Fic: The boys have grown a thousand years [X-Men: First Class]
Pairing: Erik/Charles
Rating: PG-13, possibly R for images of war.
Word Count: 3,000
Warnings: Images of war, captivity, torture, underage soldiers.
Notes: An AU, where Charles fought for the British and Erik fought for the Germans. I've played a little fast and loose with ages and with Charles' background, so, fair warning. Unbeta'd, so all errors are mine.
Summary: “Whose idea was it to send a boy into battle?”
“Frankly, sir, I don’t think anyone could have stopped that boy. Not if they tried.”
- - -
==/ PART 1 /==
“Whose idea was it to send a boy into battle?”
“Frankly, sir, I don’t think anyone could have stopped that boy. Not if they tried.”
~*~
There are chess pieces scattered across the carpet in a haphazard pile. Two shoes kicked to the ground, at an odd angle. And a rumpled coverlet at the end of the bed. A small bed: child-size.
This boy lies on his stomach. He is surrounded by tiny toy soldiers. In front of him, the cop-opted chess board, dotted with lines of battle and attack. He peers down at the armies, and imagines the Germans advancing. “We’ll get you, Gerry!” -- and his voice is full of triumph.
In a moment, his father will come home. He will be admonished for the theft of the chess set, and the loss of a pawn (recovered, two days later, in the folds of the coverlet). In a few moments, the quiet little war will be interrupted. But for now, Charles Xavier imagines that he alone will stop the bombs that haven’t yet started falling, send the Germans packing, and triumph for England.
He doesn’t realize how close to the truth this fantasy will be.
~*~
in contrast:
Erik Lensherr sits shivering and alone in a cold, grey room with a cold, grey cot.
Of course, later, it seems that everything he loves is cold and grey too.
~*~
The first inkling that young Charles’ life is about to change comes in the form of two men. One, with a suit and a dignified fedora, one a red-faced sergeant with a uniform Charles doesn’t recognize.
He and his mother sit across the sturdy, hand-crafted wooden table from these dignified men, and Charles thinks that their attention is flatteringly focused on him. He likes that. He likes being noticed.
Niceties are exchanged. A pot of tea is brewed. Charles begins to fidget.
“Charles, we’ve heard that you can do some rather extraordinary things,” says the gentleman in the suit. “Perhaps you would care to demonstrate. Could you tell me what I had for breakfast this morning?”
Of course Charles can. He’s focused on it to the exclusion of everything else. Nothing, nothing, nothing beats like a pulse in the forefront of his mind. “You didn’t have breakfast,” he says. “You ate the rest of your rations last night.”
He glances to his mother. Her eyes are cast away, her fingers curled tight enough around the teacup to turn her knuckles white.
Charles decides to show off.
“What you really want to know,” he says, “is if I can tell where you’re stationed and what it is you do. If I can tell about … radar.” He says this word carefully. He’s never heard it before.
He isn’t prepared for the way the gentleman in the suit stares at him. He isn’t prepared for the poor boy, shouldn’t be like this from the red-faced sergeant. He isn’t prepared for his mother to send him just a single glance, full of appalled pity.
“I’m afraid your son is a security risk,” says the gentleman.
They take Charles away immediately.
Charles is too shocked to stop them.
~*~
“Come with us,” snap the guards as they take Erik’s arms. They manhandle him, roughly. He kicks and bites.
~*~
The battery of tests is exhausting. Day after day, Charles is called upon to guess cards, locate marbles, navigate mazes of passcodes and shadows. But, between every test, the red-faced sergeant takes Charles’ hand and calls him young man while thinking he’s just a boy, he shouldn’t have to do this, he deserves someone to take care of him.
Charles finds himself shaking with unexpected gratitude. He loves the gruff old sergeant immediately.
~*~
Erik’s days are of pain and solitude.
~*~
The first time Charles is left alone, he nearly panics.
He paces, impatiently. Misses the long, polished wood hallways of his mother’s country mansion, if only because they provide more space to move and breathe than this little box tucked away behind the base’s barracks.
He reaches out with his mind, after he’s certain they are several hours late in coming to fetch him.
(He is reluctant to do this, of course. Careless words cost lives. He wants to do his part for the war effort. He doesn’t want to be treasonous. But it’s so very hard for him, not hearing what everyone around is thinking.)
