It would take very little effort to say something along the same vein, to support Charles in his disbelief, to voice aloud his own fierce refusal to yield to the will of others even one more time. Instead he thinks of Wanda, the way she examined his hands when he opened them to her, and how carefully she spoke to him. The way she seemed to be watching him through a veil. He lifts one hand to his forehead, drags it over the ridges of his brow and the bony curves of his eye sockets, the hollows of his cheeks, until it covers his mouth.
The silence here could be long, and perhaps it should be, but he severs it with a word.

"Well." His fingers lace together again, elbows on his knees, and still he does not look toward Xavier. "You had better get used to the idea."