Fic: Let Freedom Ring 10/19
Title Let Freedom Ring 10/19
Fandom X-Men: First Class
Pairings Erik/Charles, past Erik/Raven, mention of Hank/Raven, sort of brief Raven/Angel, references to future Scott/Jean
Beta cicero_drayon
Word count of chapters 7353
Word count of entire fic approx. 115 000
Ratings/warnings NC-17. Sexual situations, past physical and mental trauma, discussion of genocide, period transphobia, homophobia, ableism and racism, brief mentions of rape and suicide
Spoilers X-Men: First Class, X2 and (to a lesser extent) X-Men: The Last Stand. Some comic canon thrown in for good measure.
Disclaimer Marvel owns it, I don’t.
Summary Two arrivals to Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters coincide - Jason Stryker, a child branded a freak because of his psychic powers, and Erik Lehnsherr, wanted terrorist and old friend of the professor. Jason is there as his father wants him cured - Erik claims that he has gone rogue from his own renegades. As tensions rise between mutants and humans, as well as between the suddenly reunited friends, who can truly be trusted?
Author's notes I've realised that what I had put as one chapter should really be two chapters, so there are now 18 chapters to this fic. Happy holidays, everyone (and this chapter just happens to be set this very date)!
There were occasions when Alex did not know why he stayed in the mansion. This was not one of them.
Of course, he would never think of leaving. First and foremost there was Scott, who, despite occasionally being difficult meant more to him than he liked to say. Then there was the other students. No one would catch him admitting it, of course, but when they came welling out of the building, chatting and laughing, he felt like he mattered. He did not teach them, like the professor and Hank and Erik did. He trained them, and made them learn things which he knew might one day save their skins. The professor disapproved of violence in the way only a man who had never had to fight for his life could, but he agreed that the combat training was important, which was all the encouragement Alex needed.
Still a year ago, he would probably have claimed that it was just because it was someplace to be, but from the very start, it had been something else than just a roof over his head. The mansion had rapidly become a home and the team had become a family. This evening, after the end of term, it felt more obvious than for a long time. Most of the children had gone home, and the ones who had no place to go were tucked up in bed and most probably fast asleep by now, which meant that the teachers did not have to feel bad about all the noise they were making. It was almost midnight, and by now they were all quite drunk. Sean’s head kept lolling against his arm in a comic manner, and Hank, who was blushing almost purple, was talking animatedly. The professor was propping his chin up in his hand, an inebriated smile on his face. When they had settled down, Erik had sat down on a chair beside the professor, but now he had turned to rest his head against his shoulder and put his feet up on the corner of the sofa. Professor X had his head turned towards him, and they spoke in hushed voices, occasionally laughing and sipping their drinks. Alex could not help sighing. The way they acted was only rivaled by Susanna and Betsy, who as fifteen-year old girls were entitled to giggling and gossiping. Men in their thirties were not. He could not figure out what was so special with their connection; however contradictory it was, Erik was closer to the professor than to anyone else in the mansion. He was not happy about his presence at the school, even if he was supposedly reformed now - he had to take Xavier’s word for it. Alex had still not forgiven him for what he had done to the professor. It was not just the whole spine business, but also the fact that he had just left - but between them, it seemed forgotten. If he did not know better, he would almost think...
‘Friends, Romans, countrymen!’ Hank shouted, jumping to his feet.
‘No bloody Shakespeare!’ whined Sean and buried his head in the sofa, laughing.
‘Speech!’ called the professor and banged his arm-rest with his palm.
‘Yes, speech!’ agreed Erik.
‘Give me the booze first,’ Alex said and was handed a bottle of vodka. Hank was swaying alarmingly, but kept his balance.
‘Friends,’ he said again, brandishing his glass. ‘We are not only celebrating the end of term - the end of the beginning of the second very successful year of our school.’
‘Hear, hear!’
‘We are also celebrating the hero of the hour, our very own Doctor King - professor Charles Xavier!’ They all cheered, and the professor waved it away, looking a little embarrassed. Hank retrieved his glasses and a newspaper and waved it at them. ‘Today the bigots and the chauvinists have had the opportunity to read this excellent article...’
