Xmen fic: You'll Never Meet the President (Charles, Erik, WIP)
Title: You'll Never Meet the President (1/6)
Fandom: X-men: First Class
Characters: Erik, Charles, ensemble
Warnings: None, except movie spoilers.
Notes: Brought to you by a canceled flight and ileliberte's grabby little hands.
Summary:
Maneuvering at the CIA while untrusted and unconnected would have been foolhardy at best if Erik had not, by some stroke of luck, allied himself with a force of nature. There was a particular lost expression that came over the faces of people who had just experienced the flattening force of Charles Xavier’s needs and expectations, and Erik had learned to follow the trail through the compound until it ended at a pair of earnest eyes and grabby little hands.
“Erik!” Charles said, delighted. “There you are.”
The agent he was speaking to stared at Erik helplessly, demonstrating a dismal ability to identify sources of mercy. “I’ll ask Richardson about finding that recreation space, Dr. Xavier.”
“Thank you, Francis,” Charles said sincerely, gripping the man’s shoulder. It was a slight hand belonging to a slender man, but the agent swayed, responding to a stronger gravity than his own.
“Charles,” Erik said, because he was not always without mercy. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was noting: Agent Francis, surname unknown, in administration, can be pressured.
It was the same part of himself that would ask, each morning in between waking and standing: how much more time will you spend here? This question had so far been turned aside because -- though it burned something in Erik’s gut -- the CIA had found the Caspartina not 10 days after hearing the name Sebastian Shaw for the first time, an interval that for Erik had lasted almost 20 years.
“Will you come to Cerebro with me?” Charles asked.
“Do I have to call it that?” Erik said.
Charles’ smile turned sardonic. “I know you don’t find it as fascinating. It my toy by necessity.”
“It’s McCoy’s toy,” Erik said mildly, “and he’s playing with your brain.”
Charles waved this away like he did all obstacles. “Hank is very dedicated to proper scientific procedure. His laboratory notes read like they’re ready for peer review -- I feel quite taken to task by him, actually.”
Erik couldn’t hold back a scoff.
They walked through the connecting courtyards, sliding past Americans in neat suits, Charles chattering about genetics, about sight-seeing -- unpredictable. Erik could tell by the stiffness of their nods as they passed which Americans knew who they were. It was surprising then, how many of them still smiled at Charles Xavier.
What was not surprising was that despite the source of the invitation, Erik arrived at Cerebro alone, Charles having peeled off at the sight of McTaggert’s bent head perusing a file as she moved away from them down the hall. The detour was made worth it however by the blanched look on Hank McCoy’s face when he looked up and saw only Erik rising ominously from the depths of the geodesic eggshell that housed Cerebro.
“Oh, uh, hello, Mr. Lensherr.”
“You can call me Erik, McCoy.”
Hank was wearing shoes, as usual, a pair of enormous dark loafers enclosing his spare set of opposable thumbs. These kids didn’t know what they were packaging up and putting away. It was foolish and frustrating to watch them tie themselves down, to make themselves vulnerable deliberately. Power had driven human history since primates had first started living in groups; they should not exempt themselves. Charles at least understood this, judging by the way he valued his prestige - from his work, from his shiny new doctorate, from working for America’s Central Intelligence Agency.
“Is Dr. Xavier coming?” Hank asked finally, fiddling with the wires sprouting from the upside punch bowl that housed Cerebro’s signal receptors.
“Once he’s stopped at every flower along the way,” Erik said. “McCoy, how is this thing going to find Shaw?”
“What?” Hank said. “It can’t.”
Erik stared at him. “Are you joking? Charles spent half of Sunday morning rifling through the private thoughts of an entire hemisphere.”
“Well, exactly -- it’s like he’s going through a barrel full of M&Ms, looking for brown ones; any old brown M&M will do. Shaw is like -- a blue M&M. There’s a big difference between picking the first brown candy you see off the top and finding the only blue M&M in existence.”
“What if he spent more time looking through the barrel?”
