[fic] x-men:first class - charles/erik - matter
This is kind of death fic? Do I even need to state that since the first line gives it away? The other WsIP I have are giving me issues right now. Anyway, this is another attempt to at least write something.
Title: Matter
Pairing: Erik/Charles
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1680
Summary: Dystopic Future AU. Still-powered. Charles Xavier dies in Erik’s arms on a small, inconsequential island that’s wiped from the map not long after. Three months later, he turns up on Erik’s sofa.
Notes: Anyhow, this was written for the November prompts via 31_days. Obviously out of compliance. Also, this isn't a Blade Runner AU, but that is where I took the term replicant from. This story follows a non-linear narrative, depending on what the prompt inspires.
1. bodies without organs
Charles Xavier dies in Erik’s arms on a small, inconsequential island that’s wiped from the map not long after. Erik burns Charles’ body, ashes in an already gray world. Three months later, he turns up on Erik’s sofa.
The blood drains from Erik’s face and the door slams shut behind him. The locks slide home with a violent thud that flakes cheap plaster off the unpainted walls. Pipes creak, the wail of metal twisted upon metal. A light bulb overhead bursts, raining a flare of sparks that extinguish before they hit the ground.
“Really, my friend, no need to give me such a dramatic welcome.”
Charles’ voice, his accent down to the inflection, but this is impossible.
“Who the fuck are you?” Erik seethes, picking out every metal object - a watch, one of Charles’, but not the one he favored, the zippers on his jacket, the rivets on his jeans - upon the other’s person and exerting enough force to drag this impostor to his feet. It’s not Mystique. She wouldn’t cross this line and even though Erik’s not yet encountered another with her particular gift, that doesn’t mean she’s singular.
Charles - not Charles, Erik reminds himself firmly, but it doesn’t stick - winces and tries to tug his wrist free. There’s a faint, unusual thrum that Erik can feel, but can’t understand.
“Have you forgotten me that quickly?” Charles asks, tone light but not without bitterness.
To forget Charles is an impossibility. “I don’t know you. You aren’t him. You can’t be,” Erik grits out through clenched teeth.
“But I am,” he says, “in a complicated fashion.”
Erik tightens the metal of the watch, near bone-crushing, and receives a genuine cry of pain. As abruptly, he eases off, removes the watch and warps the parts. The glass face falls to the floor and cracks, the metal lengthening and wrapping around the other man’s neck instead for daring to wear something that once belonged to Charles.
There’s no alarm, even when the metal presses against his windpipe, a threat that Erik will readily follow through with if he doesn’t receive an answer he likes. “I’ll ask one last time. Who are you?”
Shoulders squared, head held high, even in imminent threat. Charles Xavier. I believe you once called me the most maddening being in existence, comes the voice in Erik’s mind, the nuance of reproach achingly familiar.
Erik’s throat closes at the feel of Charles’ presence, as though Erik himself is suffocating.
“You can’t be,” Erik says.
Charles’ expression eases, vulnerable in a way that he doesn’t - didn’t - allow often anymore. “I am, Erik.”
Memory flashes through Erik’s mind. The press of bricks against his back, bruised lips and intoxicating need, their first kiss. He counters with their last, blood everywhere, a desperate collision of their mouths as though he could breathe his own life into Charles and keep him longer.
The look Charles gives Erik would break him were he not already broken. “It’s me,” Charles says.
“How?” Erik asks, barely a whisper. He steps closer, cautious, reaching out to touch Charles like he’s made of broken glass. His skin is warm and his eyelids flutter, breath hitching. It’s been ninety-two days and not one has passed where Erik hasn’t thought of Charles.
Maybe this is simply a sign of insanity.
“It’s… complicated,” Charles says softly, biting his lower lip.
“I’ll try to keep up,” Erik says.
“Are you sure you want -?”
“I need to.”
Charles is silent. Then, words flood Erik’s mind - not words exactly, but not absolute knowledge. He still has to follow. It’s a dizzying experience, has him staggering back and falling into one of his tattered chairs.
At the end, Erik almost wishes he didn’t know.
Humans, fragile in their own skin, had devised the replicants. Weapons to fight on their behalf as their numbers dwindled toward insignificance. Not mere circuitry and wiring, but a part-organic, part-synthetic complex to both mimic and elevate the human condition in all ways except the emotional. And to imitate powers like Charles’ to gather intelligence, though there had been little evident success.
Until now.
Now one stands before Erik wearing Charles’ face. Possessing at least a fraction of Charles’ memories. Revulsion claws through Erik, because of course this is a fucking lie. Worse than that is something Erik buried that day on the beach: a spark of hope, however warped that may be.
“Get out,” Erik says, voice taut, every shield he’s ever learned slamming into place.