‘Hank, please don’t read it aloud,’ Charles said. ‘It’d be embarrassing.’
‘We’ve all read it anyway,’ Alex pointed out.
‘You don’t sound so excited,’ Erik observed.
‘It was just a bit... careful,’ he said with a shrug. ‘And you sounded like you were dying to bring up the Civil Rights movement and then you didn’t in the end.’
‘Of course I wanted to mention the Civil Rights movement, but coming from me, it would come out wrong,’ the professor said and shrugged with his free shoulder. ‘Supporters of the Civil Rights Movement would point out that I was trying to make their argument arbitrary, or even that I was trying to undermine their cause by associating them with a group which is considered criminal. Besides, those who oppose the Civil Rights movements would become opposed to us in no time at all.’
‘Although most of them probably already are,’ Erik added.
‘I think it’s completely obvious what you’re referring to,’ Hank said and peered at the newspaper. ‘“In an age where the right of every citizen is marshalled, where the equal value of every man, woman and child has become a beacon to light the way, oppression in any form has become abhorrent to us, and no exception should be made, least we lose the moral high-ground we claim to have obtained”...’
‘I should have mentioned the Universal Declaration of Human Rights,’ the professor mused. ‘Next time, perhaps.’
‘They would just claim that we aren’t human,’ Erik pointed out. ‘That was how they kept Frost without trail for so long.’
‘Are we human?’ Alex asked. He had not really thought about that.
‘If a mutant can have fertile offspring with a human, then we are the same species,’ Hank observed, sitting down again. He seemed to have given up the plan of holding a speech.
‘Are you asking us to go and knock someone up to check?’ Sean wondered.
‘You’ve had enough,’ Hank announced and promptly spilled half his glass over the carpet. The professor chuckled. Alex watched as he tapped Erik on the shoulder and said:
‘There’ll probably be reactions in tomorrow’s paper. I think it’s time for bed.’ Erik stood up, looking much steadier than Alex had expected, and put both his and the professor’s glasses aside.
‘I’m putting the hero of the hour to bed,’ he said. ‘Don’t wake the children, would you?’ The professor waved at them and bid them good night as Erik pushed him out of the room. Alex looked after them, trying to quench the unsettling feeling the scene gave him.
***
Charles woke next morning, hungover and confused, after having dreamt a particularly vivid nightmare. He had been having dinner with his mother the old-fashioned way, with all the guests in evening-wear. Erik had sat beside him, and even if his looks were pristine, Charles had worried that there was really something wrong with his clothes and that his mother would notice and point it out. She did not, but instead kept dropping remarks about the war, again and again saying, ‘Lehnsherr - isn’t that a German name?’ When she had finally dropped the matter, she instead complained about the staff, and it was only then that Charles had realised that Hank was serving. ‘I told you to stay in the kitchen, Hank, what are you doing here?’ he hissed at him when he poured him wine, but Hank pretended not to hear. Then suddenly, Raven burst in and sat down, and Charles started worrying that she might be planning to make a scene by letting her dress slip off. Was there at all any way, if that were to happen, to make sure that his mother did not notice?
Unsettled by the chaotic domestic scene his subconscious had presented him with, probably caused by the imminent responses to his article, he was glad that there was no need to get up at once. As the aspirin started working, he lay with Erik’s head propped against his chest, and even when they felt a little better, they did not rise at one. When they finally went downstairs for breakfast, the newspaper was laid out at his place. When he hesitated, Erik told him:
‘Just do it - get it over with.’
‘Like pulling off a band-aid,’ Charles said. Of course it was nothing like it, because pulling a band-aid did not cause a wound. After a rather dispirited breakfast, they moved into Charles’ study, where Erik reread the responses and Charles rearranged the pens on his desk.
‘Was I wrong to write it now?’ he asked when Erik put it down. ‘Considering those people who died, as they said...’
