X-Men First Class: "On Pragmatism"
Somehow, the Xavier family adopted a ten-year-old girl that they had never seen before. Erik is a little curious. Maybe he's fishing for a particular answer.
Vaguely implied Raven->Charles, vaguely implied Erik/Raven, vaguely implied Charles->Erik? No tangible anything. I am in excellent form as usual.
.on pragmatism.
"She isn't really your sister, is she."
It wasn't a question, although it took the form of one. Charles put on his most charming grin in return, offering, "Do we not look enough alike, Erik?" as if that meant anything.
"I think you'd do better to look more like her."
Erik's gaze was on Raven as he spoke, lingering; appreciative if not lascivious. It did not take a telepath to know that his admiration was not for the blond blue-eyed girl sitting with legs crossed on the bench outside, enjoying a malt with Angel.
"Sorry not to be blue," Charles said, amused.
"You treat her like a sister," Erik said, returning to the topic and in the same beat returning his hawk's gaze to pin Charles in place. "But she does not treat you like a brother."
The observation caught him off-guard. He had never noticed any such treatment. He had always thought he knew Raven well enough to say with confidence that they were like true siblings in every sense that mattered. But he did not read her mind and he did not care to doubt Erik's observational skills -- only the cynicism he seemed so quick to cast on everything.
Still, it wasn't a question, so he set aside that oddity and told him, "No, you're right. She's adopted."
"By your family?"
"By -- me."
He had Erik's attention fully now, and smiled into his tea cup.
"I found her in my kitchen late one night when I was twelve years old. She was in my mother's body, trying to steal food. It was the first time I'd ever met another mutant, so I was excited rather than frightened when I realized she was only impersonating my mother."
If nothing else, his story seemed to amuse Erik. "Brave of you," he said.
There was that cynicism again, as if a rich boy could not have had anything to be afraid of, or as if his sheltered fears were not worthy of the word. Charles only offered him more of a smile.
"I told her she could have whatever she liked, and invited her to stay with us."
"How did your real mother take it?" Erik wanted to know.
This part of the story he was not proud of. Charles paused, taking another sip of his tea, and then set the cup down. "Ah, I -- led them to believe that she was in fact my sister. I had everyone remember that she had been away at a boarding school. No one ever second-guessed me."
There was a brief silence, in which he was uncomfortable, and Erik stirred his tea wordlessly. Charles hastened to add, "I don't compel people lightly, I want you to know that. But it was important to me that they--"
"You don't need to explain yourself, Charles," he said.
There were a lot of compromises that Charles was willing to make for the things that he wanted; for the future that he longed to see. And he was willing to make those compromises without significant remorse. But that didn't mean he couldn't identify, morally, what was right and what was wrong. Using his power to literally get inside someone's head and change their memories, their opinions, their entire world, and thus their future -- that was wrong. To do it to his own family was even callous. And he hadn't regretted it, not then and not now, but he knew it sounded bad.
Or, it should have sounded bad. "It doesn't bother you?" he asked, curious. He was reasonably confident that Erik would be no end of furious if it had been done to him.
Erik shrugged one shoulder, so casual that it ached. "Even if you told them what you are, they wouldn't have understood what it feels like to feel utterly alone, surrounded by other people. And of course you couldn't have turned her out on the street. It was easier on everyone this way. I would've done the same thing."
Charles let his hand fall, tracing the gloss-smooth surface of the table. Erik, my friend, that worries me too, he thought but did not project.
"Ah, of course," he said instead. "You are a pragmatist, my friend."
Erik leaned back in his chair, spreading his arms in gracious acceptance, and nodded. He was supremely benign, perhaps even pleased; Charles did not have to seek out his contentment to feel it, satisfaction unfurling out to brush his senses. He believed that he had been, in some way, proven right.
"A pragmatist," he repeated. "But I wonder if that pragmatism is because you don't have a problem with me tampering with minds provided it's for a good cause -- or because you don't have a problem with me tampering with the minds of humans, period?"
Erik's smile turned up at the edges, his contentment deepening. "Why wonder things you must already know the answer to?"
Charles let his gaze slip over to Raven, leaning close now to the darker girl, at a glance no different than any other pair of young women gossiping in the park.
He just didn't see why that glance had to be wrong. Why they had to be considered worth less -- or more -- because of how they were born, when they looked just like anyone else on the surface.
"I suppose that if you're a pragmatist, then I must be an optimist, that's all," he said, with a rueful smile.
So I couldn't help hoping that you would feel differently.
