X-men: World of Gray

Chapter 9

Chapter 9…

Almost midnight, and everyone else had gone to bed. Charles didn't particularly worry about Hank scolding him for staying up late; after Katherine left, it only took one glare from Charles before the other man lolled upstairs and out of his sight. Charles hadn't seen him the rest of the evening.

On Charles' desk, papers were scattered, covering the polished oak like a coat of white paint. Everything from contractor bills and estimates…to licensing contracts and Charles' thick mountain of notes and outlines. His plans for the school. His ideas for the future. Five of Edie's textbooks were stacked on the right corner.

Charles had tried to concentrate all evening. His red pen laid between the desk lamp and telephone, ready for him to snap back into focus and get some work done. He was good at that. No concern in his life had ever burrowed deep enough to leave a scar.

But he did have a scar now—a thumb-sized blemish on his back that appeared so much more inconsequential than the damage it had actually done.

His eyes had remained blurry all evening. He couldn't remember a thing he read.

Past midnight, and Charles wheeled away from his desk and into the kitchen. Food and dishes were still in disarray from the renovations, cluttering the countertops. On the kitchen table, he uncovered a bottle of scotch. He grabbed a glass mug, and then popped some ice from his new fridge. He reeled around to leave—

He stopped. With the glass and bottle straddled between his legs, he gazed at the kitchen's entrance. He remembered this moment. He had been there months before, by the fridge in the dull evening's glow. Except, instead of peering at an empty doorway, a slender, blue figure had been standing in it. Completely naked, staring at him.

Charles rested his head on the refrigerator's door. He thought he knew everything. He thought he knew everyone. Especially Raven. The girl he had taken in and cared for. His sister.

She was gone now because he hadn't really known her—not really. And that was his fault. With all his power, he didn't bother to notice what was really going on. He didn't even need telepathy for that; he could have just listened.

"You know, Charles, I used to think it'd be you and me against the world. But no matter how bad the world gets, you don't want to be against it, do you? You want to be a part of it."

Charles rolled out of the kitchen, and back to his study. There, he pulled out more forms and books and anything else he could unearth, and then spent the next hour emptying his bottle. The words typed and handwritten alike didn't get much clearer, but he started to care less whether or not they did.

Behind his desk, Charles sipped at the glass of scotch, now void of ice, and felt it singe his throat. The pain felt good—refreshing. It reminded him he could feel something and he took another swig.

Then, in the silent room, with the lamp's light the only illumination within the dark, Charles reached over to the edge of his desk. He lugged his telephone in front of him and lifted the receiver. Using the rotary dial, he scrolled in each digit. The dial tone shifted from a flat hum to a ring.

On the other end, an answer.

"Hello?" the sleepy voice of Moira MacTaggert resonated in Charles' ear.

It was soft, comforting—lovely. He held his breath.

"Hello?" she called again, this time a touch more alert.

Pressing the receiver firmly against his ear, Charles opened his mouth. The words burned his tongue—a thousand different ones ready to explode out of him.