Fic: Iridescent | epilogue: iridescent (the professor)
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epilogue: iridescent (the professor)
sometime in the not too distant future
“Professor?”
He looks up, and standing in front of his desk is a young woman with wide, earnest eyes and soft brown hair, twisting a few strands between her fingers.
He knows her face, vaguely, but not her name-she’s one of his literature students, but he has so many these days that it’s hard to keep track and he’s, well, he’s very old. His memory isn’t what it used to be-and he arches an eyebrow.
“Um,” says the girl. “You’re-um.”
“Spit it out, child,” he says, perhaps a little impatiently. It’s five o’clock and he has somewhere to be at half-six.
“You’re… a mutant, right?” The girl fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable.
Erik Lehnsherr, Professor of Literature, bit back a sigh. “The drop-out forms are in the Department of Academics. Just fill one out, they’ll understand.”
The girl drew back a bit, confused. “Um,” she said. “Sir? I don’t want to drop your class.”
He blinks, a little surprised, honestly. Most humans, once learning that he is, in fact, a mutant, drop his classes like they’re radioactive. Usually it’s their parents’ prompting-they don’t want their precious, normal children taught by a mutant.
“No?” he says, probably a little stupidly. The girl offers him a shy smile.
“No,” she says earnestly. “Your classes are really interesting, they’re way better than Professor Woodrow’s.”
He almost smiles. “Yes,” he agrees. “They are, but you are the first… human to tell me so.”
The girl grins. “Everyone else thinks so too,” she assures him. He puts his papers down to give her his full attention, intrigued despite himself. It’s been a while since he’s had a friendly conversation with a human, to be honest. The rest of the faculty treats him with polite, intellectual distance, and most of his human students are too terrified to actually talk to him. The mutant students talk to him, of course (he actually can’t get a few of them to leave him alone), but it’s refreshing to meet someone not disgusted, not afraid.
“They’re just too scared to say it.”
He snorts. “Am I really that intimidating?”
The girl shrugs sheepishly. “A little,” she admits. “And most kids’ parents don’t want them talking to you.”
His good mood fades, a little. He’s always known it, of course, but hearing it still stings.
“Yours don’t care, then?”
The girl shrugs again. “Dunno. They probably do, but I don’t care what they think.” The expression on her face is fierce, determined, and she looks like Ororo, for a moment, and Erik feels a twitch of homesickness.
“No?”
“You’re not a bad person,” she says. “You’re the one they call Magneto, right? Professor Magneto?”
He nods. “Sometimes,” he says. “Once. Not much anymore. All the ones who called me that have outgrown it.” And they have-the Academy for the Gifted no longer exists.
The girl takes a deep breath. “I wanna-I want to say thank you.”
He blinks. “For?”
“Getting the Mutant-Human Equality Bill passed,” she says. “When I was little, my best friend was a mutant, and they didn’t let her go to school once they found out. But she can go to school now.” The young woman smiles at him, wide and earnest. “She’s allowed now, and she went to college two months ago.”
Erik blinks again, and there’s something terribly warm in his chest. I’m going soft in my old age, he thinks.
“So thank you,” the girl says. “For doing that for her.”
He inclines his head deeply-in prayer, maybe, or dignity-and smiles. “Tell me, Ms….?”
She blushes. “Kate,” she says. “Kaitlin Stryker.”
He starts-Stryker-and looks into her face. He can see it now, traces of William Stryker, of his father, and he wants to hate the girl for it, but he can’t. He never knew Stryker had a daughter.
“Ms. Stryker,” he says. “What is your major?”
“I’m going to be a journalist,” she tells him. “Or a novelist. Or maybe a little of both.”
He looks her up and down critically. She’s small and very young (well, to him anyway, he was old before she was born, probably, and it is then that it occurs to him that she might not be William Stryker’s daughter; she might be Jason’s, and the implications make him feel a little ill), with an air of naïveté he usually can’t stand.
There’s steel in her, though, the kind of fighter’s heart he recognizes.
“You’ll be good at it,” he says.
She beams. “Thanks!” Kate Stryker starts fidgeting again, playing with her hair, glancing shyly away.
“Professor?” she asks.
“Yes?”
“I was wondering, um, could I maybe interview you? For my first book?”
