I have a new problem.

Because Charles Xavier's life can never just be ordinary. No, no, that's far too much to ask of life.

That new problem manifests in the form of Kurt Marko. Yes, you're correct, the same discourteous colleague of my father's who informed me of his passing.

The meddlesome blond has made a plethora of visits lately, frequenting tea times and evenings. His presence is unsettling, dubiousness sticks to him like a bad smell, I can practically taste it.

The thing about telepathy, it gives you an expanded sphere of empathy. Within a certain radius, I can detect emotions and emulate them. Kurt gives me the jitters, something about his manner is wrong.

Raven thinks I'm prejudiced because my mother likes him. She really likes him; she projects her veneration when he enters the room. He's the first visitor in a couple years, he's the first male visitor since my father died. Naturally, I'm wary of him and his motives.

Raven says I have trust issues, and she's right. That's perhaps the singular thing the psychiatrist diagnosed correctly. But I have my reasons; my father was ripped out of my life without a moment's notice, my mother is a neglectful alcoholic and my acquaintances in the educational system scapegoat me as a crazed schizophrenic. I have no reason to trust anyone.

My fiercest advocate is myself.

Ostensibly, Kurt a beacon of optimism, charisma and humility. But he reeks of something more, something vile. He's like a rotten apple; his surface delectable and shiny, but his core blackened and vacuous.

Kurt's hair is an innocent blond, his eyes winged with laughter lines, his smile unabashed and pure. But whilst his features say one thing, his eyes scream another.

He approached me like one might approach a rabid dog: all nonplussed smiles, a hesitant disjointedness about his movements and an unsteady voice. I could only assume my mother had forewarned him I was neurotic and deranged; I was in two minds about biting his hand off like a rabid dog too with the damning supercilious tone he took with me.

Kurt had spotted me loitering when he arrived and crouched down to my level, hands braced on his thighs. "Hello there, Charlie..." Kurt had began, offering me a leather gloved handshake, not trustworthy in the least.

"Charles," I barked, snatching his hand, the leather still crisp and cold from the chilly night he'd taken refuge from. "Evening, Mister Marko..."

"You've grown since I last saw you," he drawled, his voice sickly-sweet as treacle. And just like treacle, he repulsed me.

"Time passes. People grow. It's the natural order of things..." I pursed my lips. "I delight in remarking you look older than I last recall..." I dabbed a finger at the corner of my eyes, detailing his crow's feet and tapped my sideburns, a mockery of the wiry grey strands threaded into his blond locks.

His back to my mother, the falsified politesse drained from his face. His lips curled into a sneer, his nostrils flared and the joint of his jaw began to tick.

"Do you know I have a well behaved and polite..." He let those words sink in with a pause. "...Boy of your age?" A sharp serpentine smile was unveiled from behind his lips. "You may have a brother at some point, son..."

"I am not your son," I growled, my voice monotonous and guttural. He scowled in response.

"Kurt," my mother slurred from the doorway, Raven clinging to her leg. "He doesn't need to know that just yet."

"I'm teasing!" Kurt crowed, beaming perfidiously at my mother over his shoulder. He could switch his mood like the flip of a playing card, and he was just as cunning as the jester.

And as he turned to stroll over to her, his talons dived into my hair. He wound my strands around his fingers and tugged; disguising it as a ruffle.

I made a small pained noise, that went unheard to everyone but him. He smirked over his shoulder before planting a lingering kiss on my mother's alcohol flavoured lips.

It was a declaration of ownership, I was certain of it; the kiss wasn't something you would've seen a demure gentleman do in public. The tugging of my hair, I'm sure, was small assertion of revenge for my silver tongue.

"And who's this beautiful girl?" Kurt gushed, baring down on Raven with a mendacious smile and a zesty tone.

It took but a moment to blast memories into Kurt's head, and like he's been struck by a revelation, he chorused. "Little Raven, my, my; you've grown to look even more like your beautiful mother..."

If that wasn't proof of his duplicitousness, then I don't know what was.

I hated him from that moment.

Over dinner, I remained silent, munching my meal phlegmatically.

Kurt, however, scoffed his like a pig with a trough. He disgraced the antique table: sitting in my dad's chair, with the silver cutlery that had been inherited from a bygone generation of Xaviers and dripping gravy onto the ancient rug below. My mother was too drunk to care, Raven to meek to criticise.

He had a swamping appetite for a finely dressed man, I couldn't help but then note on his scrawniness. I didn't mean to seem classist, but his persona didn't perfectly match his personality.

After gluttonously gobbling down the majority of the meal, he made an urgent noise in the back of his throat. Stuffing the remainder of the food into the corner of his mouth he proposed a toast.

"To Brian Xavier!" He spluttered, specks of food showering the varnished table top. "To whom, without his death, I would not be sitting here!" He raised his brimming glass of aged red wine, drips spilling down the side and then washed down his food with it.

I knocked over my glass of water across the table, spilling it directly into his lap. He seethed and slammed down the wine glass, his grip tightening on the stem - but his face remained deceptively neutral. "Excuse me." I chucked my napkin down over my plate and walked toward the kitchen.

"Charles, the servants will get it!" My mother shouted after me.

"I'd rather I did it!" I called back, burying my hands in my pockets and making for anywhere but the kitchen.

