[fic] In which Charles actually has a twin brother, who now wants to kick Erik's ass (7/?)
Title: In which Charles actually has a twin brother, who now wants to kick Erik's ass (7/?)
Pairing: Charles/Erik (eventually)
Rating: PG-13
Chapter word count: 3485
Warnings: er allusions to war and PTSD, explicit language?
Summary: Wesley didn’t want much out of life, but what he wanted the most was for Charles and Raven to be safe and happy. So he was rightfully displeased when he heard the message left on his emergency line, and by someone distinctly not Charles or Raven.
(XMFC/Wanted crossover)
Notes: Still unbeta'd.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6
Chapter 7 - Charles
Charles woke in the wax bath with the unpleasant realization that his brother was not in Miami, but in fact, a thousand miles away in Chicago. His usual reach tended to be around three hundred miles, but with Wesley, sending his mind to his twin’s had become as simple as breathing, and he did so now.
He discovered Wesley in the process of choking Erik, and quite panicked, began shouting at him to stop.
Was it too much to ask for you to be present when I woke up? Charles asked once Wesley had let Erik go.
He was answered immediately by the wave of contriteness.
You couldn’t have expected me not to go after him, Wesley grouched.
Charles sighed inwardly. I was hoping you wouldn’t. You’re better than that, Wesley.
Doesn’t mean I want to be. Besides, it’s not like I was going to kill him.
Are you sure about that? It certainly seemed like you were.
I wasn’t. You know I don’t kill unless the Loom tells me to.
Charles winced at Wesley’s sharp indignation and immediately sent a wave of calm and apology to his brother.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. Just…please come back? And don’t hurt anyone?
Charles frowned at the guilty flashes of memory that rose in Wesley’s mind-the two mutants he’d knocked out before finding Erik. Charles sighed and told himself to be glad that at least, no one was bleeding-or dying.
Through Wesley, he could see Erik in the apartment room. He was right in the periphery of Wesley’s vision, slumped against the wall and gasping for air. Charles pulled his attention away from him, trying to focus solely on Wesley’s mind.
He was torn as to how to feel towards Erik now. The bullet had been an accident, despite Wesley’s hostility towards him and Moira. But the helmet, and the missiles, and what Erik wanted to do…Charles couldn’t be a part of that, not even for Erik.
It wasn’t wholly anger he felt at Erik, but betrayal and frustration was definitely there, souring in the pit of his stomach, though time, distance, and rationality were easing them.
However he felt though, at that moment, stuck in a bath of wax, he simply wanted everyone unharmed and his brother back with him, to be there in case something-everything-does go awry.
I’m getting back soon, Wesley told him. You should be sleeping, Charlie. It’ll make the time pass faster; you’re going to be in there for a while.
I will. Charles hesitated before adding, Will you tell Raven she’ll always be welcome at home? Even just to visit.
…yeah, okay. Go to sleep, Charles.
Yes, yes, I will.
And Charles had fully intended to do so, if not for the rush of melancholy he sensed from Wesley ten, fifteen minutes later.
Oh Wesley, Charles said, once he’d read the conversation his brother was having with Raven.
The events leading up to Cuba, and Raven’s departure, had driven the point home; he had failed at being a brother, a family member, for Raven. He had been so focused on so many other-things, that he hadn’t paid attention to what was in front of him, hadn’t given his sister the attention she’d deserved.
He thought that Wesley could be right, that perhaps something went wrong after Wesley returned from Chicago twelve years ago, or after Korea-those several, awful years blended together so much, cornerstones in their lives that shaped them indelibly. Those years after Wesley returned and the war, they had been so wrapped around each other, and then in how to handle the world around them. They hadn’t talked to Raven nearly enough.
…and Wesley had had a point, about the effects of cutting Raven from his perception, shameful as it was for Charles.
He asked of Wesley, Will you please tell her I’m sorry?
He lingered on the periphery of Wesley’s mind until Wesley left Raven, plans for the trip back to Miami forming.
When Charles finally sensed Wesley back in Miami, some of the tension he’d felt after finding Wesley gone left his body. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and stared up at the paint-chipped ceiling. He let his mind wander out to those surrounding him nearby-Mr. Pekwarsky reading a novel in the living room, the woman next door wondering writing up a list of groceries to buy, the group of students a floor above them furiously cramming for an exam, the man loitering on the roof to smoke a cigarette. He used to do this often, to put himself outside of his mind, to pretend to be another person for a short while; it was almost like meditation, but rather than emptying his mind, he filled it with the thoughts of others.