Hank hesitated. “It’s, uh, there’s a lot of luck involved and a huge number of people on the planet, not to mention the hours of use involved -”
“You’re worried about boiling his brain.”
“What? No! But -- caution is important in any new, essentially medical, procedure. We are interacting with Dr. Xavier’s brain, and,” McCoy laughed self-consciously, flushing, “it is an important brain.”
Erik raised one eyebrow until the redness had spread to McCoy’s entire face and down his neck. The silence stretched, but between the two of them only Erik had experience stalking prey, and he could outwait any silence Hank McCoy had in him. Shortly McCoy jumped up and started fiddling with his papers, neatly stacked on the bulky console.
“I keep logs of the time Dr. Xavier - Charles ,” here he gave a guilty glance over his shoulder, “spends in Cerebro. There haven’t been any noticeable ill effects, though after a two hour session, he complained of mental fatigue. I have that report somewhere - oh jeez.” McCoy suddenly stopped, papers in both hands, staring with great irritation at his desk.
“What?”
“It’s not here -- they’ve already cleared it away.”
“Cleared what away?”
McCoy pushed his glasses up his nose. “My notes. I guess I’m lucky they let me keep the lab notebook.”
“The CIA takes your notes?” Erik said, not understanding. “Because they’re classified?”
“I’m CIA,” McCoy said reflexively, then: “No, just - my supervisor collects my notes after every Cerebro session, at least since Dr. Xavier joined the project. Though,” McCoy added, thoughtfully, “they also collected my preliminary write-up on his telepathy - that was before Richardson showed him Cerebro.”
Erik frowned. “Just Charles?”
“He’s the only one using Cerebro. I think I could access the records they took,” McCoy offered tentatively, “if you still had questions about the device’s function? But I don’t think it will be much help. We really need to leave finding Shaw to, uh, to the professionals.”
“I am a professional,” Erik said, just as reflexively; he wasn't thinking about Shaw.
He was prevented from inquiring more - had McCoy done preliminary write-ups of everyone? Was the CIA interested in Raven, an obvious security threat? - by the quick clank-clank of Charles coming up the stairs, double-time. “Hi; sorry! Stopped to ask Morrow about his new twins - runs in his family; how interesting. Hank, hello!”
McCoy turned to him gratefully, immediately brightening. “Hi -- Charles.”
Moira had trailed in behind him, leaning against the railing that encircled the platform. She made her usual attempt to greet Erik with a smile. He couldn’t find her manner or her abilities objectionable, but in the last week, he’d let his guard down so far that he no longer remembered to be charming. Lacking an angle, he was left with nothing to do but give a sharp nod acknowledging a colleague. It felt more appropriate than he’d expected.
“Terrorizing all around you?” Charles asked, hopping lightly onto the dais below Cerebro’s bizarre tortoiseshell of plastic and wires.
“I would never,” Erik said, deadpan. Moira supressed a smile. Charles didn’t even look up, rearranging the wires with practiced motions until he was satisfied with his access to the machine.
“Don’t look too contrite,” Charles said as he pulled the helmet over his head. “The children think you could go in against the devil and win.”
With the helmet on, he looked like a Martian at the hairdresser. Erik had never liked the look of it, but then he had an eye for things meant to take you apart. He had known Xavier for all of five days, and before this moment, the best he could say about seeing Charles in the machine was Better you than me.
McCoy shot Erik an apologetic look like he’d been called out on an embarrassing personal habit, though Erik didn’t know if it was for Erik’s reputation or the brain machine. The two of them shared an unequal silence -- McCoy hunched and half-hidden behind Charles while Erik stood on the other side of the dais, tall and sharp-edged in his dark turtleneck.
“Not yet,” Erik said finally, laying another brick on a legend he had not intended to build -- at least, not here.
Charles was laughing as the dresser-sized power supply hummed to life, lights flashing behind colored glass; right up to the moment the helmet lit from within and Charles’ knuckles went white on the safety bar. As always, Erik stepped forward involuntarily.