Arriving at the mouth of the staircase, a strong hand clamped on my shoulder.

"Where are you going, sport?" Kurt whispered close, his grip tightening on my shoulder: I felt my joints shift and muscles reshape as he squeezed. "Kitchen's back that way..."

My breathing caught in my throat. "I've decided I'm no longer hungry. I've dismissed myself..." I told him solidly, trying not to writhe under his grip.

He spun me around and pinned me to one of the pillars at the bottom of the staircase, knocking the air out of my lungs. His appearance was deceptive, for a lithe man, he was strong.

"What are you doing?!" I had gasped, still reeling with breathlessness.

He'd grasped my jaw with his calloused hand - the hand of a blue collar worker - sandpaper fingertips chaffing on my chin. "Listen here, and listen well, kid. I am the man of the house now, you will leave the table when I dismiss you. You will show me some damned respect and stop talking to me like Brian's little brat-"

My jaw locked and my face forced to face him, I croaked. "Don't you talk about my father!"

The hand gripping my jaw squeezed and my jaw locked painfully on it's hinge so that I couldn't speak - I made an alarmed mewl. "I will do exactly as I please!" He gritted, leaning close. "And you? You will walk back into that dining room, finish your food, apologise to your mother for walking out, apologise to me for spilling your drink on me, and here's the important bit..." Like a jaguar slinking in to pierce it's victim's skull, he held his face an inch from mine. "You will tell no one we had this conversation or what happened here..." Then his iron grip disappeared and I was left cradling my injured jaw. "Alright, sport?" He chuckled with a Machiavellian smile.

Dumbfounded as a deer in the headlights, I stood as if I were welded to the spot, trying to process the event undergone. Eventually my wits returned and I blurted. "Fine..."

"That's very good of you, Charlie... It's unlike you to be obedient, I'm pleased..." Then he guided me back into the dining room with a shell shocked expression on my face and sat me down having a supposed conversation with me about football.

Soccer, sorry. Damned Americans.

Raven caught the look on my face across the table and I think she knew something had gone on. My mother was unobservant as ever.

"Apologies mother, for not finishing my food, and to Kurt, for spilling my drink on you..." And I said it with the same deceitful sweetness he spoke to me with, my eyes narrowed.

At the tail end of the evening, just as Kurt was slipping on his bulky grey trenchcoat, stretching his fingers into his ominous black gloves and placing his hat on his head; he turned to me. "Ah!" He announced and plucked a brown parcel out of his breast pocket, tethered in white string. "I nearly forgot, I have something for you here, Charlie-"

"Charles-" I murmured under my breath. 

He handed me the inconspicuous looking package and I weighed it in my hands cautiously. 

"Well then, Charles... Open it!" My mother prompted, relying on the door frame to keep herself upright. 

Kurt's eyes boring into me, I undid the string with a gentle tug at the bow and tore at the corner of the brown paper. The paper fluttered to the floor, and in my hands were a couple charred tomes and a manila file. I flipped open the sooty cover and revealed the age stained pages; in the interior cover was scrawled; 'property of Brian Xavier' in his loopy handwriting. 

I looked up, bleary, teary eyed. His eyes had settled on me unnervingly, interrogatory almost.

"Do you know what those are?" He probed, as I shut the book.

I shook my head solemnly. 

"Those are your father's research notes and books from the lab. They're all I managed to save from the flames that fateful night..." There was no sincerity about the fact his hat remained on his head and his head remained level, not bowed. 

"Charles, what do you say?" My mother snapped. 

I almost asked him what the hell he thinks he was playing at, but mustered the polite thing instead. "Thank you Mister Marko..." I stumbled over the words. 

"You're very welcome, my little Charlie!" He chirped, hugging me; but it felt more like a choke hold. I wriggled like a salmon in a bear's paws as he restrained me. "Thank you, Sharon, for having me and allowing me to spend the evening with your wonderful..." He grinned at Raven. "Kids..." His smile faded as he looked at me. He departed, looking not at my mother, but at me; trudging through the gravel and waving sinisterly over his shoulder.

And after what was an evening that left me with suspicions and animosity toward Kurt, I retired straight to my room, delving into the gift that had been bestowed upon me.

I'm doomed.

He intends to integrate himself into the household, I know it. And the worst of it, is that both my mother and Raven seem to like him. I could understand why he might seem an exemplary father figure on surface traits; big smiles, buying our affection with sentimental gifts and paying homage to the father that had been so dear to all of us. With the exception of Raven. 

My father's research notes are open on the table beside me. In all honesty, they don't make much sense; all random alphanumerical symbols, including Greek ones: there's a cipher required, I'm sure. Some of it is scrawled in short hand, abbreviations about mutation and speciation; but that's all I can decipher. The books, they're far more interesting: diagrams and notes to match. Why Kurt gave them to me, I'm unsure, but I know he has malicious intentions. 

There's nothing good about Kurt Marko. 

A/N - This took me forever to word and I wanted to introduce Kurt Marko true to character: sly and awful. The fancasting I've elected to go for concerning him is Ewan McGregor: A) Because I love him and B) Because I've never seen him play an evil character, and I think he'd be great at it! Finally C) He'd do the charming and attractive part really well. 

Dedication goes to EpicGeek for the continued support on my work! Thank you! x