He leans back in his chair, considering her thoughtfully. He sincerely doubts he’ll live long enough for a young undergrad like her to actually graduate, but still, it couldn’t hurt anything. He knows what she wants to know, though. They’ve all wanted to know the same thing, since 1964.
“I wouldn’t mind,” he says slowly, after a long minute. “You want to know about X, don’t you?”
She blushes. “Yes,” she admits. “But not just him, I want to know about all of it-the bills, your school, everything.”
He stares. He’s never been asked about his school before, really. “Alright,” he finds himself saying. He glances at his watch; five fifteen. He has time. And he can always use senility as an excuse for his tardiness, not that Hank will believe it.
“What would you like to know?”
“You still… talk to X, don’t you?” Kate asks. She’s produced a notebook and a pencil from nowhere and she’s staring at him avidly, watching his face. “I mean, that’s what everyone else says.”
He tilts his head and looks around his office; there are books and papers everywhere, a few chairs scattered around, some framed pictures of his children on the walls along with degrees in seven different languages.
There are letters, unopened and opened, scattered across his desk, and pens and pencils are buried under the mass of theses and papers and hastily-written notes.
The window is big and wide-he’s not afraid of being assassinated anymore, so he can let the sun in, finally-and light spills, iridescent, over his office.
In the corner, on a rickety old table, there is a chessboard carved from oak, and half of its pieces are made of metal and the other half of smooth, polished mahogany. A game is in progress; currently, the mahogany pieces are destroying the metal ones, but that’s subject to change. Underneath the table there is an old, shimmering helmet gathering dust; Erik hasn’t used it for years.
He looks at the chessboard and smiles slightly, secretly, and there’s a gentle, tired warmth in his mind, a truce after decades of war.
He turns back to Kaitlin Stryker, and he smiles.
“Why don’t I start from the beginning,” he says. “It’ll make more sense that way, I think.”
She nods eagerly, clearly excited, and pulls up a chair.
The sunlight slants through the room, warm, soft, and Erik Lehnsherr, Professor of Literature, once Magneto, closes his eyes.
“I met Charles Xavier when I was twenty-six years old,” he begins, and somewhere far away, where the light is growing moment by moment, Charles Xavier moves a knight on a chessboard identical to the one in Erik’s office.
“Check,” he murmurs, and in his head, Erik laughs.
masterpost
epilogue: iridescent (the professor)
sometime in the not too distant future
“Professor?”
He looks up, and standing in front of his desk is a young woman with wide, earnest eyes and soft brown hair, twisting a few strands between her fingers.
He knows her face, vaguely, but not her name-she’s one of his literature students, but he has so many these days that it’s hard to keep track and he’s, well, he’s very old. His memory isn’t what it used to be-and he arches an eyebrow.
“Um,” says the girl. “You’re-um.”
“Spit it out, child,” he says, perhaps a little impatiently. It’s five o’clock and he has somewhere to be at half-six.
“You’re… a mutant, right?” The girl fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable.
Erik Lehnsherr, Professor of Literature, bit back a sigh. “The drop-out forms are in the Department of Academics. Just fill one out, they’ll understand.”
The girl drew back a bit, confused. “Um,” she said. “Sir? I don’t want to drop your class.”
He blinks, a little surprised, honestly. Most humans, once learning that he is, in fact, a mutant, drop his classes like they’re radioactive. Usually it’s their parents’ prompting-they don’t want their precious, normal children taught by a mutant.
“No?” he says, probably a little stupidly. The girl offers him a shy smile.
“No,” she says earnestly. “Your classes are really interesting, they’re way better than Professor Woodrow’s.”
He almost smiles. “Yes,” he agrees. “They are, but you are the first… human to tell me so.”
The girl grins. “Everyone else thinks so too,” she assures him. He puts his papers down to give her his full attention, intrigued despite himself. It’s been a while since he’s had a friendly conversation with a human, to be honest. The rest of the faculty treats him with polite, intellectual distance, and most of his human students are too terrified to actually talk to him. The mutant students talk to him, of course (he actually can’t get a few of them to leave him alone), but it’s refreshing to meet someone not disgusted, not afraid.
“They’re just too scared to say it.”
He snorts. “Am I really that intimidating?”
The girl shrugs sheepishly. “A little,” she admits. “And most kids’ parents don’t want them talking to you.”
His good mood fades, a little. He’s always known it, of course, but hearing it still stings.
“Yours don’t care, then?”