‘You mean that we should not discuss atrocities through misguided worry for their families?’ Erik supplied. ‘That is ridiculous - in fact, it is offensive. Personal feelings should not enter into public debate, which most of these authors have not realised.’
‘Did I really come across as a - what was it? - “overprivileged scientist content to watch the crisis from his ivory tower”?’ Charles asked.
‘That one only read what you wrote about genetics and missed the human rights,’ Erik observed and came to perch on the desk, his hand on Charles’ shoulder. He in turn moved his pens in order of size, but when he was about to rearrange them yet again, Erik took his hand. ‘Write another article. Tell them yet again why they are wrong.’
‘And then?’ he said, leaning back.
‘They won’t listen, not at once,’ he conceded, ‘but if you simply let it drop, they will remain ignorant. Continue argue against them, and they may start to listen, which means that they can be convinced. Not all of them, but perhaps some, and they will be valuable allies.’ Charles could not help smiling.
‘I rather think you have become my voice of sanity,’ he observed. Erik laughed.
‘God help us.’ In unison, they moved together and kissed carefully, as if any sudden movement might stir their tamed headaches. When Erik drew back, Charles smiled at him, grateful for his encouragement, even if he did not always agree with him. Erik smiled back, but then his face grew alarmed; he had noticed how Charles’ eyes grew unfocused briefly. ‘Charles?’
Charles swallowed to compose himself.
‘I’m afraid that this day just got rather worse,’ he said. ‘The Strykers are on their way here.’
***
In the ten minutes until the Strykers’ car came up the driveway, there was a panicked flurry to get the parts of the house they would see in order. When the car engine stopped in front of the front door, Sean had just removed the last bottles from the study. Charles and Alex were at the top of the steps to greet the guests.
‘Colonel - what a pleasant surprise,’ Charles said and stretched out his hand preemptively. It took the couple a few seconds to ascend the steps, and even when they did so, the gruff colonel hesitated at shaking his hand. Finally politeness won out and he took his hand, but drew back as soon as he could, staring at his hand as if he might have been contaminated by something. His wife, from whom Charles sensed pity and urgency rather than anger and disgust, shook his hand more firmly and smiled at his compliments. The niceties over, he gestured inside. ‘Shall we talk in my study?’ Alex opened the door for them, falling in line after the Strykers. He was simply there to provide a buffer, in case Stryker had planned to start quarreling as soon as he got out of the car. Charles could feel his frustration at being the muscle, so when Alex held the door to the study open, he nodded at him and smiled appreciatively.
‘Have fun,’ Alex muttered under his breath and left.
Colonel Stryker looked around the study, part suspicious and part curious. He took in the armchairs, the couch, the books on psychology and biology and physics, the photographs on the mantlepiece. Not trying to hide his verdict, he wrinkled his nose in disapproval.
‘Please, take a seat,’ Charles said, pretending that he had not noticed the scrutiny. As soon as they had sat down, Stryker reached into his inner pocket and drew out an envelope, which he threw onto the desk. It bore the emblem of the school.
‘You sent us this.’ His voice was much calmer than Charles had expected it to be.
‘Jason’s end-of-term report,’ Charles said. ‘Did we send you the wrong letter by accident?’ He knew that it was not the case; already he sensed how this discussion would go. Still, his false cheerfulness seemed to convince Stryker, who quenched a momentary bout of annoyance.
‘No, professor, it’s Jason’s,’ he said, his voice tense. ‘But to be frank, I don’t care if he’s not quite top-of-the-class in maths or enjoys French literature. That’s not what I sent him here for.’ Charles threw out his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
‘This is a school,’ he explained. ‘We teach the children what you would expect.’
‘I sent my son here to be cured,’ Stryker pointed out sharply. ‘Now all I’m told is that there’s been “progress”, and a “recommendation” that he spends the vacation here.’
‘That’s all it was - a recommendation,’ Charles said diplomatically. He took care to hide his annoyance that that was all he could do. ‘But if you did not agree with it... well, I had expected you to call first.’ Stryker did not answer his smile.
‘How long until my son is cured, Xavier?’