No more than an hour passed before Wesley was climbing the stairs up to the apartment.
“Wesley, was that really necessary?” Charles said the moment Wesley appeared in the doorway. He couldn’t help but scold his brother again.
“I always do what’s necessary, Charles,” Wesley said. Charles gave him a Look. “Most of the time.”
Charles sighed and said, “I don’t need you to-to defend my honor or whatever you were trying to accomplish.”
It could very well be true. Wesley certainly knew from his memories how Charles felt about Erik. It was probably partially why Erik was still alive and less injured that he might’ve been-other than Wesley’s code of morality.
Wesley scoffed. “You know why I did what I did. Besides, I like telling people when they’re being stupid.”
“Wesley,” Charles chided him.
His brother blithely shrugged before plunking down on the tile floor, right by the tub.
Wesley eyed him speculatively before saying, “Do I need to tell you what you did that was stupid or are you already digging yourself into a hole?”
Charles groaned, thumping the back of his head against the end of the tub.
“Hey! Don’t do that,” scolded Wesley, reaching out and pressing his hand to the back of Charles’ head. “We don’t need you getting brain damage as well.”
Charles breathed in and out slowly, pressing back against Wesley’s touch. Wesley’s fingers threaded through his hair, cradling the back of his head and offering him steadiness and reassurance.
“I made an ass of myself,” Charles said, closing his eyes. “Especially towards Raven.”
“A bit,” Wesley said wryly.
“I can’t function without my telepathy. It’s terrible.”
Without his telepathy, he was like a blind man; he hadn’t realized how much of a handicap it was until now, how he would always, always, say the wrong things when unable to read off another person’s mind.
“It’s part of who you are, Charlie. It’s not like you can shut it off,” Wesley said. “But yeah, you might want to work on your people skills.”
“…it’s horrifying, not being able to sense a person’s mind. Raven, I still could sense her mind there, existing. But that helmet…it’s just a hole in my perception.”
Even recalling it, Charles would have shuddered if he could have so without disturbing the wax. He’d been left reeling from fighting off Shaw’s mind, keeping himself from following Shaw over the ledge to death. And then, to continue to feel the hole in his perception that had been Erik’s strong, structured mind, all while his mental shields were torn down, was devastating.
“Want me to get rid of it?” Wesley asked.
Charles frowned, eyeing his brother from the corner of his eyes.
Oh, he was tempted. That helmet was distressing, was Shaw’s. It shouldn’t be in Erik’s hands.
But it wasn’t for Charles to decide. Erik had made his choice, and the message had been painfully clear.
“No, please don’t antagonize him.”
Wesley made a derisive grunt, but continued to press his fingers against Charles’ scalp soothingly.
Despite himself, Charles’ mind wandered again back to Cuba, back to the soldiers on the ships and Erik.
Erik, who used his spectacular power to stop the hundreds of missiles fired in the air with but a hand…and then turned them back on the soldiers, leaving Charles to scramble through the ruins of his shields and the tatters of his mind for self-control, for words to say even as he had struggled to simply stay upright and walking. He had, of course, said the worst thing imaginable.
“They’re just following orders?” Wesley remarked, as if he was the one who could read minds.
“It was a stupid thing to say,” Charles said, avoiding his eyes.
“…you were thinking about Korea,” Wesley said, not even questioning it.
Charles squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push the memories away.
“I just-I couldn’t think,” he murmured, though Wesley knew fully what that day had been like for him. Charles had shown it to him after all. “The soldiers on the ships, I could hear every one of the, shouting, praying, and-it was like Korea all over again.”
He could recall it all in his mind so clearly, clearer that he had in years. The doors he’d locked on those memories had been blown off their hinges after Shaw. The stench of blood and dirt, gun smoke and fire, the mud squelching under his boots and smearing on his hands, the sweat dripping down his face and into his eyes, the scratch of his uniform against his irritated skin, the screams and cries that not only reached his ears, but filled his head, begging to be saved, to be found, to live, to die, to-
“Charles!”
Wesley’s voice.
Charles gasped, sucking in as much air as possible, and reached out for Wesley’s mind. Using his brother as an anchor, he pulled himself back to reality, hurriedly throwing up a door on Korea.
When he was finally fully in the present, he realized that Wesley was leaning over the tub’s side. His forehead was pressed to Charles’ temple, and he held Charles’ head between his two hands.