“Erik, in all of the ways that matter, I’m still me,” Charles says, pleads almost. “I remember, I -”
“That doesn’t make you him,” Erik snarls, pipes bursting through the walls. He rises to his feet and uses every point he can exert pressure upon to throw the replicant toward the opposite side of the room, as far from himself as possible. “That you even have the fucking audacity to come here - leave.”
The replicant gets to his feet, but doesn’t do as commanded. He looks at Erik, some memory of devastation writ upon his features. Erik clings to the anger coursing through him, lets that be his guiding point. Part of him wants to rip the replicant apart. Part of him wants to believe the lie.
Erik turns and flings the door open. He storms out before he does something he regrets.
--
2. territory
Westchester is far enough outside New York City that it is, in itself, an anomaly.
This is Erik’s first visit. From a distance, Charles guides Erik through the outer checkpoints undetected and beyond. It’s a strange sensation, as though Charles is giving the directions straight to the motor strip of Erik’s brain. He can’t parse the path he’s taking into words, but his feet know where to go.
Charles’ voice curls warm inside Erik’s mind. It’s safest this way.
That doesn’t make it any less bizarre, Erik returns.
Erik loses track of time, but the sun is starting to set as he reaches his destination. The Xavier estate must have been beautiful once, when the barren land was lush and everything stood intact. Erik reaches the hollowed out shell of the mansion. It’s almost impossible to fathom this was occupied by one family alone, since based on eyed dimensions Erik imagines it could hold a small army.
It was beautiful, Charles confirms, accompanied by a flat image, but that was far before my time.
Charles leads Erik to a hidden entrance that takes him underground. If he trusted Charles any less, Erik would draw the line there. Instead, he steps into an elevator that takes him further into the earth. As it is, his agitation is limited to a slight reverberation through the floors and walls as soon as he steps into a corridor.
I appreciate your restraint, Charles thinks wryly.
Unlike yours, my patience is finite. Don’t waste it, Erik returns.
Charles gives Erik the mental equivalent of an eye roll. Of my many attributes, patience is not the one which is infinite.
Charles otherwise remains quiet until Erik’s stopped outside a set of doors made of a heavy alloy with which he isn’t wholly familiar. Curiosity distracts him until the doors slide open and Charles stands before him. “Secondary adamantium,” Charles says.
“Impressive,” Erik says, attention returned to Charles. There are lines of exhaustion in his features, dark half-moons beneath his eyes. He seems alert, but still. “You, on the other hand.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Erik,” Charles says dryly. “Come inside.”
For a brief moment, Erik grins at the back of Charles’ head, though Erik’s expression sobers as he follows Charles. The spherical room is vaster than Erik expects. It hums with energy, both pleasant and not. A million points of minute pressure against Erik’s skin increase already present tension, keep him drawn taut. He doesn’t slow as Charles leads him across a suspended walkway, up a few steps to the central platform.
“This is Cerebro,” Charles says, as though Erik needs to be introduced to the machine. He’s aware of at least one of Cerebro’s primary capability -- it amplifies Charles’ telepathy to a point where his reach is almost anywhere on the planet. The concept is both disquieting and promising, depending on the situation.
“You built this?” Erik asks, walking around the console.
“It’s been a joint effort. Hank did a lot of the preliminary design, which I expanded upon, then we’ve been constructing from there. It’s still a work in progress,” Charles says.
“You helped me get out of Tel Aviv and across the Atlantic. Seems pretty functional,” Erik says.
“It’s not yet as stable as I would like,” Charles says.
“But you’re using it anyway,” Erik says.
“It’s functional, as you said, but I tend to aim higher than that,” Charles says. “I know that’s a sentiment you understand.”
Erik nods, because he does. “And you need my help,” he says.
“Would like is more apt,” Charles says.
“Technicalities.”
“So, you’ll stay?” Charles asks.
Erik would have stayed, at least for a little while, simply because Charles asked. “I’m here. Why not?”
Charles’ lips quirk into a bright smile. “Let me show you to your room.”
--
There is a staggering sense of community in Westchester. Erik had no idea Charles had gathered quite so many to him. Their physical encounters have only been in passing after the labs, since Erik was often on the move and Charles has only recently made up his mind about Erik, which is both irritating and, to some degree, understandable, especially when he discovers how fucking young some of the children under Charles’ protection are.
“How did the younger kids all end up here?” Erik asks over chess later that night.
“I found and brought them here,” Charles says. “To protect them.”
“Hidden away from the rest of the world,” Erik says.
“But not wholly disconnected,” Charles says. “This is just home at the end of the day.”
It won’t last, Erik thinks. Nothing ever does.
This can, Charles returns, if you give it a chance.
