Chapter Text
Whenever students in any educational institution underwent some sort of shared trauma, it was par for the course to implement some kind of counseling for their needs. Of course, things complicated themselves when the traumatic event in question involved the near-destruction of the world and an attempt on every single one of their lives. In these instances, liberties had to be taken and counseling services had to be....adjusted.
Charles, against Hank's advice, insisted on personally meeting with each one of the students who had accompanied Hank and Raven to Cairo. The idea of raising students in his home and making them soldiers already weighed heavy on his mind. He owed them this much, at least.
Halfway through his personal counseling sessions, Charles could say definitely that it was altogether an interesting experience. The sessions proceeded as one would expect, considering who he spoke to.
Peter was unassuming and blithe as always - hiding behind a paper-thin veneer of facetiousness that hid an interior of severe insecurity. Verbally, Charles could barely scratch at the surface of his more intimate worries, let alone his deep-seated fears about speaking to Erik, before he launched into a comedic aside about the deplorable video game collection at the mansion, going about a mile a minute.
That session proved to be a well-intentioned, if somewhat futile effort.
-
The new girl, Ororo, was not much better. Charles was infinitely grateful that they could salvage one soul from the destruction Apocalypse left in his wake, but she was reluctant to say much about her experiences. A perusal of her mind gave way to many painful memories, a desolate childhood, and a life fraught by hardship. He gently extricated himself from it and thanked her, watching her walk off. There was a glint of promise in her eyes. She would open up in time.
-
Kurt was easily the most open of the group; eyes the size of dollar coins gazing at him plaintively from across the relatively small space between their two armchairs, turned so that they could face each other. Nearly begging for someone to listen. They spoke about his over-exertion of his powers that day, about his worries about fitting in even in a school full of mutants. About his fear of being exploited for his power, the way he had been all his life. Charles did his best to his allay his fears and concerns, but he knew the look of a hunted animal anywhere. It was always a long process, to unlearn fear.
-
But Scott was worse. Charles could see it in the slump of his shoulders, the pervasive twitches. Even before the Apocalypse event, he'd suffered loss - his brother gone in the blink of an eye. He barely had any time to reel and recover from such a tragedy, and then proceeded to thrust himself into a war zone, nearly dying in the process. No guides to help him through any of it, more blind than he'd ever been. It was a wonder he hadn't collapsed at any point under the stress.
To Charles, it was painfully clear that Scott was shaken from it all; it practically came off of him in waves. But even before he'd joined them, Charles was acutely aware of Scott's tendency to cut himself off from everyone else in situations of high stress. He drew in protectively, lapsed into solitude. Which, Charles gathered from reading him, was happening right then and there - Scott had of as late pushed away all those he had made prior connections to: Jubilee, Kurt, even Jean, his primary companion. He kept to himself now, mainly.
But when gently prodded with suggestions to find solace in the company of others, Scott immediately bit back, sharp and cold and cutting - things about how he should mind his own damn business and how he wouldn't even be here right now if it wasn't mandatory and how he had half a mind to just walk out of the school if he wanted to just so he could get some peace and quiet.
They were both silent for a long time afterward.
Charles' mouth set in a grim line, one of implicit understanding. How many times had he had such conversations with Erik? Insistent calls to join a group and commiserate, ultimately to no avail. Many times, it would push him that much further away. Erik did things on his own terms, by himself; if he returned, he would always do it when he was ready.
He thanked Scott on his way out.
He had to learn from Erik's pain and he had to learn from his past mistakes. Scott deserved that courtesy.
-
His final session.
He didn't know why he'd put her last, he thought suddenly as he gazed down at the cold, clinical typed words circled jaggedly with a red pen:
Jean Grey.
At least that's what he told himself. A lie, he thought immediately as Jean lowered herself into the chair, eyes cast downward. Eyes that suddenly shot up and met his gaze, pierced him with their clarity, their sharpness. For the first time, he felt his mind draw back, curling into itself as another presence lingered around its borders.
He was afraid.
(But was it fear? The sensation that made his stomach curdle then, that brought the slightest bit of perspiration to his palms, as he held her gaze?)
Hello, Professor.
He could hear her voice reverberate within his skull. Her lips never moved.
Her lips.
Time stopped.
His breath hitched.
At some point that day, amongst the fear and destruction, amongst the carnage and bloodshed, a boundary had been crossed. To conquer greater evils, Charles had beckoned her into his mind, offering her a hand, leading her down the rabbit hole of his psyche.
She had felt the fabric of his inner mind, touched its walls, walked its floors. As he nearly suffocated under the weight of Apocalypse's fist, Charles never realized she went and did what no one else had before.
He'd revealed himself totally to her, all pretenses cast aside, he had been on his knees, dying, and she had lifted him up. Fought off the monsters that nipped at his heels.
Everyone saw that; they saw Jean Grey destroy the greatest evil the world had ever seen. They saw her exorcise him from Charles Xavier like a demon.
But what everyone else didn't see was after she cast out the devil in his mind, it left just the two of them there. In the seconds between death and life, between the stilling of his heart and the touch of her hand on his cheek that filled air back into his lungs, it was only the two of them in the wide expanses of his mind. One kneeling, one standing in that empty hallway.
She had stooped down then, in those seconds that felt like hours, and pressed a kiss to his bleeding lips.
At that moment, the world seemed to tilt and collapse, blues turning to reds, his vision blurring. After that moment, it was all sensation, the taste of her tongue, the searing heat of her lips, a blinding pain, the distant screams of a man - was it him? The last image he saw before he woke, the last image seared into his memory, was Jean Grey licking his blood off her lips. The last thing he felt was the accompanying sick thrill before he lurched back into the realm of the living.
(So was it fear he felt, now?
No.
No, it wasn't.
It was anticipation.)
Hello, Jean.