Charles has never seen someone make an orange jumpsuit look so appealing.

And good God, that's hideously inappropriate, and maybe he should just leave now and tell them to assign another psychologist. But then the man in the chair fixes Charles with that cold grey-eyed stare and somehow he knows that if he leaves now he'll regret it for the rest of his life.

He settles into the shaky folding chair, making a concerted effort not to wince as it scrapes across the concrete floor. "Hello, Mr. Lensherr. My name is Doctor Charles Xavier. It's good to meet you."

Lensherr raises an eyebrow. "I wish I could say the same."

"Ah, yes, well." Charles lets out a nervous laugh. "The court has mandated that you have regular psychiatric evaluations, so-"

"I know what the court says. I was there for the sentencing, thank you." He bites out. Clearly, he doesn't suffer fools gladly. Charles makes a mental note to suppress his habit of stating the obvious. "Can we just get this over with?"

"Of course. Sorry." He shuffles his papers. "Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself, Mr. Lensherr- Can I call you Erik?"

"You may not." Lensherr leans back in his chair. Charles falters for a second.

"Well then…" He takes a deep breath through his nose. "Why don't I tell you about myself, then?"

Lensherr stares at him, languidly unblinking. "I really don't care what you do." Despite his calm demeanor, his eyes are flashing steel, and Charles is reminded why the guards had him remove all the metal from his body before coming in.

"Okay then." He clears his throat. "I was born in England, but my family moved to Westchester when I was seven. My middle name is Francis. I-"

"How old are you?"

Charles fumbles his words, startled by the interruption. "What?"

"How. Old. Are you?" Lensherr looks at him like he's an idiot, pronouncing the words slowly.

"Um… twenty-nine."

Lensherr raises an eyebrow. "Aren't you a little young for your job?"

"If you could look at my credentials," Charles glares, "You would find that I'm more than qualified to handle your case."

"This is pointless. Please call the guard and have him return me to my cell." Lensherr tugs his wrists for emphasis, rattling the plastic bindings cuffing him to the chair.

Sweat beads on Charles' forehead, and he really didn't want to do this, but he's got to establish a rapport with Lensherr somehow. This is the last card he has left to play.

"I'm like you, Erik. I'm a mutant."

The convict stares at him for a second, then lets out a harsh laugh. It's a laugh utterly devoid of humor. "Oh, that's just brilliant. Let's see it, then, what've you got? Can you shoot lasers from your fingertips? Can you fly?" He cranes his neck to blatantly examine Charles' trousers. "Are you hiding a tail in there?"

Charles puts a hand to his temple, and if one hadn't known better they would have thought that he was nursing a headache. But then Lensherr goes pale and Charles presses harder on his forehead, the feeling of hair brushing against his knuckles fading in comparison to the sensation of the man across from him.

I'm a telepath. I know it's not as impressive as manipulating metal, but you asked.

He's being especially careful to only brush the surface of Lensherr's mind- no, Erik's mind- but even treading softly he can see Erik's life. The man wears himself on his sleeve, all of his emotions broadcast at a high frequency. By the time Charles pulls out, the image of numbers inked indelibly onto a pale arm is burned into his memory forever.

Erik is stock still across from him, eyes wide and body trembling. "Stay out of my head."

Charles nods. "Of course. I respect your privacy, Erik. I would never open a locked door unless you gave me the key." He doesn't mention that with him he doesn't need to.

"I-" It's taking Erik a moment to gather himself. "Do you realize what you're doing? You're betraying your people!"

"I'm not. I believe that mutants and humans can live together peacefully, side by side."

"You're naïve."

"I'm just optimistic. If I can co-exist then so can you." Charles runs a hand through his hair. "You're going to have to learn, if you want to get out of here in four years."

Erik turns his head away, and it's clear that the session is over. Charles sighs and stands up.

"I'll see you next week, Erik. Alright?" There's no response, but a gentle pulse of thought tells Charles that it is.

That night, alone in his fourth floor apartment, Charles dreams of an angry, beautiful man in an orange jumpsuit.