PART TWO
This entry was originally posted at http://pentapus.dreamwidth.org/31010.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: X-men: First Class
Characters: Erik, Charles, ensemble
Warnings: None, except movie spoilers.
Notes: Brought to you by a canceled flight and ileliberte's grabby little hands.
Summary:
Maneuvering at the CIA while untrusted and unconnected would have been foolhardy at best if Erik had not, by some stroke of luck, allied himself with a force of nature. There was a particular lost expression that came over the faces of people who had just experienced the flattening force of Charles Xavier’s needs and expectations, and Erik had learned to follow the trail through the compound until it ended at a pair of earnest eyes and grabby little hands.
“Erik!” Charles said, delighted. “There you are.”
The agent he was speaking to stared at Erik helplessly, demonstrating a dismal ability to identify sources of mercy. “I’ll ask Richardson about finding that recreation space, Dr. Xavier.”
“Thank you, Francis,” Charles said sincerely, gripping the man’s shoulder. It was a slight hand belonging to a slender man, but the agent swayed, responding to a stronger gravity than his own.
“Charles,” Erik said, because he was not always without mercy. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was noting: Agent Francis, surname unknown, in administration, can be pressured.
It was the same part of himself that would ask, each morning in between waking and standing: how much more time will you spend here? This question had so far been turned aside because -- though it burned something in Erik’s gut -- the CIA had found the Caspartina not 10 days after hearing the name Sebastian Shaw for the first time, an interval that for Erik had lasted almost 20 years.
“Will you come to Cerebro with me?” Charles asked.
“Do I have to call it that?” Erik said.
Charles’ smile turned sardonic. “I know you don’t find it as fascinating. It my toy by necessity.”
“It’s McCoy’s toy,” Erik said mildly, “and he’s playing with your brain.”
Charles waved this away like he did all obstacles. “Hank is very dedicated to proper scientific procedure. His laboratory notes read like they’re ready for peer review -- I feel quite taken to task by him, actually.”
Erik couldn’t hold back a scoff.
They walked through the connecting courtyards, sliding past Americans in neat suits, Charles chattering about genetics, about sight-seeing -- unpredictable. Erik could tell by the stiffness of their nods as they passed which Americans knew who they were. It was surprising then, how many of them still smiled at Charles Xavier.
What was not surprising was that despite the source of the invitation, Erik arrived at Cerebro alone, Charles having peeled off at the sight of McTaggert’s bent head perusing a file as she moved away from them down the hall. The detour was made worth it however by the blanched look on Hank McCoy’s face when he looked up and saw only Erik rising ominously from the depths of the geodesic eggshell that housed Cerebro.
“Oh, uh, hello, Mr. Lensherr.”
“You can call me Erik, McCoy.”
Hank was wearing shoes, as usual, a pair of enormous dark loafers enclosing his spare set of opposable thumbs. These kids didn’t know what they were packaging up and putting away. It was foolish and frustrating to watch them tie themselves down, to make themselves vulnerable deliberately. Power had driven human history since primates had first started living in groups; they should not exempt themselves. Charles at least understood this, judging by the way he valued his prestige - from his work, from his shiny new doctorate, from working for America’s Central Intelligence Agency.
“Is Dr. Xavier coming?” Hank asked finally, fiddling with the wires sprouting from the upside punch bowl that housed Cerebro’s signal receptors.
“Once he’s stopped at every flower along the way,” Erik said. “McCoy, how is this thing going to find Shaw?”
“What?” Hank said. “It can’t.”
Erik stared at him. “Are you joking? Charles spent half of Sunday morning rifling through the private thoughts of an entire hemisphere.”
“Well, exactly -- it’s like he’s going through a barrel full of M&Ms, looking for brown ones; any old brown M&M will do. Shaw is like -- a blue M&M. There’s a big difference between picking the first brown candy you see off the top and finding the only blue M&M in existence.”
“What if he spent more time looking through the barrel?”
Hank hesitated. “It’s, uh, there’s a lot of luck involved and a huge number of people on the planet, not to mention the hours of use involved -”
“You’re worried about boiling his brain.”
