The mansion was colder than you remembered. Hank had let you in with.. very little negotiation. Something about the memories and nostalgia made him crumble. You had requested to see Charles, originally for an important request but a part of it also because you missed him and missed the old days, wanting to go back to it. Or... some resemblence of it.

Not physically—though the halls felt empty and drafty—but in spirit. The laughter, the music, the chaos that once made it feel alive were gone. Dust clung to the walls, and the smell of old books lingered heavier than ever.

You found him in the study, slouched in his chair by the window. Hair longer. Eyes sunken. The faint outline of a syringe on the desk beside him.

“Charles,” you said softly.

He didn’t look up right away. His gaze lingered on the gray light spilling through the glass, lost somewhere in a memory.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he murmured finally. “There’s nothing left here for anyone.”

You stepped closer anyway. “You don’t get to decide that.”

He huffed out a laugh—bitter and tired. “Still defiant. I should’ve known.”

The silence between you stretched thin, heavy with things unsaid. You could see the tremor in his hand as he reached for the syringe, and without thinking, you covered it with yours. His head lifted slightly, the faintest flicker of the old Charles glinting in his eyes.

“It’s easier this way,” he said, voice trembling. “Not to feel it all.”

You squeezed his hand. “You don’t get to numb out the world when there are people still fighting for it.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, jaw tightening. “You sound like Erik.”

“Maybe. But at least I’m here.”

That finally drew his eyes to yours—wet, uncertain, human. For a moment, he looked at you like he was seeing something he thought he’d lost forever: faith.

“I missed you,” he said quietly.

“Then start acting like it,” you replied.