“Shhh, easy, Charlie,” Wesley murmured. “I’m here. You’re here with me. You’re safe. No one’s in danger.”
Charles let Wesley’s voice wash over him as he slowed down his breathing and his racing heart.
“I’m sorry,” he said, when he could finally speak again.
Wesley huffed, lightly butting his head against Charles.
“Don’t apologize, Charles,” Wesley said. “…you’re going to have to fix those locks.”
“I know. I haven’t had the chance,” he replied.
He sighed and let himself sink into Wesley’s mind, simply sitting in its embrace. He tried not to feel bereft when Wesley drew away from his awkward kneeling position. At least, one of Wesley’s hands remained, threading through his hair again.
“Tell me about how you’ve been?” he asked of him, not wanting to think about his own troubles now.
Wesley nodded and obliged him, telling him very clearly both in his head and aloud what he’d seen and done since they’d seen each other last. Charles hated killing, but he had long since accepted Wesley’s job, the role whatever greater powers that existed had handed down to him. His brother’s job was important, and Charles was content to feel Wesley’s self-assurance and own satisfaction at helping others in his preemptive manner.
Wesley continued talking, Charles interjecting with comments, until their hunger couldn’t be ignored any longer and Wesley went to get them food.
Later that night, Charles woke up to, at that moment, the most wonderful feeling in the world-his foot itched. With a gasp, he jerked upright from his reclined position, breaking the thin layer of wax on the surface of the water to fragments.
He could feel his legs.
He felt the water against his skin, his hand shakily touching his right knee. He shifted his left leg, but he felt a strain in his thigh. Instead, he gingerly bent his right leg, pulling his knee up to the water’s surface. He looked at it, watched around the shards of wax as he straightened and bent his leg again.
Just to check, eyes still fixed on his legs, Charles more consciously reached for the minds around him, in particular, Wesley’s, his ever-reliable anchor to reality.
And yes, he wasn’t dreaming. This was real.
He could feel his legs.
He barely managed to choke back a sob.
Wesley, light sleeper as always, startled awake.
“Charles,” he said, before surging forward just as Charles reached for him. And then they were embracing, Charles pressing his cheek against his brother’s and his arms around his neck.
“Wes. Wes, I can feel my legs,” Charles gasped, and Wesley’s arms tightened around him.
The relief he sensed from Wesley intensified his own, crashing down on him and sucking all the strength from his body. He always tried to be an optimist, but that was partially because otherwise, the world was simply too depressing to live in, especially as a telepath. He was a biologist; he knew the chances for a spinal injury, and even taking the Fraternity’s miracle wax into consideration, he had tried not to hope for too much. But the wax had worked.
And so, all he could do was hold on tightly to his brother and breathe.
“Do you want to try and stand?” Wesley asked when Charles had calmed down.
Charles nodded, and Wesley pulled away to give him space. Charles moved his left leg carefully, and yes, there was something about it that didn’t feel right, that felt slightly painful, but he struggled through it, bending both legs to make standing easier. He made a quick note to put more of his weight on his right leg than his left, before he gripped the sides of the tub for leverage.
And he then was standing, on his two feet for the first time in days, mere inches from eye level with Wesley. He couldn’t help the bark of laughter that bubbled up inside him, and Wesley grinned back at him.
“Ready to get out of the bath, Charles?”
“Oh yes, definitely,” Charles said. He paused before adding hesitantly, “I’m afraid that my left leg doesn’t seem to be at its best.”
Wesley’s face darkened for a second, but only a second before smoothing over with a more restrained smile. He offered out an arm for Charles to take.
With Wesley to lean on, Charles was able to step out of the tub and onto the bathroom tiles. But when he attempted to take another step, he felt a twinge in his left leg, causing him to stagger. Wesley quickly wrapped an arm around his waist, keeping him from falling over.
“Easy there,” Wesley cautioned him. “…it looks like you’re going to need a walking stick.”
He couldn’t completely hide the anger from his face, and especially from his mind, and Charles touched his cheek with his free hand.
“Wesley, the important thing is that I’m not paralyzed. With that in mind, I’m perfectly fine with requiring a crutch to walk,” he pointed out.
The tightness around Wesley’s eyes eased away. “You’re right. I was just hoping…”
“I know, but this was more than what might be reasonably expected.” Charles pressed his forehead to Wesley’s temple, a mirror of what Wesley had done the day before. “I will have to thank Mr. Pekwarksy in the morning as well, but thank you, Wesley.”
