If The Fates Allow- Charles/Erik (X-Men)
Author’s note: Here is some Christmas Charles/Erik angst. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the Christmas episode of X-Men: The Animated Series. It’s kind of an amusing mess of hilarious weirdness and a forced moral message, but at the end, Charles is alone in his room, and it just made me want to write a fic like this. I apologise for the sadness, but I hope you like it.
If The Fates Allow
“But I expect it’s only a matter of time before Nightcrawler joins us here with Magneto and the others. It’s going to be magnificent when we’re all living under one roof at last, don’t you think?”- Charles Xavier, Ultimate X-Men, Volume 2: Return to Weapon X.
Some day soon,
We all will be together,
If the fates allow,
Until then, we’ll have to muddle through somehow.
- Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas
Professor Xavier does not think that anybody- human, mutant or otherwise- should be alone at Christmas time.
Even those who do not celebrate Christmas, or celebrate anything at all, cannot be oblivious to that sentiment of peace and forgiveness. The air tastes different, and lights do something strange to the centre of your chest; there is something different in the scent that divides the pine tree throughout the rest of the year from the Christmas tree. Chocolate tastes different, as does wine. People may protest that Christmas Day is just another day, but it is not.
Perhaps, he thinks, it’s that he’s getting too sentimental in his old age. That must be what happens to a little boy, and a very loved one at that, spending his first few Christmases in a mansion with an adoring mother and father. Snow in Westchester was always something to behold. To have that, and then to lose with it with the death of his father, and his poor mother’s deterioration, seems to have given him a burning desire to have it again, to recreate it for his children, his X-Men. A part of him knows that it is ridiculous to place such sentimental value upon a tree, a large meal and cold weather. But he cannot help it. Christmas just is, and shall remain, special.
That is not to say that the mansion has been without stresses throughout the day. All families, even the ones brought together through a common ostracism and with few blood ties, have fights on Christmas Day. Logan grows restless and frustrated, and becomes very vocal about what he thinks about Scott’s carol singing, and Jean gets defensive. Remy does not anticipate how upset that Anna Marie would be with the proffering of mistletoe, and Jubilation grows homesick and doesn’t know why, for the mansion is her first real home, and cries, and Ororo has to take her upstairs to calm her down. Hank is silent, but seems to examine his hands and his feet too closely, and Charles does not need to intrude upon anyone’s thoughts to understand. Little children often weep on Christmas afternoon, because the excitement and the happiness is just too much. It’s the same for his children; they have held so much in for, for so long, for all their lives, and to feel such intense happiness and togetherness so quickly is emotionally exhausting.
By the time darkness falls, everyone congregates by the fireplace, and slumps against one another in a tiredness that becomes contentedness. Jean makes everybody hot chocolate, Logan apologises, albeit under his breath, then hugs Jubilation like he’s her father. Remy interlinks his fingers with Marie’s gloved own. Charles sips his beverage, and gazes into the flames, but for all his pretence of Christmas cheer and comfort, he cannot take his mind off one individual. That individual is Erik Lehnsherr.
Charles wishes that there was something that could keep him out, but it has been almost five decades, and he’s yet to discover anything that will do it. God knows for the first few months he thought that alcohol might do the trick, if he could only drink enough. When it failed, he threw himself into his teaching, into bettering the next generation in the hope that they would never feel this pain, never leave their loved one nor go through being left by them. It’s unfair. Erik has the helmet to keep Charles out, but what does Charles himself have?
He has never quite been able to stop trying, and he tries again tonight. Perhaps tonight it will be different. It’s Christmas night. He puts his half-empty mug down on the nearby coffee table, the noise attracting the attention of Jean, who looks at him concernedly. She has never ventured inside his mind without his consent, but she has accustomed herself to the sounds and feels of his emotional range, and she can sense that he is not as happy tonight as he might appear. He knows that she knows, so he tries to manoeuvre his wheelchair away from her quickly, but she puts a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m fine,” he says, without her having to ask, “I’m tired. I think I’ll get an early night.”