All he feels, in his light touch on the minds of the base, is the rhythm of everyday work.
Charles is distressed. He wonders, for a moment, if this is the work of a fellow telepath. If someone is making the people of the base forget about him.
Eventually, the red-faced sergeant puffs his way to the door and smiles.
“Told them to give you a day off,” he says. “Enjoying yourself? Come on, come on, let’s get you some fresh air.”
Charles is immediately, brilliantly happy. He never should have been worried. He’s safe here.
The sergeant takes Charles on a walk around the base, for the first time since Charles arrived.
Outside, Charles runs in knee-high grass under the watchful gaze of the soldiers nearby. He picks grass and ties it in knots, and pushes ever so gently on the minds of those watching him. He dampens their distrust and enhances their wistful homesickness.
Before long, he’s surrounded on all sides by gentle fondness. Not caution. Not fear.
This is better than home. This is everything young Charles has ever wanted.
~*~
Erik wishes, hopelessly wishes, that he was as unyielding as the metal coin in his palm. He closes his eyes, resolutely, and feels every hateful ridge of the embossed design.
~*~
Charles confronts his first Nazi spy, and delves seamlessly into his mind.
“We found him attempting to buy beer at a pub at 10 AM,” says the man next to Charles. “He claims that he’s a refugee escaping Nazi oppression.”
Charles’ fingers are already at his temple.
“He’s a spy,” announces Charles. “He was dropped off on the coast by a submarine. He was poorly-prepared, doesn’t know very much English, and he believes that the reason he was sent is that the German spy network in England has been destroyed.”
“What else?” asks the man.
Charles continues.
Later, Charles finds out that the man is to be hanged. He protests; he was in that mind, and he felt the man’s motivations. Nothing but the desire to do his duty.
He cries against the sergeant’s shoulder, as the man pats Charles’ back and murmurs, “There, lad.”
Charles reaches out and tries to understand why. He touches on memories of the Great War, buried deep in the sergeant’s memory. Trenches and deafening noises, a hell of mud and blood and sweat and pain.
This stops his tears, finally.
~*~
Erik is tied to a post. Three men take shots at him, one after the other. Metal bullets slipping through the air at a speed too fast to see.
There are dozens of shots.
Only the first two hit their mark.
Erik stays at that post until the last of the marksmen are killed. By their own bullets.
Shaw claps. “Well done, boy,” he says, as Erik is cut down.
These aren’t the first of his guards that he has killed, but, for some reason, it’s this time that stops Erik’s tears. He will never cry again.
~*~
Everything is so busy, reflects Charles.
(It has been six months, now, that he has been reading minds for the British government. He has trained, he has been whipped into physical and mental shape, and now it is time for him to meet the Prime Minister.)
The hallways bustle with men (and women) in uniform. Clipboards. Displays. Charles’ eyes are wide as he tries to take in everything.
The sergeant nudges his shoulder. “Remember, lad. No mindreading in here.”
Ten minutes later, he is hustled into the office of Winston Churchill.
The office clears out of everyone but a few aides, and the red-faced sergeant, who by now Charles knows is, in an unlikely way, an extremely highly-regarded official among the intelligence units.
“Charles Xavier,” introduces one of the aides.
Churchill peers over his desk at Charles. “Our telepath,” he says.
Chrles nods too quickly, his heart beating like a flutter in his chest.
They take seats across from one another. Charles’ legs dangle; he is still so small.
“My generals recommend I send you to the front,” he says. “It will, of course, require revision of several laws stating the minimum age of serving officers. What do you have to say about this, young Xavier?”
Charles takes a deep, shuddery breath. “I w--I want to do my part for the war.” He is absolutely genuine. Truer words have never been spoken.
Churchill leans across and claps him on the shoulder. “Good man,” he says. “Brave of you.”
Charles Xavier, twelve years old, feels his heart swell at those words.
Churchill goes on to tell him that England needs him, that people’s lives are at stake, and he falls all over himself to promise that he’ll do his best. And then Churchill thanks the redfaced sergeant, who leaves with tears of pride in his eyes. Pride for Britain.
~*~
Erik tries to break free, one day. He makes it as far as the building’s doors before a vicious blow knocks him to his knees.
He last remembers the sound of cars, boots stepping over him, on him, a few kicks to his ribs.
