There isn't a long delay between door knock and the music switching off, nor is there a long delay between that and the door opening.

The only unnecessary pause that does occur is the one Charles gives Severus upon opening the door. Surprise, where there probably shouldn't be, if subtle -- a flicker in his focus, a beat of silence. He's been sleeping, probably, the affect of someone having roused only recently without going through the motions of waking up completely, hair a good few inches longer than it was when they last met and stiffly uncombed.

Tension is only present in the hand he's rested on door frame, gripping briefly, forcibly relaxing again.

"Hello."

It's both. That's the problem. A few days and a dozen years, at the same time.

"Of course."

Charles' hand slips off the frame, and he backs a step into his room, implicit invitation to be followed. He hasn't had an opportunity to aggressively make it the little den of hermity misery it could be -- the other bed is only slightly disturbed from things being set down on it, the other unmade, his belongings more or less packed away. The little care package that Severus had given him for Christmas is stowed out of sight.

There's a book on the bedstand, planted open and face down. A glass. A liquor bottle, half empty, is tucked out of the way between bed and stand. A teacup is apparently being used as an ash tray, but the ventilation in the room has done its part in ridding the room of smoke, and he doesn't have enough of them to do much damage. Other tell-tale bits of not tidying up after himself.

The datapad he'd been playing is picked up from where it had been tossed aside on the tidier bed, on the other hand, switched off from its idling.

"You've condemned them, haven't you?"

Charles sits down on unmade bed, a hand roaming towards bedside table to investigate the state of drinking glass, of ashtray, selected well worn cigarette pack and rattling out one of the two cigarettes left into his palm. Declining to lift his head in interest at this first remark, focused instead on his task.

Next, find the matchbook, in the small clutter. He does glance at Snape then, some degree of uncertainty there. He can see the excuse as a veil, fluttering, obscuring. Not wholly certain about what lurks behind it, why it is still hidden.

"Small world, getting smaller," he offers, neutrally, before, continuing his hunt, nudging aside loose leaf pages..

Single syllable induces startle, fingers curling off from their lazy search through the clutter, but there is a spark of hostility in immediate glance back up, flaring pale, but then gone again. Deeming this a fair enough question, probably, even if he has no straight answer.

"I've, uh."

He drops the unlit cigarette on the stand, with a neglectful wave of fingers. Blunt fingernails scrape along the line of scruff at his jaw. No. Never mind.

His focus sharpens, by a matter of degrees. "Who've you talked to?"

"No."

That would be agreement, because no, not necessarily, but Charles' fixed study remains unconvinced, the initial greeting having been unconvincing. It would be good to know if it's Raven, or Emma, or Anderson, or fucking Erik, or anyone at all, but denied his ah ha moment, certainty seems to lapse.

He shifts to find some wall to sit against, bed frame creaking quiet as he does.

"I went home."

Oh, for-- there it is. Matchbook selected out of a wave of bedsheet after discovering it by accident, he retrieves his cigarette, sets about lighting it. "Ask me if I'm very desperate to go back. Incidentally, it'll be the same answer," he waves out flame, facetiousness leaking into his tone, "about whether I'm thrilled to be here."

In truth, he mostly just wants to know what Snape knows already. And what he knows depends on who he's met.

That he might be curious independently of that isn't given due consideration.

But at this point, intentions are struck clear from the other man. Why isn't he at work. Feeling around for a grey area between refraining from answering at all or spilling everything takes up some precious seconds of time, precious increments of burning cigarette, and probably, Severus' patience. It still feels strange, for him to be here, in his quarters.

"I can't," he finally says, with the tone of someone cutting something loose. His job, apparently, or rapport. "It's been a long time."

"It's been a long time since I could think properly."

This extension of information, this admission, comes rattled out of him, as if against his own will. Layers of resistance, sealing together immediately after, covering exposure. Charles opens his mouth like he might say more, but gives up before words can form, looking away. Brushing too close to the truth that everyone'll know eventually.

As he said, the world is getting smaller.

It is a hateful idea, context of his time on the Tranquility clashing flimsy against the sheer brunt of years spent hating needing to be helped. Ivory shines brief in the midst of a smile and grimace both.

Eye contact won, but there's a remove to it, even with Severus. That he could never read his mind before did not stop the way he tends to-- tended to-- try to look straight through him, reflexively, as he does everyone. There's a dullness to it now, as if simply taking less in.

"I was tired of needing help. That was why I took it, the serum. I mentioned its reparative qualities. I think."

In between calls to destroy it.

Charles' jaw tightens as if bracing himself for-- something-- as Snape reacts. Maybe this. It's not quite ferocious enough to need battening down against, practically speaking, nor can he place it better without thinking harder about it. He would rather not.

"It was treatment for my back." Factual, all at once. His cigarette is neglected between his fingers. "So I could walk. Function, like a normal person."

This is stated without irony. Comparatively speaking--

"I couldn't use my telepathy anyway. It didn't matter."

Hostility returns, more a kindled flame than fleeting spark, almost immediately. Anger is easily available, but the energy for it is mostly not.

All the same.

"Do you know how much I cared about politics and freedom and mutant bloody pride and all that shite when I could hardly sit up without assistance on bad days, couldn't sleep because the thoughts of everyone within a hundred mile radius kept me up all hours?

"Fuck all. And I don't want to hear it. And I'm not drunk."

R i ght now.

There's a noisy exhale at that last part, having already looked away at a midpoint, and away from disgust. It's nothing he wants to feel, and feelings are contagious.

"I'm not," is slightly more petulant than riled, finally tapping ash into ceramic before he can burn himself or smear his bedsheets. "Well no, I am. You can't talk about what I would have done or should have done or talk about what's normal and what difference it makes when you weren't there. No one was bloody there. Everything fell apart, everything was taken away, long before--"

Long before Charles did, but he swerves just in time. Quieter; "Long before I gave up. I just wanted something back."

Well that gets his attention -- a look of flat disbelief sharp and shock in bright, pale eyes, a traitorous glint of wetness that had already been building. Which probably does nothing for weakness, but strength is something that's been sifting fast through his hands through the last few years, so what's a little more?

Charles does stand, though. He's never in his life banked on trying to loom, authority stolen in other ways, but he can at least claim back some territory.

"No, don't feel sorry for me. Feel sorry for the man who thought things would get better, if he tried hard enough, and hoped hard enough, when they never would."

He sees it.

Charles' own stare wavers a fraction, betraying him for all his I can'ts, but he keeps his mouth shut. Mention of Nuala, mention of his patients, all those things that seemed so important to him a few days ago, and of course, Severus himself. His hands work into fists at his sides, but--

That's all.

He doesn't say anything in response, but an absence of verbal acceptance is also an absence of protest. Things slip away, whether those things are present or not.