‘There is nothing to cure about his abilities,’ Charles sighed. ‘It is not an illness. Would you ask me to cure him if Jason were highly musical?’
‘That is not the same thing,’ Mrs Stryker said suddenly. Her high-pitched voice had a tremble to it. Worry for her son seeped off her.
‘I would argue that it is,’ Charles answered. ‘After all, we are fast to encourage and award excellence in so many other ways - so why not in for example forming illusions?’
‘Do you think you’re clever, arguing in the national press and all?’ Stryker asked tartly. ‘It was a godawful article, Professor. Are we wasting your time? Are you wasting our money? Because I don’t think that you’re taking our son’s condition seriously.’ The headmaster paused, realising the importance of treading carefully.
‘Nothing is being wasted,’ he said calmly. ‘Colonel, when your son came to my school, he was verging on autistic. Now, his self-confidence has improved considerably, he interacts with the other students, he has made friends...’
‘And has he stopped making people see things?’ Stryker pressed.
‘He can control it,’ Charles repeated.
‘I don’t want him to be able to do it at all!’ he exclaimed, bristling. Then, drawing a deep breath, he announced: ‘This isn’t good enough. Jason should be at a mental institution, not some school.’
‘With all due respect, Colonel, Jason’s medical needs are being seen to,’ Charles assured him. ‘How they would treat him at a mental hospital does not bear thinking about.’
‘At least they wouldn’t try to glorify these ungodly abilities of his,’ Stryker said through gritted teeth.
Charles’ reply was cut short by a knock on the door. Erik stepped in, closing the door behind him, and gave the professor a telling look. His small movements as clear as semaphore, he pressed his thumb, ring and little finger to his palm and extended the two other fingers. Charles mirrored the gesture and put his fingers to his temple, finding the memory Erik directed him to.
The floor of the dormitory is cold under his cheek where he lies on his stomach - a nail is working its way through the knee of his trousers, but he ignores it. His attention is on the bundle wedged under the bed, shaking.
‘Komm mal raus, Kind.’
‘No, no, no....’
‘They will not hurt you,’ he tells her. One blue eye and one green stares at him through the darkness, like a cat’s.
‘But they have.’
‘They are your parents. They only want to see you. Why do you hate them?’ The eyes blink, and she leaps from under the bed. He tries to scramble away, startled, but he knows that all she wants is comfort, and when she curls up against him to cry against his chest, he holds her. Her body feels so frail. Children - such strange creatures. How can they grow up to become so vile? Where is that innocence lost? But how could anyone want to hurt this? A wayward mutant child is no less vulnerable than a human child, even if it is more dangerous. Whatever Jason can do towards her parents, now she is simply a child, shaking with fear.
‘Don’t give me to them, Mister Lehnsherr,’ she sobs. ‘They’ll kill me.’
The memory was followed by a thought, like an addition to a report. The child is right, Charles. These people want a human son - not a mutant daughter. They must not take her.
‘Who the hell are you?’ It was Stryker who had broken the silence.
‘Colonel, this is Erik Lehnsherr,’ he explained, and Erik approached. He did not speak, finding that no polite phrase felt appropriate, but bowed his head a little and shook their hands. As the colonel shook his hand, Charles saw him measuring up the newcomer, as if recognising a fellow fighter. It did not seem to change his low opinion of him. ‘Mister Lehnsherr teaches German and French,’ Charles explained.
‘Your son has a talent for languages,’ Erik offered. Mrs Stryker winced at his accent. Usually her disapproval was so restrained, but this was something which she felt was within the realms which her husband let her understand and she could disapprove of.
Deciding to address the issue at hand, Charles said:
‘Colonel, I must ask - are you planning to take your son home?’
‘Are you threatening to keep him?’ Stryker asked, challenging him. Charles forced himself to chuckle, pretending it was all a joke, but as he spoke, he concentrated.
‘By no means.’ Your son should stay. ‘I simply think that it may be better if your son remained here.’ Your son should stay. ‘After all, it is not constructive for children to be thrown between different environments.’ Your son should stay. They nodded, not placated but still content.