Erik stays silent, curled in pain.
Later, he hears that one pair of those boots belonged to Hitler.
~*~
The first time Charles goes to battle, he pukes all over himself.
The shock of the minds all around him … it doesn’t compare to a single man’s memory.
~*~
The first time Erik goes to battle, he singlehandedly diverts it towards victory for the Germans.
It makes him feel powerful.
==/ PART 2 /==
“If there’s one, then there must be more out there.”
~*~
Erik flies.
The secret: steel-tipped boots. Once an instrument of his torture, now a mark of freedom. It’s like standing on tip-toes. With these boots, he soars.
A descending whistle sounds next to him; without thinking, Erik launches himself away from the sound, places a building in between him and the bomb. A blinding flash of light, deafening explosion and Erik takes three steps and launches himself back into the air.
He feels and hears the plane buzzing low over the city.
Erik reaches out and begins to drag it from the sky.
~*~
“Dusseldorf,” says the general. “The city’s rapidly becoming quite a problem for our boys.”
Charles stands across from him, at a conference table, a map display up on one wall attended by a pair of uniformed girls. People give Charles a wide berth. He commands respect. He commands, at the age of thirteen.
“How so?” he asks. He hasn’t kept up with the details of the bombing raids; not quite his purview, is it?
The general coughs. Charles senses a bit of relief -- relief that he attributes to him asking the question out loud, not simply diving into someone’s mind to find the information. Charles knows that about this man: he may enjoy applying the use of telepathy in the abstract, but he strongly dislikes seeing it used in front of him.
Charles doesn’t mind.
Another speaks up. “Not a single plane comes back,” he says. “Not in the past two weeks. The men are starting to refuse running raids on the city.”
“Do we have any information why?” Charles presses. Honestly, telepathy would be so much easier. “A new weapon?”
“No other cities are affected,” says the first general, “so we don’t believe the Germans have developed … early warning capability. We’ve heard no chatter on the radio about a weapon. The planes just seem to … fall from the sky.”
Charles’ heart skips a beat.
“Now you know why we called you,” says the general.
There might be someone else. Someone like him. Someone with the ability to call planes from the sky. “I should go there,” says Charles. “To Dusseldorf.”
They debate, for a time.
Eventually, they agree.
~*~
Erik may not be trusted by the soldiers in Dusseldorf, but he is feared.
This does not make him happy.
~*~
It is in Dusseldorf that Charles lives a thousand years in a single day.
The worst moment of his life.
Bombs crash in the darkened city. Sirens wail. Were it not for the harsh spitting sound of German, it would be just like home. And yet --
The resistance fighters shadow Charles as he moves through the streets. No hesitation. He can feel the Germans long before they arrive. He can sense the terrified, quieted minds in the city. He can feel everything, and it’s trivial work to nudge it all out of his way.
As soon as he understands this, the fighters surrounding him are like puppets. He is not one, he is five, and he has all of their skills and knowledge and experience.
He has only one goal: to find the force pulling the planes out of the sky.
This. This is where Charles realizes. This is where he understands how much power he truly has. How the minds of men, struggling for their families and homes and horrific, misguided ideals are nothing but playthings for him. Little carved toys spread out on a chessboard.
The worst moment of his life.
The moment that Charles realizes he is a god.
~*~
This is the moment when Erik knows there’s something wrong.
The planes are dancing out of reach. There is something keeping them high in the sky, above the flak. High enough that their bombs are inaccurate and haphazard.
He falls on one knee on the top of a house with a sloped roof.
His mind feels strange. Heavy. Like he has to sneeze, but it’s not in his nose, it throbs at the base of his skull.
~*~
Charles finds him.
The difficulty isn’t finding him, of course. Or knowing that he’s there. It’s sifting through the whole mess of minds all clustered close together in awakened terror, crowding the city with the sights and sounds of reality and the gruesome constructions of imagination.
The resistance fighters kill a truck of German firefighters.
Charles reaches out with his mind. He touches Erik. Erik.
Erik, he thinks, over and over again. Erik, Erik Erik.
This is the best moment of his life.
I am not alone.
~*~
Erik feels enemies approaching.
He strikes out, in fury.
~*~
When metal starts whipping around them, a tornado of scrap and nails and car doors and tin cups, Charles freezes their antagonist. Sends him to sleep with a gentle touch of mind to mind.
