When the sign changed to green, Charles crossed the street. At this hour, the traffic was starting to increase cars crowded roads, and people crowded sidewalks, he noticed, and his journey from the subway to the hospital became somewhat more difficult. He looked up and, at his height, everything seemed so tall, like they never did before. It made him dizzy. When he reached the other side of the street, Charles stopped in front of a store's window and fixed his crooked tie. When he deemed it good enough for work, he smiled at his reflection. The chocolate curls framing his face made him look young, but at 28, he was very much an adult. Although an incomplete one. He rolled his wheelchair to the ramp in front of the hospital. The automatic doors opened for him in a quiet whisper and he entered the place for the first time since the accident.

After escaping from the warm welcome of the ladies at the lobby's front desk, he went up in the elevator. At the third floor, he exited and headed to the psychiatry unit. As soon as he opened the door, a familiar figure was on him, wrapping their arms around his shoulders.

"Charles! Finally, you're back!" Moira kissed both his cheeks. She had visited him regularly while he was convalescent, but it was something else entirely to see her at the hospital again, hair strictly tied and wearing a lab coat. Even though he would never see this as normal ever again, Moira made him feel much welcomed. Like coming home after a long trip. She didn't even talked about the ugly device on which he was sitting. It was refreshing. She walked beside him to the staff room. "How do you feel?" she asked while serving two coffees.

Charles reached unsuccessfully for his locker's padlock. "Like a dwarf." He sighed. And completely useless, he added in thought.

"Come on, whiny baby," Moira said from behind his back. She put the right combination in the padlock and opened Charles' locker. "Don't thank me!" She went back to their coffees, pouring some milk in hers and dropping a cube of sugar in Charles'.

He put away his bag in the locker and closed it. "Could you...?" he started, waving at the locker.

"Yeah, I'll took care of that. But first, our morning dose of caffeine." She held his cup out for him, already sipping from her large mug.

The beverage was strong and hot. "What did they assign me for my first day?" He put his cup on the table and tried to sit at it comfortably, elbows on the wooden panel, like he'd always done, but the armrest of his wheelchair stood in his way. He thought of the desk in his office and winced. He'd have to adapt his habits somehow. Second disappointment of the day. Life isn't like it had been, he noted to himself.

Moira sat in front of him and opened a yellow file. "Raven Darkholme, 26. She's been hospitalized for five years, but was transfered here recently. Reason unknown."

"Reason well known: she's a trouble maker. What's her pathology?" He put the cup on the table and started writing in his notepad.

"Dissociative disorder. Multiple personalities."

A large smile lit Charles' face. He drew a heart beside Raven's name. "That's what I call a challenge." He loved challenges.

Moira closed the file and looked at him. "Too much of a challenge?"

"What are you talk-"

"Are you sure you're ready, Charles?" she interrupted him.

Her serious look and the low pitch of her voice killed his smile. She worried about him, obviously. "I won't ever know if I don't try." He reached for her. Because of the wheelchair – fucking wheelchair – he had to lean on the table in order to take her hands in his. "I appreciate your concern, Moira. I really do. But it's my choice."

He was already fighting another challenge: winning back the life a drunk driver had taken from him months before. And he could not be satisfied with a mere consolation prize. Doctors had told him he was a fighter. He would succeed in living as normal a life as he could, like he had succeeded at healing. No miracle was involved in him coming back to work faster than expected. Only his will and his strength. Living his life included working as a psychiatrist, it was part of the package, and he never considered backing down.

Moira stared at him a little longer. Then she sighed and gave him the file. "She's in your office."

"Thanks, Moira."

He left the staff room and rolled to his office. In front of the door, he breathed in, breathed out, and opened it. A beautiful blond girl was waiting for him on the sofa. "Hello, Raven. My name is Charles Xavier. I'll be your psychiatrist from now on."

Charles looked at the clock. She was twenty minutes late already. Obviously, she knew she would get in trouble if she didn't show for her shrink appointment, right? He skimmed through her file one more time. "Difficult patient", "violent", "ineffective treatment", "transfer". The portrait the file made of Raven looked so different from the quiet and shy girl he had seen the last time.