Some of the others glance over, and wish him a goodnight; some keep looking at the fire. Remy has fallen asleep, his head on Marie’s lap, and she is gently combing his hair with her covered fingers. Charles smiles at them. This is what he taught them for; to overcome the problems that their mutations pose and… well, he supposes nothing can stop love, if the lovers are sincere. His must never have been, or metal and stubbornness wouldn’t keep them apart.
He is sitting alone in his bedroom when he tries. He presses two fingers to his temple- something he hasn’t really had to do, in years, when reading anyone else, but he finds it strengthens and widens his range when he is trying to contact Erik. But, as ever, there is nothing. It’s like white noise, static, and the absence of anything solid hurts, so he has to let go. He rubs his forehead with his hands, and contemplates what he could do. It is at times like this when he realises the underlying mundanity of his relationship with Erik. He sees him more than divided lovers, and supposed nemeses, ever should see one another. He can telephone him should he chose to. It seems so absurd that it is so easy, and yet so difficult.
He sits for a long time before he makes his decision. He picks up and the phone and dials the number that his been committed to his memory since the first time he read it. Each ring seems to last for much longer than he feels it should. Nobody picks up. Perhaps he is glad. Addressing an answering machine is much easier.
“Erik,” he says, and finds himself slightly breathless, “I’m sorry for my contacting you. I know you’re very busy. Only I… well, it’s Christmas. And I know that means nothing to you, but… I hate to think of you alone.” He pauses, and sighs. “Perhaps it isn’t that. My motives are never so simple, are they? Perhaps it’s that I am alone. Alone in a house full of people. How can that be possible, Erik? Yet it is. I’m alone, and a part of me wants you to be, also. I want to be the only person who can make you feel less alone. You always said I was selfish.”
He stops again. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know why he is making this telephone call at all.
“Oh, Erik.” he murmurs, “What happened to us? Why can’t we all be together, under the same roof?” But there is no one there to answer. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t… oh, Hell. Happy Christmas, Magneto.” He hangs up and regrets every word.
“I love you,” he says, into the empty room.
* * *
If The Fates Allow
“But I expect it’s only a matter of time before Nightcrawler joins us here with Magneto and the others. It’s going to be magnificent when we’re all living under one roof at last, don’t you think?”- Charles Xavier, Ultimate X-Men, Volume 2: Return to Weapon X.
Some day soon,
We all will be together,
If the fates allow,
Until then, we’ll have to muddle through somehow.
- Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas
Professor Xavier does not think that anybody- human, mutant or otherwise- should be alone at Christmas time.
Even those who do not celebrate Christmas, or celebrate anything at all, cannot be oblivious to that sentiment of peace and forgiveness. The air tastes different, and lights do something strange to the centre of your chest; there is something different in the scent that divides the pine tree throughout the rest of the year from the Christmas tree. Chocolate tastes different, as does wine. People may protest that Christmas Day is just another day, but it is not.
Perhaps, he thinks, it’s that he’s getting too sentimental in his old age. That must be what happens to a little boy, and a very loved one at that, spending his first few Christmases in a mansion with an adoring mother and father. Snow in Westchester was always something to behold. To have that, and then to lose with it with the death of his father, and his poor mother’s deterioration, seems to have given him a burning desire to have it again, to recreate it for his children, his X-Men. A part of him knows that it is ridiculous to place such sentimental value upon a tree, a large meal and cold weather. But he cannot help it. Christmas just is, and shall remain, special.