The resistance fighters gather up the unconscious boy as air raid sirens continue to slice open the air.
~*~
When Erik awakens, it is in a shaking box car. The air is still and stale. Slats of sunlight filter in through dirty glass and dust-crowded air.
For a moment, the memory of worse times flickers through his mind -- herded in, packed together too close to breathe -- but this place smells of nothing but oil, wood, dust. He is not crowded. He is not forced into standing.
He is about to sit up when an arm curls around his chest, from behind.
Erik...
The word comes not from his ears but from his mind.
Erik pulls away, in a single, startled motion, a burst of power making the train car rattle on its tracks. Several others, men dressed in civilian faded-grey, stir at the sound. They go for weapons. Erik throws up a hand and the guns buck, recoil backwards against the walls, twitching away from the hands of their wielders.
Stop. Erik!
Erik turns.
There is a boy, blinking, awakening. A hint younger. Pale blue eyes.
“Who are you?” asks Erik, in German.
“Get him back to sleep!” hisses one of the men.
The boy gestures at the men, and they fall silent and still. His eyes stay on Erik. Erik has the strange feeling that every fiber of his being, every part of him, all of this boy is focused single-mindedly on Erik.
Like how Shaw was.
But …
But, not like Shaw.
~*~
Charles catches the thought, the name, and he slithers quiet and sleek inside Erik’s mind. He sees Shaw. He flinches at the ring of a gunshot. Tears bead in his eyes, and he opens his mind, so hesitantly, to Erik. Communication; it isn’t something he’s attempted often.
You’ve thought you were alone, thinks Charles, to Erik. You’re not, Erik. You’re not alone.
~*~
Erik’s fears and doubts are swept away in a torrent of feeling and impression. You’re not alone. His throat chokes up and tightens.
He cries, as Charles holds him tight.
==/ PART 3 /==
“I’d say we’re building a fair arsenal for the Allies.”
“At this rate, the war will be over by Christmas!”
~*~
Talking is too ungainly. Erik understands that now. Words are crude. There is nothing, nothing to compare to the proper way of communicating.
When he has to talk, Charles can translate. Charles always knows what he means.
~*~
Charles is unwilling to let Erik out of his sight.
On a rattling airplane, they cross the English channel, tense for the sounds of battle. Erik forgoes the seatbelt, ignoring the gesturing and chattering English officers, opting instead to lean against the inside curve of Charles’ shoulder.
Charles holds him close.
And they talk.
~*~
When Erik closes his eyes, he sees the pastoral green of the English countryside, not the pale grey of mud and knit-metal fence.
He sees a woman with too-bold lipstick refusing to look at her son.
He sees a red-faced sergeant.
He’s all too willing to forget his own life, even when he sees the sadness of it reflected in the eyes of his rescuer.
Charles, he thinks. He thinks it over and over again. Charles. Charles. Charles.
~*~
When Charles steps out onto the English airfield, he is a thousand years older than when he left.
Erik follows him like a shadow.
~*~
“Let’s be perfectly frank,” says Churchill. “With the both of you working together, we can end the war. In a matter of weeks, with a minimum of bloodshed.”
Erik is folded in on himself, arms crossed, face tight like he’s trying not to cry.
Charles feels every thought.
He’s right, says Charles.
I don’t want to fight for anyone but me.
How about for me?
Erik sends Charles a startled, vulnerable look. Charles presses: Once this war is over, we’ll be able to do whatever we want. We’ll be free.
Erik doesn’t believe him.
Erik agrees anyway.
~*~
Winning the war is exhilarating.
And terrible.
==/ PART 4 /==
“Soon, the rest of the world will discover these mutations. We won’t have this advantage for long.”
~*~
Charles wants to believe, and, as such, when the British government offers him a permanent job, he wants to accept.
Erik looks him in the eye, with a childish sort of desperation.
“Please don’t,” he says. “Please.”
I can’t really say no...
“You can say whatever you want. We both can.”
England is my home.
“We can make a new home.” You’re mine and I’m yours and nothing can come between us. Not ever. Nothing, do you hear me, Charles?
Best friends. For always.
Charles’ fingertips are just barely touching Erik’s arm. I hear you. There is a long pause. We’ll build a new home.
It is agreement.