Well, she had been too quiet : she hadn't uttered a word for the whole session. Feeling like a failure afterwards, he had taken the elevator back to the first floor, to take a walk – what a joke – in the garden. Mostly empty at that time of the day, it looked depressing, and Charles didn't stay long. He had been about to go back to his office when Moira had come to him with their lunch. They had eaten under a tree, she sitting on the grass at his feet. She had questionned him, but he had lied. About his failure, about his feelings. He knew she hadn't believed him, but she hadn't insisted.

He was determined to make progress today.

8:25. To pass the time, Charles checked the wheels of his wheelchair. He was scraping off a dirty old chewing gum when someone knocked at the door.

"Yes? Come in."

Raven entered, lip bleeding, a bruise forming on her forehead, and a cropped hair gorilla at her arm.

"Thank you, Cain, you can let her go."

"Sure, doc. She's nasty, that one." To make his point, he showed the teeth marks on his left hand.

Cain was a mean and vicious nurse . Charles feared for Raven if he had her in his sights.

"She'll be all right. I'll take care of her."

The nurse looked at the wheelchair, then at Charles' face, grunted, and left without a word. Not that any word was necessary.

Charles waved at the sofa and Raven sat on it. He took her file and his notepad on his desk and rolled next to her.

"Could you tell me what happened, miss?"

She blinked at the title. "Why do you call me that?" she asked in a deep low voice, with a frown on her pretty face.

Bingo, Charles thought. "Who am I talking to?"

With a very masculine gesture, she wiped the blood off her chin with the back of her hand and spat on the ground – on the beige carpet. "My name is William, fucktard."

Hearing such an offensive word coming out of her pretty mouth left him agast. In her blue eyes, he saw nothing of the young woman he had met. Her stare, cold and empty, made him uncomfortable. That her disease could run so deep into her soul that it would affect her expressions in such a way simply amazed him. Now he could understand why the other doctors she'd seen had given up on her. Raven was a difficult case. He just hoped he hadn't bitten off too much to chew.

He cleared his throat. "Okay, William. Happy to meet you."

"Go fuck yourself," she said, flipping him the bird.

It wasn't going well. Raven – the real Raven, the shy girl hiding inside this body – had looked closed and defensive. This one acted like the complete opposite. Her stance, opened, owning space – the spread legs, the arm on the back of the sofa – could have seemed relaxed, if it wasn't for the foot under his wheelchair and the way she played with the ring at her right hand. This one was agressive. This one was pure hatred and anger.

"William, can I ask you something?"

She barely looked at him when answering: "Sure, and you can wait for my answer until pigs fly."

Charles knew it was reckless, maybe even dangerous – and not only for him – but he couldn't let Raven trapped inside this jerk. "Do you know Raven?"

She blinked. Her lips moved on silent words before she asked : "What did you say?"

He got her. "Raven. I'm sure you met her. A young woman, blonde, blue..."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

There. He had heard it. The higher pitch in her voice.

"She's beautiful. And gentle. Do you—"

"No!" Hands on her ears, hunched, William retreated inside her head. "Sh-she's... worthless. A slut. Sh-sh-I have to..." She shook her head violently. "I'm s-s-s-scared..." she sobbed.

Charles rolled to her side and tried awkwardly to take her in his arms. "Shh, it's okay, Raven. I'm here."

The young woman cried on his shoulder.

"You're safe. He's gone. William's gone."

That was a bold move, but he felt in his guts that he had made the right choice.

She left the comfy safety of his shoulder and looked up at him. She was chewing on her bleedy lips, a red trail running down her chin. He wiped it with his thumb, waiting for the sign that Raven was back.

With her fists, she rubbed her wet eyes in a childish gesture, then smiled. "Thank you, sir!"

High pitched voice drilling his ear drums. Oh boy, Charles thought. "How old are you, Raven?"

A serious look on her face, she counted on her fingers and bent two, showing him eight of them. "I'm a big girl," she confided with a giggle.