‘Very well,’ Stryker said and rose. ‘But I expect results, Xavier.’
‘Of course,’ Charles said and smiled, false appreciation on his face. Mrs Stryker rose too, but more reluctantly.
‘Where is Jason?’ she asked, clutching her bag. ‘It’s his birthday next week, and I wanted to give him his present...’
‘Jason has a mild head-cold,’ Erik said before Charles had time to act. ‘I advised him to stay in bed - I think he’s asleep.’
‘If you leave it with me, I’ll make sure he gets it,’ Charles offered. Sighing, she took a soft wrapped gift from her bag and handed it to him. He placed it on the desk and gestured to the door. ‘We’ll walk you.’
They made their way outside in silence, and the farewell was strained. Stryker took his wife by the arm and lead her quickly down the stairs, and as soon as they stepped onto the gravel, he started speaking, perfectly aware that they could still hear him.
‘Who do these people think they are? They’re just a bunch of freaks who think they can say whatever they want. That professor must be a queer. And the kind of people he employs! As if it wasn’t bad enough that they’re all muties. White trash, foreigners, Jews...’ Erik’s hand closed into a fist. Charles grabbed his wrist.
‘Erik,’ he muttered, calling him to control himself as the Strykers stepped into the car.
‘I could break something inside the engine, and they wouldn’t know until it was too late,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘What good would come of it?’ Charles asked. Erik shook off his hand.
‘More than you’d accept, I think.’ Then he turned on his heel and went inside again. Charles followed, and together they went back to the study. Well there, Erik lit a cigarette, as if to do something to calm himself. As Charles started to clean and stuff his pipe, he pointed out:
‘That man is no better than Schmidt.’ Charles glanced up; it was not a verdict Erik would make lightly. They smoked in silence, until Erik said: ‘You can’t let him take the child.’
‘Well, if he insists, we don’t really have a choice,’ Charles sighed. ‘I can’t bend his mind every time, and I don’t think I’ll ever convince him the conventional way.’ He paused and blew a half-formed smoke-ring. ‘He’s Jason’s father - we’re just his teachers. We have no say in the matter.’
‘You saw how scared Jason is of him,’ Erik said sharply. ‘You couldn’t possibly...’ He broke off and stared out of the window. ‘It seems abhorrent, that anyone should treat their child like that,’ he said. ‘I scarcely thought it possible.’ Charles looked away, understanding the workings of his mind all too well. Erik’s family had been his one refuge from hatred, the only thing standing between him and those intent on destroying them. Even now, twenty years after their deaths, he loved them fiercely and uncompromisingly. To imagine someone not having that, on top of being hated by society... If I turned out the way I did, what kind of monster will poor Jason become?
‘Stryker’s human - couldn’t we use human means against him?’ Erik asked.
‘Are you suggesting calling in social services?’ Charles said sceptically.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it wouldn’t work,’ he explained. ‘Stryker has friends in high places. The matter would be hushed up at once. Social services doesn’t care about well-to-do families, Erik. As far as they are concerned, children from good homes aren’t mistreated.’
‘That is a fallacy,’ Erik pointed out.
‘Of course it is,’ Charles said with a shrug, ‘but it suits their purpose.’
‘That is all it comes down to,’ he sighed.
‘I’m afraid that there are other reasons why we need to stay on the right side of Stryker,’ Charles admitted. This was something he had not really explained to any of the others, but it suddenly seemed important that Erik should know. ‘Stryker’s doing us a favour by keeping the CIA off our backs. When he contacted me about Jason, it was the deal we reached.’ Erik considered this.
‘Is Jason a hostage?’ he asked matter-of-factly.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Charles said. ‘It’s more likely that his father thinks of his son as a booby-trap, which I could plant, or a scandal I could bring down on him, but if I do, he will disclose our location to the CIA... perhaps even make the information public.’
‘“Mutant training camp in New York State”?’ Erik said, suggesting a headline.
‘“Corruption of youth for the good of evolution?”’