They are just children, but they make this agreement with the weight of adults. And they intend to keep it.
Rating: PG-13, possibly R for images of war.
Word Count: 3,000
Warnings: Images of war, captivity, torture, underage soldiers.
Notes: An AU, where Charles fought for the British and Erik fought for the Germans. I've played a little fast and loose with ages and with Charles' background, so, fair warning. Unbeta'd, so all errors are mine.
Summary: “Whose idea was it to send a boy into battle?”
“Frankly, sir, I don’t think anyone could have stopped that boy. Not if they tried.”
- - -
==/ PART 1 /==
“Whose idea was it to send a boy into battle?”
“Frankly, sir, I don’t think anyone could have stopped that boy. Not if they tried.”
~*~
There are chess pieces scattered across the carpet in a haphazard pile. Two shoes kicked to the ground, at an odd angle. And a rumpled coverlet at the end of the bed. A small bed: child-size.
This boy lies on his stomach. He is surrounded by tiny toy soldiers. In front of him, the cop-opted chess board, dotted with lines of battle and attack. He peers down at the armies, and imagines the Germans advancing. “We’ll get you, Gerry!” -- and his voice is full of triumph.
In a moment, his father will come home. He will be admonished for the theft of the chess set, and the loss of a pawn (recovered, two days later, in the folds of the coverlet). In a few moments, the quiet little war will be interrupted. But for now, Charles Xavier imagines that he alone will stop the bombs that haven’t yet started falling, send the Germans packing, and triumph for England.
He doesn’t realize how close to the truth this fantasy will be.
~*~
in contrast:
Erik Lensherr sits shivering and alone in a cold, grey room with a cold, grey cot.
Of course, later, it seems that everything he loves is cold and grey too.
~*~
The first inkling that young Charles’ life is about to change comes in the form of two men. One, with a suit and a dignified fedora, one a red-faced sergeant with a uniform Charles doesn’t recognize.
He and his mother sit across the sturdy, hand-crafted wooden table from these dignified men, and Charles thinks that their attention is flatteringly focused on him. He likes that. He likes being noticed.
Niceties are exchanged. A pot of tea is brewed. Charles begins to fidget.
“Charles, we’ve heard that you can do some rather extraordinary things,” says the gentleman in the suit. “Perhaps you would care to demonstrate. Could you tell me what I had for breakfast this morning?”
Of course Charles can. He’s focused on it to the exclusion of everything else. Nothing, nothing, nothing beats like a pulse in the forefront of his mind. “You didn’t have breakfast,” he says. “You ate the rest of your rations last night.”
He glances to his mother. Her eyes are cast away, her fingers curled tight enough around the teacup to turn her knuckles white.
Charles decides to show off.
“What you really want to know,” he says, “is if I can tell where you’re stationed and what it is you do. If I can tell about … radar.” He says this word carefully. He’s never heard it before.
He isn’t prepared for the way the gentleman in the suit stares at him. He isn’t prepared for the poor boy, shouldn’t be like this from the red-faced sergeant. He isn’t prepared for his mother to send him just a single glance, full of appalled pity.
“I’m afraid your son is a security risk,” says the gentleman.
They take Charles away immediately.
Charles is too shocked to stop them.
~*~
“Come with us,” snap the guards as they take Erik’s arms. They manhandle him, roughly. He kicks and bites.
~*~
The battery of tests is exhausting. Day after day, Charles is called upon to guess cards, locate marbles, navigate mazes of passcodes and shadows. But, between every test, the red-faced sergeant takes Charles’ hand and calls him young man while thinking he’s just a boy, he shouldn’t have to do this, he deserves someone to take care of him.
Charles finds himself shaking with unexpected gratitude. He loves the gruff old sergeant immediately.
~*~
Erik’s days are of pain and solitude.
~*~
The first time Charles is left alone, he nearly panics.
He paces, impatiently. Misses the long, polished wood hallways of his mother’s country mansion, if only because they provide more space to move and breathe than this little box tucked away behind the base’s barracks.
He reaches out with his mind, after he’s certain they are several hours late in coming to fetch him.
(He is reluctant to do this, of course. Careless words cost lives. He wants to do his part for the war effort. He doesn’t want to be treasonous. But it’s so very hard for him, not hearing what everyone around is thinking.)
All he feels, in his light touch on the minds of the base, is the rhythm of everyday work.