Two personalities. That was enough for one session. He didn't mind when she started to tell him about the day she went to the zoo. He didn't learn much more about her, but he didn't need to. William was the key, and he'd work on that.

"A large latte and an espresso with one sugar, thank you." Charles said to the waiter, who nodded and moved off towards another table.

"So, how is it going?" Moira asked him.

Charles bit into a pastry. It was too sweet, and a bit greasy, but he needed something in his stomach. If he had ever thought before that walking was tiring, he had never tried rolling. Every evening, his arms hurt like hell and he had to rub them with some cream and take painkillers. His doctor had warned him that it could be a while before he felt easy with his wheelchair, and the fucker had not lied. To compensate for the energy he was using just to get from one place to another, he ate twice as much as he had been used to. How was it going? Painfully, he wanted to answer.

Instead, he shrugged. "Okay, I guess."

The waiter came back with their beverages. "Thank you." He sipped at his cup and added a second sugar. Moira shook her head.

"Just okay?" she asked. She chose a tiny croissant from the plate and ate it in one go.

"What do you want me to say?" He looked outside the café, at the men and women walking down the street. Walking. One foot after the other. Some were even running. A bubble of anger exploded in his throat. "Do you want me to tell you how difficult it is to see the world from so low? How I feel when people look at me with pity in their eyes?"

"Charles, I..."

"You know how pissing is supposed to be so easy for men? Not for me!" He knew he was being unfair, but he had bottled up so many frustrations for so long he couldn't stop. "God forbid I'm stuck somewhere far away from handicapped toilets when I get a urge. I can't stop against a wall and empty my bladder. And it takes me up to five minutes to sit comfortably on the toilet seat before I can get to it."

Moira took his hands in hers and forced him to look at her. "Charles, I'm sorry I asked. I know it isn't easy for you. I know!"

He emptied his cup in one gulp. The hot liquid burned his throat, but it helped him with his anger. A sudden sadness quickly filled the void it felt. "But do you really know?"

"You're right, I'll never know. But I understand your pain." She smiled at him warmly and squeezed his hands a bit harder.

The dam had broken and it seemed like he couldn't let it go. "I'm half a man, if not even less."

The frown that appeared on Moira's face could have scared him if he didn't know her so well. "Bullshit! You're still Charles, the genius psychiatrist, the handsome man with eyes blue like the sky. The wonderful human being."

It made him laugh bitterly. Maybe he was still a bit of all that. He had the right to complain – his situation sucked – but he wasn't only the legs on which he had stood for so many years. He was so much more. He would learn who that new Charles was, and try to accept him : his strengths, his flaws, his emotions.

For now, he felt flirtatious. "Is that why you broke up with me? Not that it was a bad move, given how I ended up."

"Would you stop that?" She slapped his wrist. "You know very well why we... terminated our relationship." She pulled her hair behind her ear nervously. Talking about them always made her anxious. The time they were an item had been great, Charles wouldn't deny that. But she needed so much attention, and he was married to his job. It didn't take long for them to realize that they were better off as friends. "Besides, I'm already taken," she added proudly.

The slice of pie froze half way to Charles's mouth. "What?"

"I haven't told you? His name is Sean," she said, covering her mischevious smile with her hand, sparkles in her hazel eyes.

Charles didn't know how he felt about that. Sure, he was happy for her. She deserved someone who could take care of her after her stressful work – hopefully, the guy was up to the task, or Charles would cut his balls off. But as he looked at her face, radiant with love, a much rounder, much younger face superimposed. Blond flawy hair framed her bright blue eyes and plum cheeks. Raven.

Moira had found love, would he be able to do the same? In his condition?

"Congrats!" he finally said. He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. "I'm happy for you, darling."

She didn't seem particularly interested in his demonstration of affection. "You can't fool me. What was it all about?"

He shook his head. He couldn't tell her about Raven. Nope, not yet. Not ever.

"Good morning, Raven."

"Hello, Charles." The radiant smile on her face brought him joy.