That is not to say that the mansion has been without stresses throughout the day. All families, even the ones brought together through a common ostracism and with few blood ties, have fights on Christmas Day. Logan grows restless and frustrated, and becomes very vocal about what he thinks about Scott’s carol singing, and Jean gets defensive. Remy does not anticipate how upset that Anna Marie would be with the proffering of mistletoe, and Jubilation grows homesick and doesn’t know why, for the mansion is her first real home, and cries, and Ororo has to take her upstairs to calm her down. Hank is silent, but seems to examine his hands and his feet too closely, and Charles does not need to intrude upon anyone’s thoughts to understand. Little children often weep on Christmas afternoon, because the excitement and the happiness is just too much. It’s the same for his children; they have held so much in for, for so long, for all their lives, and to feel such intense happiness and togetherness so quickly is emotionally exhausting.
By the time darkness falls, everyone congregates by the fireplace, and slumps against one another in a tiredness that becomes contentedness. Jean makes everybody hot chocolate, Logan apologises, albeit under his breath, then hugs Jubilation like he’s her father. Remy interlinks his fingers with Marie’s gloved own. Charles sips his beverage, and gazes into the flames, but for all his pretence of Christmas cheer and comfort, he cannot take his mind off one individual. That individual is Erik Lehnsherr.
Charles wishes that there was something that could keep him out, but it has been almost five decades, and he’s yet to discover anything that will do it. God knows for the first few months he thought that alcohol might do the trick, if he could only drink enough. When it failed, he threw himself into his teaching, into bettering the next generation in the hope that they would never feel this pain, never leave their loved one nor go through being left by them. It’s unfair. Erik has the helmet to keep Charles out, but what does Charles himself have?
He has never quite been able to stop trying, and he tries again tonight. Perhaps tonight it will be different. It’s Christmas night. He puts his half-empty mug down on the nearby coffee table, the noise attracting the attention of Jean, who looks at him concernedly. She has never ventured inside his mind without his consent, but she has accustomed herself to the sounds and feels of his emotional range, and she can sense that he is not as happy tonight as he might appear. He knows that she knows, so he tries to manoeuvre his wheelchair away from her quickly, but she puts a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m fine,” he says, without her having to ask, “I’m tired. I think I’ll get an early night.”
Some of the others glance over, and wish him a goodnight; some keep looking at the fire. Remy has fallen asleep, his head on Marie’s lap, and she is gently combing his hair with her covered fingers. Charles smiles at them. This is what he taught them for; to overcome the problems that their mutations pose and… well, he supposes nothing can stop love, if the lovers are sincere. His must never have been, or metal and stubbornness wouldn’t keep them apart.
He is sitting alone in his bedroom when he tries. He presses two fingers to his temple- something he hasn’t really had to do, in years, when reading anyone else, but he finds it strengthens and widens his range when he is trying to contact Erik. But, as ever, there is nothing. It’s like white noise, static, and the absence of anything solid hurts, so he has to let go. He rubs his forehead with his hands, and contemplates what he could do. It is at times like this when he realises the underlying mundanity of his relationship with Erik. He sees him more than divided lovers, and supposed nemeses, ever should see one another. He can telephone him should he chose to. It seems so absurd that it is so easy, and yet so difficult.
He sits for a long time before he makes his decision. He picks up and the phone and dials the number that his been committed to his memory since the first time he read it. Each ring seems to last for much longer than he feels it should. Nobody picks up. Perhaps he is glad. Addressing an answering machine is much easier.
“Erik,” he says, and finds himself slightly breathless, “I’m sorry for my contacting you. I know you’re very busy. Only I… well, it’s Christmas. And I know that means nothing to you, but… I hate to think of you alone.” He pauses, and sighs. “Perhaps it isn’t that. My motives are never so simple, are they? Perhaps it’s that I am alone. Alone in a house full of people. How can that be possible, Erik? Yet it is. I’m alone, and a part of me wants you to be, also. I want to be the only person who can make you feel less alone. You always said I was selfish.”
He stops again. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know why he is making this telephone call at all.
“Oh, Erik.” he murmurs, “What happened to us? Why can’t we all be together, under the same roof?” But there is no one there to answer. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t… oh, Hell. Happy Christmas, Magneto.” He hangs up and regrets every word.
“I love you,” he says, into the empty room.
* * *