“What? No! But -- caution is important in any new, essentially medical, procedure. We are interacting with Dr. Xavier’s brain, and,” McCoy laughed self-consciously, flushing, “it is an important brain.”
Erik raised one eyebrow until the redness had spread to McCoy’s entire face and down his neck. The silence stretched, but between the two of them only Erik had experience stalking prey, and he could outwait any silence Hank McCoy had in him. Shortly McCoy jumped up and started fiddling with his papers, neatly stacked on the bulky console.
“I keep logs of the time Dr. Xavier - Charles ,” here he gave a guilty glance over his shoulder, “spends in Cerebro. There haven’t been any noticeable ill effects, though after a two hour session, he complained of mental fatigue. I have that report somewhere - oh jeez.” McCoy suddenly stopped, papers in both hands, staring with great irritation at his desk.
“What?”
“It’s not here -- they’ve already cleared it away.”
“Cleared what away?”
McCoy pushed his glasses up his nose. “My notes. I guess I’m lucky they let me keep the lab notebook.”
“The CIA takes your notes?” Erik said, not understanding. “Because they’re classified?”
“I’m CIA,” McCoy said reflexively, then: “No, just - my supervisor collects my notes after every Cerebro session, at least since Dr. Xavier joined the project. Though,” McCoy added, thoughtfully, “they also collected my preliminary write-up on his telepathy - that was before Richardson showed him Cerebro.”
Erik frowned. “Just Charles?”
“He’s the only one using Cerebro. I think I could access the records they took,” McCoy offered tentatively, “if you still had questions about the device’s function? But I don’t think it will be much help. We really need to leave finding Shaw to, uh, to the professionals.”
“I am a professional,” Erik said, just as reflexively; he wasn't thinking about Shaw.
He was prevented from inquiring more - had McCoy done preliminary write-ups of everyone? Was the CIA interested in Raven, an obvious security threat? - by the quick clank-clank of Charles coming up the stairs, double-time. “Hi; sorry! Stopped to ask Morrow about his new twins - runs in his family; how interesting. Hank, hello!”
McCoy turned to him gratefully, immediately brightening. “Hi -- Charles.”
Moira had trailed in behind him, leaning against the railing that encircled the platform. She made her usual attempt to greet Erik with a smile. He couldn’t find her manner or her abilities objectionable, but in the last week, he’d let his guard down so far that he no longer remembered to be charming. Lacking an angle, he was left with nothing to do but give a sharp nod acknowledging a colleague. It felt more appropriate than he’d expected.
“Terrorizing all around you?” Charles asked, hopping lightly onto the dais below Cerebro’s bizarre tortoiseshell of plastic and wires.
“I would never,” Erik said, deadpan. Moira supressed a smile. Charles didn’t even look up, rearranging the wires with practiced motions until he was satisfied with his access to the machine.
“Don’t look too contrite,” Charles said as he pulled the helmet over his head. “The children think you could go in against the devil and win.”
With the helmet on, he looked like a Martian at the hairdresser. Erik had never liked the look of it, but then he had an eye for things meant to take you apart. He had known Xavier for all of five days, and before this moment, the best he could say about seeing Charles in the machine was Better you than me.
McCoy shot Erik an apologetic look like he’d been called out on an embarrassing personal habit, though Erik didn’t know if it was for Erik’s reputation or the brain machine. The two of them shared an unequal silence -- McCoy hunched and half-hidden behind Charles while Erik stood on the other side of the dais, tall and sharp-edged in his dark turtleneck.
“Not yet,” Erik said finally, laying another brick on a legend he had not intended to build -- at least, not here.
Charles was laughing as the dresser-sized power supply hummed to life, lights flashing behind colored glass; right up to the moment the helmet lit from within and Charles’ knuckles went white on the safety bar. As always, Erik stepped forward involuntarily.
PART TWO
This entry was originally posted at http://pentapus.dreamwidth.org/31010.html. Please comment there using OpenID.