He had seen her several times already, and the use of first names had come almost naturally after the second session – the William session, Charles called it. Since then, Raven had never shown any other symptom of dissociative disorder. William nor young Raven had come back, whatever effort Charles had put in his work. Every time – at least twice a week – the young woman kept very quiet, or talked about her life in hospital. Not that it wasn't interesting. One could learn a lot from the complaints and the small moments of happiness of their patient. The rest of the time, Charles's work consisted of looking for ways to help Raven, reading the most recent articles on the subject and asking questions to her previous doctors.

He ended up convinced that William, whoever it was, was the key to Raven's well being. Now to gather the courage to bring up the subject.

Because, as much as he wished to deny it, he had grown attached to Raven. At first, it had seemed like the concern of an older brother, but he couldn't fool himself any longer. It was love, pure and simple. His rational and scientific mind came up with rational reasons: he felt close to her, trapped in his wheelchair like she was in her head, strangers to the person they were before, watching the world from a new perspective, and confused by it.

That remained the most fascinating aspect of Raven't condition. She was very much aware of it, although she didn't understand the why or what or when. But she knew something was wrong with her, and she was deeply ashamed. It explained her calm demeanor.

Charles had to break her to help her recover, and the very idea churned his guts.

Today, Raven sat on the sofa like she always did, but Charles noticed some anxiety in her behavior. She tapped her right foot on the floor in a manner of a rhythm, while curling a strand of hair around her finger, pulling at it now and then. She was going to break. If not now, in three hours or four, or tonight. When he wouldn't be here to help her go through the crisis. Charles couldn't let it happen.

"How do you feel?"

She laughed nervously and looked at the ceiling, searching for the answer. "I don't know." She consciously stopped her foot and sighed. "I don't know, Charles," she repeated, staring at him.

He flinched at the distress in her beautiful eyes. This was the last sign he needed. "And how is William?"

Raven started at the name. Fear crept up in her sky blue irises. "Who?"

But the question rang false. She knew who Charles was talking about, although she wanted to forget.

"That's what I'd like to know, Raven. Who is William?"

"No!" She squeezed her head between two shaking hands, shivering with terror. "NO!" Tears welled up in her eyes and she started to sob furiously.

Charles rolled to her and put his arm around her shoulders. "Don't be afraid. I'm here. Nothing will happen to you as long as I'm here." He kissed her temple. "I'll protect you," he added, sounding more confident than he felt.

She shrinked up in his arms, smaller and smaller, until she looked tiny. The sob turned hysterical and high pitched.

"Raven?"

"I'm scared," young Raven replied.

Charles hadn't expected the childish voice coming from her very adult mouth. He'd have rather heard the deep tone of William, but at least there was a reaction.

"What is it that scares you?"

She turned around suddenly, escaping Charles's embrace, and jumped behind the sofa. Curled up on the floor, she wrapped her arms around herself, utterly distressed. "He's here," she whispered.

The truth was finally exposed. William existed – had existed? He wasn't an imaginary character created by Raven't mind to represent suppressed feelings, but a memory. An old memory, if young Raven's age was right.

Charles rolled around the sofa to stay close to her. She needed someone by her side – he needed to be by her side, to fight the guilt he felt for torturing her young soul. But his wheelchair was much too large to pass behind the ugly piece of furniture. He reached out to her, taking one of her hands to establish a contact.

"What does William want, Raven? What does he want with you?" he asked, afraid of her answer.

"I don't know yet," she replied, a weak leaf shaking in the wind and waiting for a gust to take her. She seemed to think intensely for a second. "I cleaned the house, like he told me. Maybe he wants to touch me."

Terror fell on Charles like a cold shower. Icy fingers of sweat slid along his back. He felt a wave of nausea.

His brain refused to imagine the blonde child, tiny and teary-eyed, with a hairy faceless monster hovering over her, a disgusting pervert smirk his only recognizable feature. He had to suppress a shiver; such a reaction could be wrongly interpretated by the scared girl who inhabited Raven's body at the moment. Instead, he slid out of his wheelchair and pulled himself over to her, his useless limbs splayed out behind him. He didn't touch her. It wasn't the right time. He couldn't risk a transfer and become what she feared the most.

"Why does he think he can touch you, Raven? Do you know?"