Charles is distressed. He wonders, for a moment, if this is the work of a fellow telepath. If someone is making the people of the base forget about him.
Eventually, the red-faced sergeant puffs his way to the door and smiles.
“Told them to give you a day off,” he says. “Enjoying yourself? Come on, come on, let’s get you some fresh air.”
Charles is immediately, brilliantly happy. He never should have been worried. He’s safe here.
The sergeant takes Charles on a walk around the base, for the first time since Charles arrived.
Outside, Charles runs in knee-high grass under the watchful gaze of the soldiers nearby. He picks grass and ties it in knots, and pushes ever so gently on the minds of those watching him. He dampens their distrust and enhances their wistful homesickness.
Before long, he’s surrounded on all sides by gentle fondness. Not caution. Not fear.
This is better than home. This is everything young Charles has ever wanted.
~*~
Erik wishes, hopelessly wishes, that he was as unyielding as the metal coin in his palm. He closes his eyes, resolutely, and feels every hateful ridge of the embossed design.
~*~
Charles confronts his first Nazi spy, and delves seamlessly into his mind.
“We found him attempting to buy beer at a pub at 10 AM,” says the man next to Charles. “He claims that he’s a refugee escaping Nazi oppression.”
Charles’ fingers are already at his temple.
“He’s a spy,” announces Charles. “He was dropped off on the coast by a submarine. He was poorly-prepared, doesn’t know very much English, and he believes that the reason he was sent is that the German spy network in England has been destroyed.”
“What else?” asks the man.
Charles continues.
Later, Charles finds out that the man is to be hanged. He protests; he was in that mind, and he felt the man’s motivations. Nothing but the desire to do his duty.
He cries against the sergeant’s shoulder, as the man pats Charles’ back and murmurs, “There, lad.”
Charles reaches out and tries to understand why. He touches on memories of the Great War, buried deep in the sergeant’s memory. Trenches and deafening noises, a hell of mud and blood and sweat and pain.
This stops his tears, finally.
~*~
Erik is tied to a post. Three men take shots at him, one after the other. Metal bullets slipping through the air at a speed too fast to see.
There are dozens of shots.
Only the first two hit their mark.
Erik stays at that post until the last of the marksmen are killed. By their own bullets.
Shaw claps. “Well done, boy,” he says, as Erik is cut down.
These aren’t the first of his guards that he has killed, but, for some reason, it’s this time that stops Erik’s tears. He will never cry again.
~*~
Everything is so busy, reflects Charles.
(It has been six months, now, that he has been reading minds for the British government. He has trained, he has been whipped into physical and mental shape, and now it is time for him to meet the Prime Minister.)
The hallways bustle with men (and women) in uniform. Clipboards. Displays. Charles’ eyes are wide as he tries to take in everything.
The sergeant nudges his shoulder. “Remember, lad. No mindreading in here.”
Ten minutes later, he is hustled into the office of Winston Churchill.
The office clears out of everyone but a few aides, and the red-faced sergeant, who by now Charles knows is, in an unlikely way, an extremely highly-regarded official among the intelligence units.
“Charles Xavier,” introduces one of the aides.
Churchill peers over his desk at Charles. “Our telepath,” he says.
Chrles nods too quickly, his heart beating like a flutter in his chest.
They take seats across from one another. Charles’ legs dangle; he is still so small.
“My generals recommend I send you to the front,” he says. “It will, of course, require revision of several laws stating the minimum age of serving officers. What do you have to say about this, young Xavier?”
Charles takes a deep, shuddery breath. “I w--I want to do my part for the war.” He is absolutely genuine. Truer words have never been spoken.
Churchill leans across and claps him on the shoulder. “Good man,” he says. “Brave of you.”
Charles Xavier, twelve years old, feels his heart swell at those words.
Churchill goes on to tell him that England needs him, that people’s lives are at stake, and he falls all over himself to promise that he’ll do his best. And then Churchill thanks the redfaced sergeant, who leaves with tears of pride in his eyes. Pride for Britain.
~*~
Erik tries to break free, one day. He makes it as far as the building’s doors before a vicious blow knocks him to his knees.
He last remembers the sound of cars, boots stepping over him, on him, a few kicks to his ribs.
Erik stays silent, curled in pain.