He lifted his cup again in a salute, and downed the rest of his tea. He told himself that he did not regret the way Erik's warm, curling contentment evaporated like a cloud breaking apart.
Vaguely implied Raven->Charles, vaguely implied Erik/Raven, vaguely implied Charles->Erik? No tangible anything. I am in excellent form as usual.
.on pragmatism.
"She isn't really your sister, is she."
It wasn't a question, although it took the form of one. Charles put on his most charming grin in return, offering, "Do we not look enough alike, Erik?" as if that meant anything.
"I think you'd do better to look more like her."
Erik's gaze was on Raven as he spoke, lingering; appreciative if not lascivious. It did not take a telepath to know that his admiration was not for the blond blue-eyed girl sitting with legs crossed on the bench outside, enjoying a malt with Angel.
"Sorry not to be blue," Charles said, amused.
"You treat her like a sister," Erik said, returning to the topic and in the same beat returning his hawk's gaze to pin Charles in place. "But she does not treat you like a brother."
The observation caught him off-guard. He had never noticed any such treatment. He had always thought he knew Raven well enough to say with confidence that they were like true siblings in every sense that mattered. But he did not read her mind and he did not care to doubt Erik's observational skills -- only the cynicism he seemed so quick to cast on everything.
Still, it wasn't a question, so he set aside that oddity and told him, "No, you're right. She's adopted."
"By your family?"
"By -- me."
He had Erik's attention fully now, and smiled into his tea cup.
"I found her in my kitchen late one night when I was twelve years old. She was in my mother's body, trying to steal food. It was the first time I'd ever met another mutant, so I was excited rather than frightened when I realized she was only impersonating my mother."
If nothing else, his story seemed to amuse Erik. "Brave of you," he said.
There was that cynicism again, as if a rich boy could not have had anything to be afraid of, or as if his sheltered fears were not worthy of the word. Charles only offered him more of a smile.
"I told her she could have whatever she liked, and invited her to stay with us."
"How did your real mother take it?" Erik wanted to know.
This part of the story he was not proud of. Charles paused, taking another sip of his tea, and then set the cup down. "Ah, I -- led them to believe that she was in fact my sister. I had everyone remember that she had been away at a boarding school. No one ever second-guessed me."
There was a brief silence, in which he was uncomfortable, and Erik stirred his tea wordlessly. Charles hastened to add, "I don't compel people lightly, I want you to know that. But it was important to me that they--"
"You don't need to explain yourself, Charles," he said.
There were a lot of compromises that Charles was willing to make for the things that he wanted; for the future that he longed to see. And he was willing to make those compromises without significant remorse. But that didn't mean he couldn't identify, morally, what was right and what was wrong. Using his power to literally get inside someone's head and change their memories, their opinions, their entire world, and thus their future -- that was wrong. To do it to his own family was even callous. And he hadn't regretted it, not then and not now, but he knew it sounded bad.
Or, it should have sounded bad. "It doesn't bother you?" he asked, curious. He was reasonably confident that Erik would be no end of furious if it had been done to him.
Erik shrugged one shoulder, so casual that it ached. "Even if you told them what you are, they wouldn't have understood what it feels like to feel utterly alone, surrounded by other people. And of course you couldn't have turned her out on the street. It was easier on everyone this way. I would've done the same thing."
Charles let his hand fall, tracing the gloss-smooth surface of the table. Erik, my friend, that worries me too, he thought but did not project.
"Ah, of course," he said instead. "You are a pragmatist, my friend."
Erik leaned back in his chair, spreading his arms in gracious acceptance, and nodded. He was supremely benign, perhaps even pleased; Charles did not have to seek out his contentment to feel it, satisfaction unfurling out to brush his senses. He believed that he had been, in some way, proven right.
"A pragmatist," he repeated. "But I wonder if that pragmatism is because you don't have a problem with me tampering with minds provided it's for a good cause -- or because you don't have a problem with me tampering with the minds of humans, period?"
Erik's smile turned up at the edges, his contentment deepening. "Why wonder things you must already know the answer to?"
Charles let his gaze slip over to Raven, leaning close now to the darker girl, at a glance no different than any other pair of young women gossiping in the park.
He just didn't see why that glance had to be wrong. Why they had to be considered worth less -- or more -- because of how they were born, when they looked just like anyone else on the surface.
"I suppose that if you're a pragmatist, then I must be an optimist, that's all," he said, with a rueful smile.
So I couldn't help hoping that you would feel differently.
He lifted his cup again in a salute, and downed the rest of his tea. He told himself that he did not regret the way Erik's warm, curling contentment evaporated like a cloud breaking apart.