"He says I'm a woman. I'm his wife," what felt like the youngest voice he ever heard replied. "Jason never helps me. I hate them!"

Her anger was a good sign. She knew it wasn't her fault. There was no shame in her behavior. Just fear. The bastard must have been violent. Her wrath somehow seeped into him: how could anyone think it was okay to hurt such a sweet creature?

He hugged her, keeping her in the comforting cocoon of his arms, silence a protective curtain around them, until the end of the session. A nurse knocked on the door a few minutes past two to take Raven back to her room – or her next activity, Charles didn't know her schedule. He invited her in, and she gasped when she saw them curled up on the floor. She run to them.

"Doctor Xavier, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Ororo. Would you please take care of Raven, and ask Cain to come and help me?"

"Of course, doctor. Raven, come with me."

The friendly smile on Ororo's face did nothing. Raven stared at Charles, silently questioning her safety in the hands of the dark skinned woman. Charles only nodded. She seemed to understand, stood up and followed Ororo, not without looking back at Charles one last time before the door closed.

Finally alone – and feeling vulnerable and weak, siting on the hard and old carpet – he reflected back on everything that happened while waiting for Cain's help. He had some research to do, and the rest of the day to do it.

He was going to help Raven, if it was the last thing he did.

He opened the door to his appartment. Well, his new appartment. He had to move after his accident, because a flat on the sixth floor became impractical when the elevator was out of service every other day. First floor, two bedrooms, a ramp to the lobby: it was heaven. Or was it?

Even with all those amenities, it was very difficult for Charles to feel comfortable. The doors were a little too narrow, and most of the furniture a little too high. But he'd had handles installed first thing when he moved in, one next to his bed, another one in the toilets, and the last one in the shower. Yet it didn't feel like home. His only comfort was that he had no memory of his life before in this new environment. It made the routines he created less hurtful.

He put away his keys on the small table in the entrance and hanged his coat on the low hook. While manoeuvering, he hit the wall and chipped the white plaster.

"Shit!" He swore. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. In his mind, he saw his deposit melt like butter under the sun. Today wasn't a day he would remember as one of his best, considering what had happened earlier.

He went out of the elevator and rolled to the Psychiatry Unit. He was half way to his office when he crossed Raven's path. She smiled shyly at him and looked at her feet.

"Oh, Raven! Do we have an appointment today?"

She put a strand of hair behind her ear. "No, no! I'm just wandering around..."

He frowned. In this part of the unit, there were only the offices and the staff room. She had no reason to come around here. Except... He stopped his thoughts before they went there. He could just enjoy the presence of the young woman. Who was herself, today. He hadn't seen William nor young Raven since that time. Although he knew more about them.

After some research and a couple of phone calls, he had learned that Raven was a foster child, and she had lived with William Stryker for many months at the age of eight. Army veteran and local politician, and father of a young boy, nobody ever questionned the fact that he had seeked to foster a little girl. And what happened behind closed curtains remained unknown, except for Charles. It made him sick.

It was a nice change to see her outside the familiar but professional setting of his office. She looked lively, and he wasn't wearing his white coat. They could have been anyone, anywhere.

"What have you done today, Raven?"

She shrugged. "Nothing much. I watched lots of TV and did some reading. The activity today was painting." She showed her stained hands, blue and pink and green. "Diagnosis: I am not an artist."

Charles laughed. The frank sound of happiness made her blush. Or was it the way his blue eyes went up and down her slender frame?

She looked at the clock on the wall and gasped. "I should go back to my room before lunch."

"May I come with you?" Charles suggested.

A sparkle of doubt shone briefly in her eyes, but Charles's friendly smile convinced her. "Okay. Should I push your chair?"

"If you please." After all, it was one way of staying with her as good as any other. Purely for observation, of course.

They chatted happily along the hallways. Her shadow covered him like a warm blanket, and the casual conversation made his heart flutter. He was in deep shit and he knew it, but he couldn't back off. He was already too far gone. If he had mastered the way to keep professional in front of the woman he loved when working, in this slightly different context, it soon appeared to be impossible.