Later, he hears that one pair of those boots belonged to Hitler.
~*~
The first time Charles goes to battle, he pukes all over himself.
The shock of the minds all around him … it doesn’t compare to a single man’s memory.
~*~
The first time Erik goes to battle, he singlehandedly diverts it towards victory for the Germans.
It makes him feel powerful.
==/ PART 2 /==
“If there’s one, then there must be more out there.”
~*~
Erik flies.
The secret: steel-tipped boots. Once an instrument of his torture, now a mark of freedom. It’s like standing on tip-toes. With these boots, he soars.
A descending whistle sounds next to him; without thinking, Erik launches himself away from the sound, places a building in between him and the bomb. A blinding flash of light, deafening explosion and Erik takes three steps and launches himself back into the air.
He feels and hears the plane buzzing low over the city.
Erik reaches out and begins to drag it from the sky.
~*~
“Dusseldorf,” says the general. “The city’s rapidly becoming quite a problem for our boys.”
Charles stands across from him, at a conference table, a map display up on one wall attended by a pair of uniformed girls. People give Charles a wide berth. He commands respect. He commands, at the age of thirteen.
“How so?” he asks. He hasn’t kept up with the details of the bombing raids; not quite his purview, is it?
The general coughs. Charles senses a bit of relief -- relief that he attributes to him asking the question out loud, not simply diving into someone’s mind to find the information. Charles knows that about this man: he may enjoy applying the use of telepathy in the abstract, but he strongly dislikes seeing it used in front of him.
Charles doesn’t mind.
Another speaks up. “Not a single plane comes back,” he says. “Not in the past two weeks. The men are starting to refuse running raids on the city.”
“Do we have any information why?” Charles presses. Honestly, telepathy would be so much easier. “A new weapon?”
“No other cities are affected,” says the first general, “so we don’t believe the Germans have developed … early warning capability. We’ve heard no chatter on the radio about a weapon. The planes just seem to … fall from the sky.”
Charles’ heart skips a beat.
“Now you know why we called you,” says the general.
There might be someone else. Someone like him. Someone with the ability to call planes from the sky. “I should go there,” says Charles. “To Dusseldorf.”
They debate, for a time.
Eventually, they agree.
~*~
Erik may not be trusted by the soldiers in Dusseldorf, but he is feared.
This does not make him happy.
~*~
It is in Dusseldorf that Charles lives a thousand years in a single day.
The worst moment of his life.
Bombs crash in the darkened city. Sirens wail. Were it not for the harsh spitting sound of German, it would be just like home. And yet --
The resistance fighters shadow Charles as he moves through the streets. No hesitation. He can feel the Germans long before they arrive. He can sense the terrified, quieted minds in the city. He can feel everything, and it’s trivial work to nudge it all out of his way.
As soon as he understands this, the fighters surrounding him are like puppets. He is not one, he is five, and he has all of their skills and knowledge and experience.
He has only one goal: to find the force pulling the planes out of the sky.
This. This is where Charles realizes. This is where he understands how much power he truly has. How the minds of men, struggling for their families and homes and horrific, misguided ideals are nothing but playthings for him. Little carved toys spread out on a chessboard.
The worst moment of his life.
The moment that Charles realizes he is a god.
~*~
This is the moment when Erik knows there’s something wrong.
The planes are dancing out of reach. There is something keeping them high in the sky, above the flak. High enough that their bombs are inaccurate and haphazard.
He falls on one knee on the top of a house with a sloped roof.
His mind feels strange. Heavy. Like he has to sneeze, but it’s not in his nose, it throbs at the base of his skull.
~*~
Charles finds him.
The difficulty isn’t finding him, of course. Or knowing that he’s there. It’s sifting through the whole mess of minds all clustered close together in awakened terror, crowding the city with the sights and sounds of reality and the gruesome constructions of imagination.
The resistance fighters kill a truck of German firefighters.
Charles reaches out with his mind. He touches Erik. Erik.
Erik, he thinks, over and over again. Erik, Erik Erik.
This is the best moment of his life.
I am not alone.
~*~
Erik feels enemies approaching.
He strikes out, in fury.
~*~
When metal starts whipping around them, a tornado of scrap and nails and car doors and tin cups, Charles freezes their antagonist. Sends him to sleep with a gentle touch of mind to mind.