“There’s nothing for you to thank me for, Charles.”
While Charles sat in the kitchen dressed in a bathrobe with a pot of hot tea at his elbow, Wesley went off to who knows where to get him a walking stick. He wondered what stores would possibly be open at this hour, but as long as Wesley wasn’t planning to steal a cane, Charles would leave his brother to his sources. Charles found himself dozing in that state between sleep and consciousness after a few minutes, despite the warm tea cupped in his hand.
Wesley came back thirty minutes later, the walking stick tucked under his arm.
“This is just a temporary one until you can get yourself a decent one, but it’ll do for now,” Wesley said, handing the stick over to Charles.
Charles ran a hand over the cane. It was made of plain, polished wood, the handle shaped simply with a thin layer of cloth wrapped around it. It was the right height for him, since Wesley had probably used his own height as comparison.
Charles got up from the chair, and with the walking stick, took a few careful steps, and then more confident steps. He was soon walking between the kitchen and living room with little difficult, and it was like a weight being lifted from his shoulders. He looked over at Wesley with a smile, sending his brother a wave of happiness as well.
“Let’s get you some clothes,” Wesley said, answering his smile with a crooked one of his own before disappearing into the main bedroom.
“It’s a good look for you, Charlie,” Wesley remarked later, looking him critically up and down. “Stop wearing your old-man sweaters, put on a nice suit, and you’ll look as dapper as hell.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my cardigans!” Charles huffed.
Wesley snorted. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”
Charles sniffed and eyed himself in the mirror. He tugged on the hem of his shirt.
He caught the image Wesley pointedly sent him, but refused to admit that it would look rather nice if he were to wear a tuxedo to match the cane. At the very least, it would be better than the clothes he wore now-not that he had any problem with Wesley wearing them. He simply felt awkward wearing them himself; there were a few less layers than he was accustomed to.
But Wesley had not a single button-down in this apartment, and it’d been years since Charles had worn a simple long-sleeved shirt or jeans. It’d also been a while since he and Wesley last shared clothes. In fact, if he didn’t have the walking stick and cut his hair shorter, he and Wesley would look completely identical at that moment.
He turned away from the mirror and walked into the living room, Wesley close behind him. Charles eased himself down onto the futon.
“Going through the airport will be…interesting,” Charles remarked. “When was the last time we ever traveled together?”
“Getting you over to Oxford,” Wesley replied, sitting down next to him.
“Oh yes, I remember that.”
It had been eight years ago, when Charles started his post-graduate studies at Oxford, and they had moved across the Atlantic to England. What a motley crew the three of them had been-Charles and Wesley both worn and ragged from the aftermath of war and dealing with the Fraternity, respectively, Raven still so young and cautious, mindful of their weariness. They’d looked very much like the orphans they were, regardless of good condition of their clothes.
“Sometimes, I sit and wonder how we came to be here, how we went from three lonely children who raised each other, into… where we are now, what we are now,” Charles admitted. “It’s nothing like I had ever expected.”
He hadn’t expected to find himself walking about with a cane, his brother an assassin of Fate and his sister gone, and his hopes for mutantkind skewed.
He hadn’t expected Erik, especially not Erik.
“Yeah, well, we’ve have a pretty shit life,” Wesley remarked, cutting through Charles’ thoughts with his usual crudeness. “But we made the most of what we got, and we’re just going to have to keep on doing it.”
“Of course.”
They leaned against each other, the side of their bodies touching from shoulder to ankle and their heads resting against the other, and after a quiet exchange of thoughts, they fell asleep that way, the lights in the living room still on.
The next morning, after Charles had thanked Mr. Pekwarsky profusely, they were on their way to the airport.
At the terminal, Charles turned a blind eye to the fact that Wesley had somehow acquired a fake ID. It wasn’t like Charles had his with him in the first place; he’d left it behind in Westchester, having foreseen no need for it when they’d had their own jet. Clearly this foresight had been incorrect, but Charles didn’t dwell on that, instead acquiring for them two first class tickets for the next flight out to New York.
Charles waited until the plane was in the air before asking, “Will you stay a while? After we get to Westchester?”
Wesley huffed, nudging his arm against Charles’.
“‘Stay a while?’ I feel like I shouldn’t leave you alone ever again. I might pop out once and a while to take care of business, but I’m sticking around for now, Charles.”
Charles couldn’t help but beam at him, reaching out to grip his brother’s hand.
Thank you.