"My room is just over there," she said when walking around a corner.

Catching her anxiety in the tiny quiver in her voice, he freed her of his presence. "I'll leave you here. Thanks for the walk and the talk."

"No problem." She smiled, and there couldn't be anything brighter and more beautiful in the world. Charles took back the control of his chair, and started his maneuver. He didn't see what caught in his front wheels; a sock, a hankerchief... Something small and white. The chair stopped right in its tracks, and Charles almost fell on his face. Raven saved him by putting her arms in front of him.

"Are you okay?"

Too embarrassed to answer, he pulled on the white cloth stuck in his wheel, ripped it off and, with a curt nod, left the poor girl.

And now, he had added a new chip in his walls. Definitely not a good day. Frustrated, he rolled to the kitchen and helped himself to a glass of whiskey. He hadn't drunk much since his accident, but he needed alcohol right now. Alcohol to drown his sorrows. And his blooming love.

He turned on the TV. Some reality show appeared on the screen. He barely looked at it while finishing the bottle.

"Charles, you here?" Moira had such a lovely voice usually, but this time, her words drilled into his brain painfully.

Awkwardly bent over the table in the staff room, back stretched and head craddled in his arms, Charles was nursing his hangover. He hadn't realized how much he had drunk the night before, but he was now too aware of that. To answer Moira, he grunted.

Playfully Moira banged her files on the table and sat in front of him.

"Aww," Charles moaned pitifully.

"When I didn't see you at the staff meeting, this morning, I thought you might be dead or something. Glad to know you're well alive."

Charles pressed his thumbs against his temples. "Yeah, alive. But I didn't feel... well. I may be coming down with a cold."

Moira snorted. "Oh? Is that now how they call..." She came closer, right to his face, and loudly said: "Hangovers?"

Despite the hammers hitting his skull when he moved, Charles rolled away from the table. "You bitch!"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm a bitch. But I'm not a drunkard." The mischevious light in her eyes disappeared in an instant, and serious Moira came back. "Seriously, Charles, what were you thinking?" She stood up and walked to her locker. She took a pill from her purse and threw it at Charles. "Take that, you'll feel better soon."

Charles swallowed it dry. "Thank you."

Moira closed her locker and leaned back against it, thoughtful. "Do you need to talk?"

Talk about what? About his lack of sensation below his navel? About how the world had changed since the accident? About his fears about his future – work and family alike? Or about the young blonde patient who was haunting his dreams? "No, thanks."

Moira sighed and came back to the table. She opened her files. "In case you're interested, we talked about Raven at the meeting."

The simple mention of her name soothed his pain, keeping him from wincing when he looked up too fast. "And?"

"Everyone says she's made lots of progress. The department head is amazed by your work and is considering giving you some of his most difficult patients."

Was it really work when he was so happy to see her? When he wanted so much to cure her from her trauma? Charles wondered if he would be as good with other patients, people he didn't care about. "You know, I'm not sure I'm as good as you all think I am. I mean, it's only one patient and..."

"What the fuck are you talking about? Do you think one small case would be enough to convince that bastard Lehnsherr?" She shook her head. "He's been checking your files for days now. All your files," she insisted.

He remembered old patients, old diseases – Marie's fear of human touch, Jean's second personality, Logan and his temperamental outbursts, and so many others. He had helped them, if not cured them. But was it really him? It was before. Before all of that. Before the crash and the months of rehabilitation. "I'm not the same as I was."

She sighed and took his hands. "No, you are not. But you aren't less than you were. Raven's progress speaks for itself: you still have it, Charles. You're still the best shrink I've ever known."

He looked at their joined hands. The small gesture talked about ancient times, when they were an item. The taste of nostalgia filled his mouth. "Am I? Really?"

"Just after me, of course." Her playful smile washed the bad taste. She was his best friend, and he could count on her to lift up his mind when he felt down. Always.

"How is your head?" she finally asked.

He noticed that the headache was gone. "Much better."

"Good." She slapped him, her small hand slamming against his cheek with a resounding snap.

"What the hell!"