‘“Oxford don in mutie school scandal”.’
‘“Former terrorist teaches French romantics”.’ At that point, they both burst out laughing. When they finally calmed down, some of the previous gloom had been dispelled.
‘I don’t want to deal with that man when I’m hungover again,’ Charles said. Erik brushed their hands together.
‘Next time, just say the word and I’ll pour you a drink before he gets here.’
‘With ideas like that, I should make you my deputy,’ Charles answered, and once again they laughed.
***
Outside of term, the mansion seemed to grow. It was a huge house; back in its day, it had been staffed by an army of maids, footmen, chars and cooks. The auxiliary forces for the garden and the grounds had been even bigger. That had been before Charles’ time, but he remembered the servants in their starched aprons and rustling skirts who had still worked there when he had been little. By the time he went off to university, his mother had only been able to keep a maidservant and a cleaning lady, as well as a part-time cook; during the war, most of the girls had realised that working in a munitions factory paid better, so, inspired by Rosie the Riveter, they had disappeared, shedding their lace aprons for head-cloths and overalls.
Now, there were only ten of them left, and it left the mansion, usually so full of life, empty. The division between teachers and students blurred, when they all took their meals together in the dining room, and the children sat with the adults in the drawing room in the evenings, when they wanted to. Charles was afraid that they might go wandering around the mansion and either end up snooping or getting lost, so it was better that they were encouraged to spend time with them. Hank took it upon himself to entertain them and lead them on a spree of making various Christmas decorations out of paper, hay and sequins. Both Sean and Alex seemed glad that term was over, and spent the time catching up on sleep and training, while Charles shared Hank’s sense of being understimulated. Hoping to keep idleness away, he spent his days writing down article ideas, and drafting Christmas shopping lists.
But while the others were in good spirits, Erik was growing pensive and unpredictable. One day, Rahne played with the other children in wolf-form and ran right in front of Erik, so that he almost tripped over the scurrying animal. His response had been to scream at her in German until she turned back into a child and started weeping. Sean came running to the site and tried to comfort her, but Erik stalked off before Charles had time to stop him and ask what had set off the tantrum, because it was obvious that it was only a symptom. Most of the time, however, he would simply slip away from the others, often so discreetly that Charles did not notice it until he was gone. When he looked for him, he would most often find him in his room, deep in thought. He had resolved not to read his thoughts, but his attempts to bring up the subject had led to nothing. Being excluded from the workings of his friend’s mind annoyed him, even if he tried to tell himself that Erik was under no obligation of telling him. But he wished he knew - then, at least, he could help. Unless... it is about us. Or about his being here. Or about what the world is coming to. Charles fought his own frustration, fearing it might turn into resentment or suspicion.
He supposed that his eventual transgression, a fortnight after the end of term, could be blamed on a lapse of concentration. They had gone to bed, and Charles was slipping off, while Erik lay, chest pressed against Charles’ back, still wide awake. In that twilight state, it felt almost like a reflex to dip into Erik’s mind. The realisation shook him awake, and he retreated, but he had stayed long enough to read that part of his mind. He pressed a hand against his mouth, afraid that he might laugh with the relief. I was wrong - thank God, I was wrong. It’s not about us at all. Then he remembered what actually was the reason, and his exclamation seemed ironic. What was causing such turmoil within Erik was the thought of religion. Now when he thought about it, Charles realised that he should have anticipated it. With everyone getting increasingly excited about Christmas, it was bound to make him feel excluded.
But there was nothing to do about it now. So Charles found his hand and pressed it, and settled to sleep.
Even now, when he had identified the reason for Erik’s pensiveness, it took Charles several days to figure out a way to breach the subject. It was on the twenty-third of the month during a walk, just as they were approaching the old paddocks, that Charles decided to speak. Knowing that there was no way to start such a conversation which would not be blunt, he asked:
‘Do you consider yourself religious at all, Erik?’ He heard Erik harrumphing from his position behind the wheelchair.
‘God and I are not on speaking terms,’ he said finally. Charles considered this.