Wesley shook his head ruefully and squeezed his hand tightly in return.
Chapter 8 - Wesley
Pairing: Charles/Erik (eventually)
Rating: PG-13
Chapter word count: 3485
Warnings: er allusions to war and PTSD, explicit language?
Summary: Wesley didn’t want much out of life, but what he wanted the most was for Charles and Raven to be safe and happy. So he was rightfully displeased when he heard the message left on his emergency line, and by someone distinctly not Charles or Raven.
(XMFC/Wanted crossover)
Notes: Still unbeta'd.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6
Chapter 7 - Charles
Charles woke in the wax bath with the unpleasant realization that his brother was not in Miami, but in fact, a thousand miles away in Chicago. His usual reach tended to be around three hundred miles, but with Wesley, sending his mind to his twin’s had become as simple as breathing, and he did so now.
He discovered Wesley in the process of choking Erik, and quite panicked, began shouting at him to stop.
Was it too much to ask for you to be present when I woke up? Charles asked once Wesley had let Erik go.
He was answered immediately by the wave of contriteness.
You couldn’t have expected me not to go after him, Wesley grouched.
Charles sighed inwardly. I was hoping you wouldn’t. You’re better than that, Wesley.
Doesn’t mean I want to be. Besides, it’s not like I was going to kill him.
Are you sure about that? It certainly seemed like you were.
I wasn’t. You know I don’t kill unless the Loom tells me to.
Charles winced at Wesley’s sharp indignation and immediately sent a wave of calm and apology to his brother.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. Just…please come back? And don’t hurt anyone?
Charles frowned at the guilty flashes of memory that rose in Wesley’s mind-the two mutants he’d knocked out before finding Erik. Charles sighed and told himself to be glad that at least, no one was bleeding-or dying.
Through Wesley, he could see Erik in the apartment room. He was right in the periphery of Wesley’s vision, slumped against the wall and gasping for air. Charles pulled his attention away from him, trying to focus solely on Wesley’s mind.
He was torn as to how to feel towards Erik now. The bullet had been an accident, despite Wesley’s hostility towards him and Moira. But the helmet, and the missiles, and what Erik wanted to do…Charles couldn’t be a part of that, not even for Erik.
It wasn’t wholly anger he felt at Erik, but betrayal and frustration was definitely there, souring in the pit of his stomach, though time, distance, and rationality were easing them.
However he felt though, at that moment, stuck in a bath of wax, he simply wanted everyone unharmed and his brother back with him, to be there in case something-everything-does go awry.
I’m getting back soon, Wesley told him. You should be sleeping, Charlie. It’ll make the time pass faster; you’re going to be in there for a while.
I will. Charles hesitated before adding, Will you tell Raven she’ll always be welcome at home? Even just to visit.
…yeah, okay. Go to sleep, Charles.
Yes, yes, I will.
And Charles had fully intended to do so, if not for the rush of melancholy he sensed from Wesley ten, fifteen minutes later.
Oh Wesley, Charles said, once he’d read the conversation his brother was having with Raven.
The events leading up to Cuba, and Raven’s departure, had driven the point home; he had failed at being a brother, a family member, for Raven. He had been so focused on so many other-things, that he hadn’t paid attention to what was in front of him, hadn’t given his sister the attention she’d deserved.
He thought that Wesley could be right, that perhaps something went wrong after Wesley returned from Chicago twelve years ago, or after Korea-those several, awful years blended together so much, cornerstones in their lives that shaped them indelibly. Those years after Wesley returned and the war, they had been so wrapped around each other, and then in how to handle the world around them. They hadn’t talked to Raven nearly enough.
…and Wesley had had a point, about the effects of cutting Raven from his perception, shameful as it was for Charles.
He asked of Wesley, Will you please tell her I’m sorry?
He lingered on the periphery of Wesley’s mind until Wesley left Raven, plans for the trip back to Miami forming.
When Charles finally sensed Wesley back in Miami, some of the tension he’d felt after finding Wesley gone left his body. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and stared up at the paint-chipped ceiling. He let his mind wander out to those surrounding him nearby-Mr. Pekwarsky reading a novel in the living room, the woman next door wondering writing up a list of groceries to buy, the group of students a floor above them furiously cramming for an exam, the man loitering on the roof to smoke a cigarette. He used to do this often, to put himself outside of his mind, to pretend to be another person for a short while; it was almost like meditation, but rather than emptying his mind, he filled it with the thoughts of others.
