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“I left it at the entrance so you could pick it up. You don’t have to come inside.”
It does little to stop her. She shuts the door behind her, quietly, not willing to disturb anyone else who sleeps soundly in the mansion. Magneto stands in the middle of his study, with a smile on her face. Charles is already irritated—did she know he had plans to sleep early? Did she plan to come here and ruin his night?
“I wanted to check in,” she says. “I was not aware that it's forbidden to greet an old friend.”
He has to give her his time now, doesn’t he? She’s not going to leave until she gets what she wants: today, it seems like she wasn’t just after her prescription. Charles had rather hoped it was an easy one-and-done situation, but nothing ever works out his way.
“You never want to just check in,” he replies. He takes note of the prescription she already has, and gestures to it. “Is there something wrong with it?”
“No. Right amount of estrogen, as usual.” She walks closer, holding up the small piece of paper. “I noticed that your handwriting is angry. I had to check in.”
“Angry,” Charles repeats in disbelief. “How could you even tell?”
She’s so irritating. He wishes his medication for headaches worked immediately. While it is true that he’s been upset today, it’s not any of her business. Their relationship has turned into one that is entirely transactional—Charles is the only one who could provide her with her prescriptions, and she would halt any animosity built between them to pick them up. It’s not like they were still friends.
“You do pride yourself in your penmanship,” she notes. “This is rushed. Ugly. You’d never let yourself be caught with this—except, of course, if you had been mad at something.”
Despite everything, it makes him laugh. Sometimes, he misses this—being easy to read for someone else. None of the people who live in this house truly know him. At least, not like Erik does. If only she hadn’t attempted to shut off the entire Earth multiple times… He’d still be willing to keep her around. As it is, some differences are irreparable.
“Nothing deep. It’s been a long day. My neck hurts.”
At that, her face begins to resemble sympathy, or, she pretends to be sympathetic. Charles doesn’t know her anymore—not like he used to.
“You know, estrogen helps with bone deterioration,” she says. Goodness, she even seems to mean it. “Simply a suggestion, is all.”
She’s so good at ruining his day. “It’s not funny, Ruth.”
She puts her hands up, as if she’s innocent.
“I was not making a joke.” She holds his gaze, clearly holding back something else. Why does she still spare his feelings? He knows what she wants to say. Call him a traitor, perhaps—remark something about a dream they shared long forgotten. “You’re miserable. You keep making yourself miserable for something that has a solution.”
“I believe you should leave. You got what you wanted. Be on your way, then.”
“It’s not going to go away. I thought it would.” He’s unnerved by the seriousness in her voice. Why does she keep saying things he already knows? Does she think him stupid? Does she think he’s in denial? “This charade of yours to keep everything hidden away—more than anything, it will land you in an early grave. I would not want to weep for you when you’re buried with the wrong name.”
“That’s enough.” Seriously, does she think he doesn’t know? Or does she just enjoy reminding him of what it could have been? “Perhaps, once upon a time, I would have agreed with you. It’s too late for me.”
“It wasn’t for me,” she says. Pleading, then: “You know you want to, Cass—”
“Charles.” He pauses, counting down the seconds to not activate his weak TK to throw her across the room. “You know what else I want? To not die from a DVT. As I’m sure you know, estrogen greatly increases the risk of it, even if you are able to move. Imagine what it’d do to me.”
What a hollow excuse. Charles has told himself that one a million times. It wouldn’t be sustainable—not with the amount of complications this body of his has. Who could ever treat him? Moira is a scientist, not a doctor, and Charles would need a team. And even then, how could he? This would be on public records, on files, and there is far too much on the line. The world needs Charles Xavier, but no one needs Cassandra Xavier.
Magneto’s quiet. She should have taken her prescription and left, saving herself from this uncomfortable conversation.
“I do miss her,” she says. “Cassandra. She was nice. It’s a pity you killed her.”
“You—”
“Good night, Charles.” Her cape flows as she moves, graceful and cruel as always. “Thank you for this.”
It’s just him in the room again. Just Charles, as it always has been.