Charles wakes up in the middle of the night and knows.
His hands shake so badly that it takes a minute longer than it should to button his pajama top, and he doesn't even consider taking the time to change into something else. Transferring into his chair has never taken so long, nor has the (newly installed as of last summer) elevator ever descended so slowly. But when Charles makes it to the kitchen, she's still there, blue and rummaging through the fridge, stacking the occasional food item onto her already very full plate.
Charles clears his throat, and she freezes.
"Raven," he manages a moment later. "You're here."
This statement may be a bit on the obvious side, but he can hardly believe even after he says it. Raven's never come back here, not once since Cuba, no matter how much or how often he pleaded with her to come home. She never even sent for her things.
He hasn't seen or heard from her in well over a year, since she limped away from the White House lawn. To the best of his knowledge, no one has; God knows where she's been, what she's been doing. Charles is certainly happier not knowing, he suspects.
"You're observant," she says as she closes the fridge and carries her food over to the kitchen table.
Charles laughs. It doesn't come out anything like the careless chuckle he was aiming for. He knows he's staring. He can't imagine what she'd see on his face if she did look at him. "I do try."
"I'm not staying, so don't ask," she says.
"All right." It's not easy, swallowing the impulse to ask why not. He barely makes it, and only then because he knows it would only drive her further away. "Is there, ah. A reason for the visit?"
Is she running from something? Does she need help? Money? He doesn't dare to peek into her mind to find out.
"Not really. I wanted to catch up," Raven says. "See how you're doing. You know?"
"Ah," Charles says. "Yes. I know. That is to say, I know now. I wasn't—I wouldn't—Ah. I'll make us some tea."
"You and your tea," Raven says.
Charles heads toward the cupboard for the supplies. It's easier, somehow, to act casual when she's not right in front of him, filling his vision. "Yes, as if my tea wasn't a staple of your childhood." Easier, too, to ask invasive and annoying questions: "How's the leg? Did it heal up all right?"
"It's fine."
A lack of elaboration likely means he shouldn't push it. New subject, then. Nothing heavy. Not how much he's missed her. Certainly not how much he loves her. No Erik whatsoever. The past is probably inadvisable in general.
"I'm re-opening the school," he says. "The first semester starts next month."
Raven snorts. "Bet you're excited. You always liked school."
Oh, yes. Charles is excited—possibly even more excited than he is nervous, now that the date's so close. By the time he hands Raven her cup of tea, he's been going on about his students, teachers, and general plans and hopes for the future (all, of course, in the vaguest terms) for some minutes. Raven doesn't seem to mind. In fact, far from the eyerolling he would have expected once he sits across from her and can actually see her face, she regards him with an intent yellow stare as she eats, not blinking for minutes at a time as she listens.
"So it's just a school?" she asks, somewhat abruptly, when Charles pauses for breath. "Or is it more?"
Charles means it to be considerably more, but he's not about to tell her about his plans for a paramilitary operation, not when he doesn't know what she'd do with that. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, if someone—another mutant—needed help, could they stay here? Would you take them in? Or would you rather not get involved?"
Charles isn't reading her mind, but he doesn't need to be in her head to understand this is the real reason she's come here tonight. Erik's been by a few times in the last year and a half on the shoddiest pretexts imagineable—he wants to argue politics, he wants to finish their game, he wants to have sex (and has not yet gotten that last)—but Raven's never been one for that sort of thing. If she were, she'd have shown up before now. She'd have come back at least once in the past twelve years.
Charles considers her questions very carefully as he nurses his tea. His first instinct is to say no. No, he won't hide her and her allies when they need to go to ground after doing something appalling. No, he won't implicate himself, potentially risk the school again before it's even opened. No, he doesn't want her coming around only when she has an ulterior motive. No, no, no.
But there's no chance he would turn away other mutants, whether or not they've created their own problems. So, in the end, he says, "Provided they came in peace and didn't harm any of my students—yes, of course they could stay here. This house will always welcome mutants in need."
That gets a smile, bright and lovely. Charles wants to believe it's genuine.
"I'll keep that in mind," Raven says. "But now I have to get going."
"Of course," Charles says. He doesn't turn his head to watch her walk out after she passes him, just sits at that table until his tea is gone, staring at the place where she had been and feeling vaguely used.
It's a feeling that persists until three weeks later, when he once again finds her in his kitchen and she's not alone.
This time, she's brought children with her.