“Checkmate,” Charles says aloud. “Up for a rematch?”
“Always,” Erik says and begins to reset the board.
--
Title: Matter
Pairing: Erik/Charles
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1680
Summary: Dystopic Future AU. Still-powered. Charles Xavier dies in Erik’s arms on a small, inconsequential island that’s wiped from the map not long after. Three months later, he turns up on Erik’s sofa.
Notes: Anyhow, this was written for the November prompts via 31_days. Obviously out of compliance. Also, this isn't a Blade Runner AU, but that is where I took the term replicant from. This story follows a non-linear narrative, depending on what the prompt inspires.
1. bodies without organs
Charles Xavier dies in Erik’s arms on a small, inconsequential island that’s wiped from the map not long after. Erik burns Charles’ body, ashes in an already gray world. Three months later, he turns up on Erik’s sofa.
The blood drains from Erik’s face and the door slams shut behind him. The locks slide home with a violent thud that flakes cheap plaster off the unpainted walls. Pipes creak, the wail of metal twisted upon metal. A light bulb overhead bursts, raining a flare of sparks that extinguish before they hit the ground.
“Really, my friend, no need to give me such a dramatic welcome.”
Charles’ voice, his accent down to the inflection, but this is impossible.
“Who the fuck are you?” Erik seethes, picking out every metal object - a watch, one of Charles’, but not the one he favored, the zippers on his jacket, the rivets on his jeans - upon the other’s person and exerting enough force to drag this impostor to his feet. It’s not Mystique. She wouldn’t cross this line and even though Erik’s not yet encountered another with her particular gift, that doesn’t mean she’s singular.
Charles - not Charles, Erik reminds himself firmly, but it doesn’t stick - winces and tries to tug his wrist free. There’s a faint, unusual thrum that Erik can feel, but can’t understand.
“Have you forgotten me that quickly?” Charles asks, tone light but not without bitterness.
To forget Charles is an impossibility. “I don’t know you. You aren’t him. You can’t be,” Erik grits out through clenched teeth.
“But I am,” he says, “in a complicated fashion.”
Erik tightens the metal of the watch, near bone-crushing, and receives a genuine cry of pain. As abruptly, he eases off, removes the watch and warps the parts. The glass face falls to the floor and cracks, the metal lengthening and wrapping around the other man’s neck instead for daring to wear something that once belonged to Charles.
There’s no alarm, even when the metal presses against his windpipe, a threat that Erik will readily follow through with if he doesn’t receive an answer he likes. “I’ll ask one last time. Who are you?”
Shoulders squared, head held high, even in imminent threat. Charles Xavier. I believe you once called me the most maddening being in existence, comes the voice in Erik’s mind, the nuance of reproach achingly familiar.
Erik’s throat closes at the feel of Charles’ presence, as though Erik himself is suffocating.
“You can’t be,” Erik says.
Charles’ expression eases, vulnerable in a way that he doesn’t - didn’t - allow often anymore. “I am, Erik.”
Memory flashes through Erik’s mind. The press of bricks against his back, bruised lips and intoxicating need, their first kiss. He counters with their last, blood everywhere, a desperate collision of their mouths as though he could breathe his own life into Charles and keep him longer.
The look Charles gives Erik would break him were he not already broken. “It’s me,” Charles says.
“How?” Erik asks, barely a whisper. He steps closer, cautious, reaching out to touch Charles like he’s made of broken glass. His skin is warm and his eyelids flutter, breath hitching. It’s been ninety-two days and not one has passed where Erik hasn’t thought of Charles.
Maybe this is simply a sign of insanity.
“It’s… complicated,” Charles says softly, biting his lower lip.
“I’ll try to keep up,” Erik says.
“Are you sure you want -?”
“I need to.”
Charles is silent. Then, words flood Erik’s mind - not words exactly, but not absolute knowledge. He still has to follow. It’s a dizzying experience, has him staggering back and falling into one of his tattered chairs.
At the end, Erik almost wishes he didn’t know.
Humans, fragile in their own skin, had devised the replicants. Weapons to fight on their behalf as their numbers dwindled toward insignificance. Not mere circuitry and wiring, but a part-organic, part-synthetic complex to both mimic and elevate the human condition in all ways except the emotional. And to imitate powers like Charles’ to gather intelligence, though there had been little evident success.
Until now.
Now one stands before Erik wearing Charles’ face. Possessing at least a fraction of Charles’ memories. Revulsion claws through Erik, because of course this is a fucking lie. Worse than that is something Erik buried that day on the beach: a spark of hope, however warped that may be.
“Get out,” Erik says, voice taut, every shield he’s ever learned slamming into place.