"That's for missing today's meeting. Don't ever do that again. You're a professional." She got up. "I'll see you tomorrow," she added, and she left the room.

Sure, he had changed, but Moira hadn't. She was the same, and it was refreshing. No pity in her eyes. Not afraid of hurting his ego, she told him the truth, what he needed to hear and not what was considered appropriate to say. She could be harsh – and her slap still stung, what the hell had gone through her mind? But she built walls around him, between which he could find his way. A new way.

But she wasn't getting fresh coffee tomorrow!

She was sitting in front of him, on the ugly orange sofa. Quiet and calm. Finally.

She had come a little earlier, the fragile persona of young Raven filling her mind with fears and anxiety. Her eyes were still wet from crying. After questioning her – and nurse Ororo – he learned that she had had a fight with another patient about sharing their chores or something, and became instantly a weeping mess, curled up in a corner of the kitchen. Ororo had called him as an emergency. He was secretly glad to have come early today, or Raven would have had no one to support her.

They had talked for a while. She had explained to her what happened, and slowly regained her calm, until the real Raven took the place of her younger self. Since then, she had kept silent, to Charles's growing regret. At least, when she talked, he was able to learn more about her trauma.

He was about to tell her that she could leave when she opened her mouth and whispered, "He raped me, didn't he?"

The distress in her voice made him uneasy. It sounded like a confession, as if she was responsible for her abuse, when young Raven had been full of anger. "How does that make you feel?" he asked.

She considered the question for a moment, staring at the rug. "I'm angry at myself."

Charles nodded, when he wanted nothing more than to scream that he was going to kill the bastard if he was still alive, that he would protect her, that she was very much a victim.

"Because I retreated in my mind, when I should have fought against him."

A huge weight lifted from his chest. If there was a sign that she was starting to heal her wounds, that was it. She was coming to term with her past, and didn't need to hide behind other personalities. She was going to face her problems. With a pang in his heart, he realized that she soon wouldn't need him anymore. It hurt him to recite his usual speech, because, this time, he wished it wasn't so. What was he going to do? Raven, cured, would leave the hospital, and forget about him, for sure. Would he forget her too?

"You've come a long way, Raven," he said.

For a reason unknown to him, she blushed. "Thanks to you, Charles."

He had helped, of course, but it was her strong mind and her intelligence that had saved her. He told her so.

"There's something I must confess," she added with the most serious expression he had ever seen on her pretty face.

Dreading what terrible secret she was hiding, he replied, "I'm listening."

"I think I'm in love with you."

Fate was playing with his heart. It sounded too good to be true. And of course it was, his professional mind was saying, telling the same to Raven through a mouth that didn't felt like his: "I'm flattered. But I'm required to tell you that what you feel isn't real. It's called transfer, and it happens during therapy." It hurt him to recite his usual speech, because, this time, he wished it wasn't so. He wanted her love to be true. But she was a patient. And he was her shrink. Her disabled shrink. Nothing to love here.

Stubborn as he had learned she was, she shook her head, the halo of her blond hair moving around her face – the very image of a child. Of an angel. She stood up and walked to him in one long step, and suddenly, she was on him. Her mouth against his. He was breathing in her sweet perfume – orange and spice and wood. Her small hands rested on his shoulders, squeezing and forceful – because she wanted him to know it was true. But how could it be? He pushed her gently, licking her taste off his lips without thinking. "I'm sorry, Raven."

She turned her back to him in a childish angry fit. "How can it be bad? What I feel?"

"It isn't bad per say," he answered. "And what you feel is a proof that we worked well together. But it isn't really love." He was the one in love. He was the one with a aching heart and the memory – already disappearing, almost a dream – of her tender kiss.

"Is it because of the wheelchair?"

It hit too close to home. He gasped. "How could...?"

"I can see you're uncomfortable. But I don't care about it."

"It's part of me. It's who I am." He didn't know how to feel about that. Before, when he had his legs, he would have said the same, but now he realized that as nice as it was supposed to sound, it also meant that a part of him, something that defined most of his everyday life, was kind of ignored. But it seemed too hard to explain. He chose to keep silent.

