If it bothers William to be prodded for further detail, he doesn't let it on. Demons are sensitive business. Among the former residents of the Tranquility more than most populations, one imagines. They turned the tables on the fell creature that was sucking on their minds with a psychic tentacle, but it had taken quite a bit of doing. Wiiliam clasps his hands over his knees and the current of his thoughts generates a passing drove of bluejays. "He gave me my abilities ages and ages ago," he says, eventually. "And he hasn't taken them back now, mind you.

"But it was better to have his-- guidance when I did." He hunches slightly, his eyes focusing on Charles' face as he becomes less occupied with finding words and rooting through concepts. "I had about sixty percent my current cognitive capacity when I was first starting out. He bumped me up, and was there to talk me through it. The dream stuff was earlier than that, and he showed me how. I guess not with as clear um, ethics as he should have." He has the good grace and dream powers finesse to turn his face slightly pink when he says this, dropping his eyes ruefully to study Charles' period-appropriate shoes. He scratches a cough out of his throat. "But I'd remember, that the powers aren't mine.

"He's letting me use them. And I'm just-- um.

"I'm still me. Apart from the weird magical shit that I can do." His fingers flex straight then settle again. A nervous tic that doesn't actually exist in real life. He knows that this sort of notion must be rather different to the construction of mutant identity, though, and he can't predict how Charles will see that. He doesn't know that Charles has struggled with terrible qualms and problems of identity other than that.