The girl shrugs again. “Dunno. They probably do, but I don’t care what they think.” The expression on her face is fierce, determined, and she looks like Ororo, for a moment, and Erik feels a twitch of homesickness.
“No?”
“You’re not a bad person,” she says. “You’re the one they call Magneto, right? Professor Magneto?”
He nods. “Sometimes,” he says. “Once. Not much anymore. All the ones who called me that have outgrown it.” And they have-the Academy for the Gifted no longer exists.
The girl takes a deep breath. “I wanna-I want to say thank you.”
He blinks. “For?”
“Getting the Mutant-Human Equality Bill passed,” she says. “When I was little, my best friend was a mutant, and they didn’t let her go to school once they found out. But she can go to school now.” The young woman smiles at him, wide and earnest. “She’s allowed now, and she went to college two months ago.”
Erik blinks again, and there’s something terribly warm in his chest. I’m going soft in my old age, he thinks.
“So thank you,” the girl says. “For doing that for her.”
He inclines his head deeply-in prayer, maybe, or dignity-and smiles. “Tell me, Ms….?”
She blushes. “Kate,” she says. “Kaitlin Stryker.”
He starts-Stryker-and looks into her face. He can see it now, traces of William Stryker, of his father, and he wants to hate the girl for it, but he can’t. He never knew Stryker had a daughter.
“Ms. Stryker,” he says. “What is your major?”
“I’m going to be a journalist,” she tells him. “Or a novelist. Or maybe a little of both.”
He looks her up and down critically. She’s small and very young (well, to him anyway, he was old before she was born, probably, and it is then that it occurs to him that she might not be William Stryker’s daughter; she might be Jason’s, and the implications make him feel a little ill), with an air of naïveté he usually can’t stand.
There’s steel in her, though, the kind of fighter’s heart he recognizes.
“You’ll be good at it,” he says.
She beams. “Thanks!” Kate Stryker starts fidgeting again, playing with her hair, glancing shyly away.
“Professor?” she asks.
“Yes?”
“I was wondering, um, could I maybe interview you? For my first book?”
He leans back in his chair, considering her thoughtfully. He sincerely doubts he’ll live long enough for a young undergrad like her to actually graduate, but still, it couldn’t hurt anything. He knows what she wants to know, though. They’ve all wanted to know the same thing, since 1964.
“I wouldn’t mind,” he says slowly, after a long minute. “You want to know about X, don’t you?”
She blushes. “Yes,” she admits. “But not just him, I want to know about all of it-the bills, your school, everything.”
He stares. He’s never been asked about his school before, really. “Alright,” he finds himself saying. He glances at his watch; five fifteen. He has time. And he can always use senility as an excuse for his tardiness, not that Hank will believe it.
“What would you like to know?”
“You still… talk to X, don’t you?” Kate asks. She’s produced a notebook and a pencil from nowhere and she’s staring at him avidly, watching his face. “I mean, that’s what everyone else says.”
He tilts his head and looks around his office; there are books and papers everywhere, a few chairs scattered around, some framed pictures of his children on the walls along with degrees in seven different languages.
There are letters, unopened and opened, scattered across his desk, and pens and pencils are buried under the mass of theses and papers and hastily-written notes.
The window is big and wide-he’s not afraid of being assassinated anymore, so he can let the sun in, finally-and light spills, iridescent, over his office.
In the corner, on a rickety old table, there is a chessboard carved from oak, and half of its pieces are made of metal and the other half of smooth, polished mahogany. A game is in progress; currently, the mahogany pieces are destroying the metal ones, but that’s subject to change. Underneath the table there is an old, shimmering helmet gathering dust; Erik hasn’t used it for years.
He looks at the chessboard and smiles slightly, secretly, and there’s a gentle, tired warmth in his mind, a truce after decades of war.
He turns back to Kaitlin Stryker, and he smiles.
“Why don’t I start from the beginning,” he says. “It’ll make more sense that way, I think.”
She nods eagerly, clearly excited, and pulls up a chair.
The sunlight slants through the room, warm, soft, and Erik Lehnsherr, Professor of Literature, once Magneto, closes his eyes.
“I met Charles Xavier when I was twenty-six years old,” he begins, and somewhere far away, where the light is growing moment by moment, Charles Xavier moves a knight on a chessboard identical to the one in Erik’s office.
“Check,” he murmurs, and in his head, Erik laughs.
masterpost