No more than an hour passed before Wesley was climbing the stairs up to the apartment.
“Wesley, was that really necessary?” Charles said the moment Wesley appeared in the doorway. He couldn’t help but scold his brother again.
“I always do what’s necessary, Charles,” Wesley said. Charles gave him a Look. “Most of the time.”
Charles sighed and said, “I don’t need you to-to defend my honor or whatever you were trying to accomplish.”
It could very well be true. Wesley certainly knew from his memories how Charles felt about Erik. It was probably partially why Erik was still alive and less injured that he might’ve been-other than Wesley’s code of morality.
Wesley scoffed. “You know why I did what I did. Besides, I like telling people when they’re being stupid.”
“Wesley,” Charles chided him.
His brother blithely shrugged before plunking down on the tile floor, right by the tub.
Wesley eyed him speculatively before saying, “Do I need to tell you what you did that was stupid or are you already digging yourself into a hole?”
Charles groaned, thumping the back of his head against the end of the tub.
“Hey! Don’t do that,” scolded Wesley, reaching out and pressing his hand to the back of Charles’ head. “We don’t need you getting brain damage as well.”
Charles breathed in and out slowly, pressing back against Wesley’s touch. Wesley’s fingers threaded through his hair, cradling the back of his head and offering him steadiness and reassurance.
“I made an ass of myself,” Charles said, closing his eyes. “Especially towards Raven.”
“A bit,” Wesley said wryly.
“I can’t function without my telepathy. It’s terrible.”
Without his telepathy, he was like a blind man; he hadn’t realized how much of a handicap it was until now, how he would always, always, say the wrong things when unable to read off another person’s mind.
“It’s part of who you are, Charlie. It’s not like you can shut it off,” Wesley said. “But yeah, you might want to work on your people skills.”
“…it’s horrifying, not being able to sense a person’s mind. Raven, I still could sense her mind there, existing. But that helmet…it’s just a hole in my perception.”
Even recalling it, Charles would have shuddered if he could have so without disturbing the wax. He’d been left reeling from fighting off Shaw’s mind, keeping himself from following Shaw over the ledge to death. And then, to continue to feel the hole in his perception that had been Erik’s strong, structured mind, all while his mental shields were torn down, was devastating.
“Want me to get rid of it?” Wesley asked.
Charles frowned, eyeing his brother from the corner of his eyes.
Oh, he was tempted. That helmet was distressing, was Shaw’s. It shouldn’t be in Erik’s hands.
But it wasn’t for Charles to decide. Erik had made his choice, and the message had been painfully clear.
“No, please don’t antagonize him.”
Wesley made a derisive grunt, but continued to press his fingers against Charles’ scalp soothingly.
Despite himself, Charles’ mind wandered again back to Cuba, back to the soldiers on the ships and Erik.
Erik, who used his spectacular power to stop the hundreds of missiles fired in the air with but a hand…and then turned them back on the soldiers, leaving Charles to scramble through the ruins of his shields and the tatters of his mind for self-control, for words to say even as he had struggled to simply stay upright and walking. He had, of course, said the worst thing imaginable.
“They’re just following orders?” Wesley remarked, as if he was the one who could read minds.
“It was a stupid thing to say,” Charles said, avoiding his eyes.
“…you were thinking about Korea,” Wesley said, not even questioning it.
Charles squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push the memories away.
“I just-I couldn’t think,” he murmured, though Wesley knew fully what that day had been like for him. Charles had shown it to him after all. “The soldiers on the ships, I could hear every one of the, shouting, praying, and-it was like Korea all over again.”
He could recall it all in his mind so clearly, clearer that he had in years. The doors he’d locked on those memories had been blown off their hinges after Shaw. The stench of blood and dirt, gun smoke and fire, the mud squelching under his boots and smearing on his hands, the sweat dripping down his face and into his eyes, the scratch of his uniform against his irritated skin, the screams and cries that not only reached his ears, but filled his head, begging to be saved, to be found, to live, to die, to-
“Charles!”
Wesley’s voice.
Charles gasped, sucking in as much air as possible, and reached out for Wesley’s mind. Using his brother as an anchor, he pulled himself back to reality, hurriedly throwing up a door on Korea.
When he was finally fully in the present, he realized that Wesley was leaning over the tub’s side. His forehead was pressed to Charles’ temple, and he held Charles’ head between his two hands.
“Shhh, easy, Charlie,” Wesley murmured. “I’m here. You’re here with me. You’re safe. No one’s in danger.”