The resistance fighters gather up the unconscious boy as air raid sirens continue to slice open the air.
~*~
When Erik awakens, it is in a shaking box car. The air is still and stale. Slats of sunlight filter in through dirty glass and dust-crowded air.
For a moment, the memory of worse times flickers through his mind -- herded in, packed together too close to breathe -- but this place smells of nothing but oil, wood, dust. He is not crowded. He is not forced into standing.
He is about to sit up when an arm curls around his chest, from behind.
Erik...
The word comes not from his ears but from his mind.
Erik pulls away, in a single, startled motion, a burst of power making the train car rattle on its tracks. Several others, men dressed in civilian faded-grey, stir at the sound. They go for weapons. Erik throws up a hand and the guns buck, recoil backwards against the walls, twitching away from the hands of their wielders.
Stop. Erik!
Erik turns.
There is a boy, blinking, awakening. A hint younger. Pale blue eyes.
“Who are you?” asks Erik, in German.
“Get him back to sleep!” hisses one of the men.
The boy gestures at the men, and they fall silent and still. His eyes stay on Erik. Erik has the strange feeling that every fiber of his being, every part of him, all of this boy is focused single-mindedly on Erik.
Like how Shaw was.
But …
But, not like Shaw.
~*~
Charles catches the thought, the name, and he slithers quiet and sleek inside Erik’s mind. He sees Shaw. He flinches at the ring of a gunshot. Tears bead in his eyes, and he opens his mind, so hesitantly, to Erik. Communication; it isn’t something he’s attempted often.
You’ve thought you were alone, thinks Charles, to Erik. You’re not, Erik. You’re not alone.
~*~
Erik’s fears and doubts are swept away in a torrent of feeling and impression. You’re not alone. His throat chokes up and tightens.
He cries, as Charles holds him tight.
==/ PART 3 /==
“I’d say we’re building a fair arsenal for the Allies.”
“At this rate, the war will be over by Christmas!”
~*~
Talking is too ungainly. Erik understands that now. Words are crude. There is nothing, nothing to compare to the proper way of communicating.
When he has to talk, Charles can translate. Charles always knows what he means.
~*~
Charles is unwilling to let Erik out of his sight.
On a rattling airplane, they cross the English channel, tense for the sounds of battle. Erik forgoes the seatbelt, ignoring the gesturing and chattering English officers, opting instead to lean against the inside curve of Charles’ shoulder.
Charles holds him close.
And they talk.
~*~
When Erik closes his eyes, he sees the pastoral green of the English countryside, not the pale grey of mud and knit-metal fence.
He sees a woman with too-bold lipstick refusing to look at her son.
He sees a red-faced sergeant.
He’s all too willing to forget his own life, even when he sees the sadness of it reflected in the eyes of his rescuer.
Charles, he thinks. He thinks it over and over again. Charles. Charles. Charles.
~*~
When Charles steps out onto the English airfield, he is a thousand years older than when he left.
Erik follows him like a shadow.
~*~
“Let’s be perfectly frank,” says Churchill. “With the both of you working together, we can end the war. In a matter of weeks, with a minimum of bloodshed.”
Erik is folded in on himself, arms crossed, face tight like he’s trying not to cry.
Charles feels every thought.
He’s right, says Charles.
I don’t want to fight for anyone but me.
How about for me?
Erik sends Charles a startled, vulnerable look. Charles presses: Once this war is over, we’ll be able to do whatever we want. We’ll be free.
Erik doesn’t believe him.
Erik agrees anyway.
~*~
Winning the war is exhilarating.
And terrible.
==/ PART 4 /==
“Soon, the rest of the world will discover these mutations. We won’t have this advantage for long.”
~*~
Charles wants to believe, and, as such, when the British government offers him a permanent job, he wants to accept.
Erik looks him in the eye, with a childish sort of desperation.
“Please don’t,” he says. “Please.”
I can’t really say no...
“You can say whatever you want. We both can.”
England is my home.
“We can make a new home.” You’re mine and I’m yours and nothing can come between us. Not ever. Nothing, do you hear me, Charles?
Best friends. For always.
Charles’ fingertips are just barely touching Erik’s arm. I hear you. There is a long pause. We’ll build a new home.
It is agreement.
They are just children, but they make this agreement with the weight of adults. And they intend to keep it.