After a while, Raven left his office without a word.

The weather had turned, but it was still warm enough to sit in the garden. Moira had brought a potato salad and ham sandwiches. Not really hungry, Charles nibbled at the soft bread while Moira ate spoonful after spoonful of salad.

Out of the blue, Moira spoke. "Are you okay with her leaving by the end of the week?"

"Wha... how did... who are you talking about?" he stuttered.

"Don't fuck with me, Charles. I know you too well."

Of course she did. He hadn't been too obvious, he knew. But Moira could read him like a book. Even before they started dating. Like they were mysteriously linked. That was one of the reasons they had thought it was a good idea to be together, until it wasn't.

"What should I do?"

"I suppose you served her a plate of cold 'I'm your shrink' bullshit."

He nodded.

She shook her head, disappointed. "Do you still believe it, after all this time?"

"But there are excellent papers and statistics and Freud himself..." he vehemently tried to defend his position.

"Cut the crap, please. What do you really feel?"

He remembered the strong relationship they quickly formed, the trust she put in him, the tender gestures they often exchanged, and compared them with his previous patients. Transfer couldn't explain everything. His own doubts were born from his situation – his disability. Instead of answering, he looked down.

"That's what I fought," Moira said. "And what are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing. As long as she's my patient. After that... it won't be long before she forgets the doctor in a wheelchair." She'd have the world at her feet. Strong, beautiful, smart, and no longer troubled by her past – or, at least, on her way to recovery. What would she do, stuck with an imperfect man?

An enigmatic smile stretched Moira's lips. "You should put a little more faith in her."

Ten days. It had been ten days since he last saw her. Standing in the hospital's lobby, a large bag on her shoulder, looking fresh and pure – a new Raven, one he was proud to had helped deliver. She had kissed him on both cheeks, respectful of his will. He still felt the burn of her lips on his skin.

Lehnsherr had wanted him to take care of a new patient, a young man, Scott, blind since a recent trauma, without any medical reason. He had seen him for the first time earlier today. It was an interesting case, but he didn't feel the thrill he had when working with Raven. He would do his job though.

But tomorrow. It was finally time to leave. With the help of Moira, he retrived his suitcase and put away his lab coat. "Thanks, love," he said to his friend.

"No problem. Do you want to do something tonight? Sean is busy."

Charles thought about it for a second. "Nah, sorry." He wanted to be home at last. Maybe a hot bath would help him with his mood.

"See you tomorrow!"

He didn't want to think about tomorrow. Every day was the same, and tomorrow was always the promise of another day without legs – and without Raven. Sometimes, he dreamed of her. His heart hurt when he woke up. And sometimes, he didn't sleep because he feared he would dream of her. Before, he would have walked back and forth in his room. Now, he just lay in his bed, his eyes focused on the ceiling the darkness hid from him.

He went down with the elevator. In the lobby, he waved at the receptionist, and headed to the automatic doors. They opened and he rolled outside, blinded by the sun for a second. The next, she was there. Her blonde hair floated around her face, and she had a shy smile on her lips. When he stopped at the top of the ramp, she walked to him.

"Hello, Charles."

He couldn't answer. Was she a ghost? A dream? Maybe he had wanted her so much to come that his brain had created this perfect image.

She chuckled. "Are you having a stroke or something?"

"Hello, Raven," he finally said. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I came to say that I'm seeing a new psychiatrist, I'm doing fine. I have a job, starting next week. Nothing fancy, I'll be a waitress. But it's something!" She played with her fingers. "I have a new life, and I want you to be a part of it."

"Raven..."

She interrupted him with a finger on his mouth. Staring straight in his eyes, she said : "I haven't forgotten you, Charles. Will you go out with me tonight? Just a drink..."

She was here with him, and she still wanted him. And he still wanted her. "Sure," he answered.

Her laugh made his heart flutter. They would have this first drink. And much more after that, if he could help.

Raven walked behind him and pushed his chair. From a window, Moira looked at them disappear in the crowd. "Good luck, Charles," she whispered, before she left the room and turned off the light.

THE END