Charles let Wesley’s voice wash over him as he slowed down his breathing and his racing heart.
“I’m sorry,” he said, when he could finally speak again.
Wesley huffed, lightly butting his head against Charles.
“Don’t apologize, Charles,” Wesley said. “…you’re going to have to fix those locks.”
“I know. I haven’t had the chance,” he replied.
He sighed and let himself sink into Wesley’s mind, simply sitting in its embrace. He tried not to feel bereft when Wesley drew away from his awkward kneeling position. At least, one of Wesley’s hands remained, threading through his hair again.
“Tell me about how you’ve been?” he asked of him, not wanting to think about his own troubles now.
Wesley nodded and obliged him, telling him very clearly both in his head and aloud what he’d seen and done since they’d seen each other last. Charles hated killing, but he had long since accepted Wesley’s job, the role whatever greater powers that existed had handed down to him. His brother’s job was important, and Charles was content to feel Wesley’s self-assurance and own satisfaction at helping others in his preemptive manner.
Wesley continued talking, Charles interjecting with comments, until their hunger couldn’t be ignored any longer and Wesley went to get them food.
Later that night, Charles woke up to, at that moment, the most wonderful feeling in the world-his foot itched. With a gasp, he jerked upright from his reclined position, breaking the thin layer of wax on the surface of the water to fragments.
He could feel his legs.
He felt the water against his skin, his hand shakily touching his right knee. He shifted his left leg, but he felt a strain in his thigh. Instead, he gingerly bent his right leg, pulling his knee up to the water’s surface. He looked at it, watched around the shards of wax as he straightened and bent his leg again.
Just to check, eyes still fixed on his legs, Charles more consciously reached for the minds around him, in particular, Wesley’s, his ever-reliable anchor to reality.
And yes, he wasn’t dreaming. This was real.
He could feel his legs.
He barely managed to choke back a sob.
Wesley, light sleeper as always, startled awake.
“Charles,” he said, before surging forward just as Charles reached for him. And then they were embracing, Charles pressing his cheek against his brother’s and his arms around his neck.
“Wes. Wes, I can feel my legs,” Charles gasped, and Wesley’s arms tightened around him.
The relief he sensed from Wesley intensified his own, crashing down on him and sucking all the strength from his body. He always tried to be an optimist, but that was partially because otherwise, the world was simply too depressing to live in, especially as a telepath. He was a biologist; he knew the chances for a spinal injury, and even taking the Fraternity’s miracle wax into consideration, he had tried not to hope for too much. But the wax had worked.
And so, all he could do was hold on tightly to his brother and breathe.
“Do you want to try and stand?” Wesley asked when Charles had calmed down.
Charles nodded, and Wesley pulled away to give him space. Charles moved his left leg carefully, and yes, there was something about it that didn’t feel right, that felt slightly painful, but he struggled through it, bending both legs to make standing easier. He made a quick note to put more of his weight on his right leg than his left, before he gripped the sides of the tub for leverage.
And he then was standing, on his two feet for the first time in days, mere inches from eye level with Wesley. He couldn’t help the bark of laughter that bubbled up inside him, and Wesley grinned back at him.
“Ready to get out of the bath, Charles?”
“Oh yes, definitely,” Charles said. He paused before adding hesitantly, “I’m afraid that my left leg doesn’t seem to be at its best.”
Wesley’s face darkened for a second, but only a second before smoothing over with a more restrained smile. He offered out an arm for Charles to take.
With Wesley to lean on, Charles was able to step out of the tub and onto the bathroom tiles. But when he attempted to take another step, he felt a twinge in his left leg, causing him to stagger. Wesley quickly wrapped an arm around his waist, keeping him from falling over.
“Easy there,” Wesley cautioned him. “…it looks like you’re going to need a walking stick.”
He couldn’t completely hide the anger from his face, and especially from his mind, and Charles touched his cheek with his free hand.
“Wesley, the important thing is that I’m not paralyzed. With that in mind, I’m perfectly fine with requiring a crutch to walk,” he pointed out.
The tightness around Wesley’s eyes eased away. “You’re right. I was just hoping…”
“I know, but this was more than what might be reasonably expected.” Charles pressed his forehead to Wesley’s temple, a mirror of what Wesley had done the day before. “I will have to thank Mr. Pekwarksy in the morning as well, but thank you, Wesley.”
“There’s nothing for you to thank me for, Charles.”