“Erik, in all of the ways that matter, I’m still me,” Charles says, pleads almost. “I remember, I -”
“That doesn’t make you him,” Erik snarls, pipes bursting through the walls. He rises to his feet and uses every point he can exert pressure upon to throw the replicant toward the opposite side of the room, as far from himself as possible. “That you even have the fucking audacity to come here - leave.”
The replicant gets to his feet, but doesn’t do as commanded. He looks at Erik, some memory of devastation writ upon his features. Erik clings to the anger coursing through him, lets that be his guiding point. Part of him wants to rip the replicant apart. Part of him wants to believe the lie.
Erik turns and flings the door open. He storms out before he does something he regrets.
--
2. territory
Westchester is far enough outside New York City that it is, in itself, an anomaly.
This is Erik’s first visit. From a distance, Charles guides Erik through the outer checkpoints undetected and beyond. It’s a strange sensation, as though Charles is giving the directions straight to the motor strip of Erik’s brain. He can’t parse the path he’s taking into words, but his feet know where to go.
Charles’ voice curls warm inside Erik’s mind. It’s safest this way.
That doesn’t make it any less bizarre, Erik returns.
Erik loses track of time, but the sun is starting to set as he reaches his destination. The Xavier estate must have been beautiful once, when the barren land was lush and everything stood intact. Erik reaches the hollowed out shell of the mansion. It’s almost impossible to fathom this was occupied by one family alone, since based on eyed dimensions Erik imagines it could hold a small army.
It was beautiful, Charles confirms, accompanied by a flat image, but that was far before my time.
Charles leads Erik to a hidden entrance that takes him underground. If he trusted Charles any less, Erik would draw the line there. Instead, he steps into an elevator that takes him further into the earth. As it is, his agitation is limited to a slight reverberation through the floors and walls as soon as he steps into a corridor.
I appreciate your restraint, Charles thinks wryly.
Unlike yours, my patience is finite. Don’t waste it, Erik returns.
Charles gives Erik the mental equivalent of an eye roll. Of my many attributes, patience is not the one which is infinite.
Charles otherwise remains quiet until Erik’s stopped outside a set of doors made of a heavy alloy with which he isn’t wholly familiar. Curiosity distracts him until the doors slide open and Charles stands before him. “Secondary adamantium,” Charles says.
“Impressive,” Erik says, attention returned to Charles. There are lines of exhaustion in his features, dark half-moons beneath his eyes. He seems alert, but still. “You, on the other hand.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Erik,” Charles says dryly. “Come inside.”
For a brief moment, Erik grins at the back of Charles’ head, though Erik’s expression sobers as he follows Charles. The spherical room is vaster than Erik expects. It hums with energy, both pleasant and not. A million points of minute pressure against Erik’s skin increase already present tension, keep him drawn taut. He doesn’t slow as Charles leads him across a suspended walkway, up a few steps to the central platform.
“This is Cerebro,” Charles says, as though Erik needs to be introduced to the machine. He’s aware of at least one of Cerebro’s primary capability -- it amplifies Charles’ telepathy to a point where his reach is almost anywhere on the planet. The concept is both disquieting and promising, depending on the situation.
“You built this?” Erik asks, walking around the console.
“It’s been a joint effort. Hank did a lot of the preliminary design, which I expanded upon, then we’ve been constructing from there. It’s still a work in progress,” Charles says.
“You helped me get out of Tel Aviv and across the Atlantic. Seems pretty functional,” Erik says.
“It’s not yet as stable as I would like,” Charles says.
“But you’re using it anyway,” Erik says.
“It’s functional, as you said, but I tend to aim higher than that,” Charles says. “I know that’s a sentiment you understand.”
Erik nods, because he does. “And you need my help,” he says.
“Would like is more apt,” Charles says.
“Technicalities.”
“So, you’ll stay?” Charles asks.
Erik would have stayed, at least for a little while, simply because Charles asked. “I’m here. Why not?”
Charles’ lips quirk into a bright smile. “Let me show you to your room.”
--
There is a staggering sense of community in Westchester. Erik had no idea Charles had gathered quite so many to him. Their physical encounters have only been in passing after the labs, since Erik was often on the move and Charles has only recently made up his mind about Erik, which is both irritating and, to some degree, understandable, especially when he discovers how fucking young some of the children under Charles’ protection are.
“How did the younger kids all end up here?” Erik asks over chess later that night.
“I found and brought them here,” Charles says. “To protect them.”
“Hidden away from the rest of the world,” Erik says.
“But not wholly disconnected,” Charles says. “This is just home at the end of the day.”
It won’t last, Erik thinks. Nothing ever does.
This can, Charles returns, if you give it a chance.
“Checkmate,” Charles says aloud. “Up for a rematch?”
“Always,” Erik says and begins to reset the board.
--