationing, though, when you don't know what's coming, if today's going to be your last.

"Someone on this boat's got to stay sober, look after you assholes," Logan says, lighting his cigar and handing the lighter to Charles.

Charles laughs as he lights his joint. "And where's the fun in that?"

"What, the apocalypse isn't enough fun for you, Xavier?"

Charles snorts and takes a second hit. It's terribly dull, mostly.

Except when it isn't, Logan thinks darkly. Charles inclines his head.

"You know," Charles says contemplatively, looking down at the joint in his hand, "I used to smoke a lot when I was young." He looks up at Logan, smiles. "My dissolute youth."

Logan snorts. Before all of this, he wouldn't have been able to believe the staid, parental Professor capable of anything dissolute; but now, he's starting to see that Xavier has depths he's kept hidden behind affability and a veneer of harmlessness.

Charles smiles, a slight quirk of the corners of his lips, and takes another hit.

"Pot, you see, quieted the voices in my head," he says. "They got quite overwhelming at times." He closes his eyes, his voice getting softer. "For all that, though, it was never this quiet. I haven't been quite so alone in my head since—well, for a very long time."

Logan makes a noncommittal noise, puffing on his cigar. Lehnsherr's going to make a fuss when he comes back in about the smoke, but Logan couldn't give a damn; it's honestly kind of fun to rile him up a bit. Revenge for all the messes of his that Logan's had to clean up over the years.

"I suppose," Charles says, barely audible as he opens his eyes and stares at the joint, "I feel that if I get high enough, I can fool myself into thinking the quiet is..." He trails off.

"Yeah," Logan says. There's not much left to say.

+++

Logan comes back to himself to find both Charles and Jean watching him carefully. He nods at them jerkily, then says, "Hey, Lehnsherr, throw that here."

"If you're going to smoke that thing, take it outside," Erik says, even as the lighter flies over, faster than is safe. Logan reaches up and grabs it easily, raising an eyebrow at Erik as he lights the cigar defiantly and blows an obnoxious smoke ring in his direction. Erik glares for a moment, before Charles distracts him by offering him the joint.

"I think we can make an exception, just this once," Charles says, still looking at Logan. He raises an eyebrow, an inquiry; Logan raises one in return. Charles smiles, a barely-there thing, but it's the answer Logan was looking for, and he nods.

"That's what you always say," Erik grumbles.

"Yes, well," Charles says, turning to take back the joint. "I'm clearly growing forgetful in my old age."

"Idiot," Erik replies, but it's fond. His expression softens as he turns to look at Charles. Charles's smile widens as he places his hand over Erik's, the joint half-forgotten in his other hand.

Logan doesn't think he'll ever get used to that. But, he thinks, looking around, taking in Hank, Kitty, Rogue, Scott, Storm, Jean, all the people he lost and never thought he'd see again, he thinks he might just have the time to try.

You know, Logan says, holding out his hand to Charles, I think I may finally take you up on that offer.

Charles hands him the joint with a smile.