While Charles sat in the kitchen dressed in a bathrobe with a pot of hot tea at his elbow, Wesley went off to who knows where to get him a walking stick. He wondered what stores would possibly be open at this hour, but as long as Wesley wasn’t planning to steal a cane, Charles would leave his brother to his sources. Charles found himself dozing in that state between sleep and consciousness after a few minutes, despite the warm tea cupped in his hand.
Wesley came back thirty minutes later, the walking stick tucked under his arm.
“This is just a temporary one until you can get yourself a decent one, but it’ll do for now,” Wesley said, handing the stick over to Charles.
Charles ran a hand over the cane. It was made of plain, polished wood, the handle shaped simply with a thin layer of cloth wrapped around it. It was the right height for him, since Wesley had probably used his own height as comparison.
Charles got up from the chair, and with the walking stick, took a few careful steps, and then more confident steps. He was soon walking between the kitchen and living room with little difficult, and it was like a weight being lifted from his shoulders. He looked over at Wesley with a smile, sending his brother a wave of happiness as well.
“Let’s get you some clothes,” Wesley said, answering his smile with a crooked one of his own before disappearing into the main bedroom.
“It’s a good look for you, Charlie,” Wesley remarked later, looking him critically up and down. “Stop wearing your old-man sweaters, put on a nice suit, and you’ll look as dapper as hell.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my cardigans!” Charles huffed.
Wesley snorted. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”
Charles sniffed and eyed himself in the mirror. He tugged on the hem of his shirt.
He caught the image Wesley pointedly sent him, but refused to admit that it would look rather nice if he were to wear a tuxedo to match the cane. At the very least, it would be better than the clothes he wore now-not that he had any problem with Wesley wearing them. He simply felt awkward wearing them himself; there were a few less layers than he was accustomed to.
But Wesley had not a single button-down in this apartment, and it’d been years since Charles had worn a simple long-sleeved shirt or jeans. It’d also been a while since he and Wesley last shared clothes. In fact, if he didn’t have the walking stick and cut his hair shorter, he and Wesley would look completely identical at that moment.
He turned away from the mirror and walked into the living room, Wesley close behind him. Charles eased himself down onto the futon.
“Going through the airport will be…interesting,” Charles remarked. “When was the last time we ever traveled together?”
“Getting you over to Oxford,” Wesley replied, sitting down next to him.
“Oh yes, I remember that.”
It had been eight years ago, when Charles started his post-graduate studies at Oxford, and they had moved across the Atlantic to England. What a motley crew the three of them had been-Charles and Wesley both worn and ragged from the aftermath of war and dealing with the Fraternity, respectively, Raven still so young and cautious, mindful of their weariness. They’d looked very much like the orphans they were, regardless of good condition of their clothes.
“Sometimes, I sit and wonder how we came to be here, how we went from three lonely children who raised each other, into… where we are now, what we are now,” Charles admitted. “It’s nothing like I had ever expected.”
He hadn’t expected to find himself walking about with a cane, his brother an assassin of Fate and his sister gone, and his hopes for mutantkind skewed.
He hadn’t expected Erik, especially not Erik.
“Yeah, well, we’ve have a pretty shit life,” Wesley remarked, cutting through Charles’ thoughts with his usual crudeness. “But we made the most of what we got, and we’re just going to have to keep on doing it.”
“Of course.”
They leaned against each other, the side of their bodies touching from shoulder to ankle and their heads resting against the other, and after a quiet exchange of thoughts, they fell asleep that way, the lights in the living room still on.
The next morning, after Charles had thanked Mr. Pekwarsky profusely, they were on their way to the airport.
At the terminal, Charles turned a blind eye to the fact that Wesley had somehow acquired a fake ID. It wasn’t like Charles had his with him in the first place; he’d left it behind in Westchester, having foreseen no need for it when they’d had their own jet. Clearly this foresight had been incorrect, but Charles didn’t dwell on that, instead acquiring for them two first class tickets for the next flight out to New York.
Charles waited until the plane was in the air before asking, “Will you stay a while? After we get to Westchester?”
Wesley huffed, nudging his arm against Charles’.
“‘Stay a while?’ I feel like I shouldn’t leave you alone ever again. I might pop out once and a while to take care of business, but I’m sticking around for now, Charles.”
Charles couldn’t help but beam at him, reaching out to grip his brother’s hand.
Thank you.
Wesley shook his head ruefully and squeezed his hand tightly in return.
Chapter 8 - Wesley