‘That implies that you believe in the existence of God, but... do not approve of dogma? Or simply feel alienated by it?’ Erik made no reply, and Charles dared not press him, afraid that he might overstep some line. When they reached the stables and Erik sat down on the stone steps as he always did, Charles decided that it was decent to at least offer him an explanation. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking. It’s just that I’ve noticed that it’s been on your mind lately.’ Erik shot him a look. ‘I haven’t read your mind without permission,’ he added, hoping to convince himself as well. ‘Some thoughts have... bled through.’ Erik sighed and shifted, leaning back against the wall of the stable. It seemed like a physical sign of resignation, acknowledging that he did not mind. They sat in silence for a long time, both waiting for the other to speak first. Finally, Charles decided to break the ice. ‘Is it all that talk of Christmas?’ Erik gave a minute nod. ‘I didn’t realise it upset you - I’m sorry.’
‘It doesn’t really upset me, only... makes me think,’ Erik said. Charles found it rather a relief that he decided to speak at all. When Erik noticed his gaze on him, he sighed yet again and rubbed his eyes. ‘I don’t know if I want to talk about it. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘I want to understand,’ Charles answered.
‘The fact remains...’ The statement was finished with a melancholic smile.
‘I could...’
‘No.’ It came out very sharp - Charles was momentarily taken aback by the sudden anger in his voice.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But please, would you explain it to me?’ He could feel Erik’s resistance wearing thin, but still reminded himself to tread carefully. He had not seen his friend this disquieted for a long time. Now, Erik leaned his elbows on his knees and, clasping his hands, spoke.
‘The past few months, I have started considering you and the school as... family.’
‘We are a family,’ Charles said quickly. ‘All of us.’ Erik dipped his head, as if conceding his point. It was a family far from the norm - all he had was a lover, a few grudging friends, children who were not his own. ‘Why does that bother you?’ he asked softly.
‘Because we are not a family in every way,’ Erik answered, sounding bitter now. ‘In some ways, we are strangers. That is what I have realised recently.’
‘Does it matter?’ But even as he said it, Charles knew that it did. Along with Ororo, Erik was the only non-Christian at the school, and that was bound to make him feel isolated. ‘You know that no one at the school would...’ He struggled for a euphemistic enough term, and failed. ‘I mean, they are all tolerant people.’
‘I can bear intolerance, and I would not expect it from anyone in the school. Besides, I don’t know if my faith is generally known - not because of any attempts to hide it, of course. It has simply not come up in conversation. Sean, at least, still seems to think that I let him have my portion of bacon out of the goodness of my heart.’ Charles smiled at that, but it faded quickly. ‘If you’re worried that Stryker’s casual hatred hurt me worse than it hurt you, rest assured that there is no need to upset yourself about it,’ Erik said gravely. Charles gathered his courage and asked:
‘Why are you not on speaking-terms with God?’ Erik snorted.
‘I don’t see how I could be,’ he replied. ‘Jews do not believe in Hell, Charles, yet I have been there. How could He simply let us be killed like that? The Chosen People - chosen for what? Constant persecution? Industrialised slaughter?’ This was a new kind of anger, Charles reflected. He could not remember ever having seen someone so angry with God. It made Erik’s hands shake, and in an attempt to let it out, he got to his feet and started pacing. ‘All that devout studying and learning should have made my people fit for more than to feed the flames of the crematoria. Should it not have given us some protection, some right not to be treated like animals?’ He stopped, and as he turned his face up towards the cold winter sun, Charles saw a single tear trail down his cheek. ‘The Nazis did not just kill us because they thought we were racially inferior,’ he said. ‘They despised everything about us and our heritage - they were as intent on ridding the world of our religion as our genes.’ He turned his face down again, but his eyes remained open, as if the horrors would grow nearer if he closed them.
‘You know they had no right,’ Charles said finally. ‘Don’t let what they did to you and yours change you.’
‘How could it not?’ Erik exclaimed, whirling around to face him. ‘It’s easy for you to say, but if you knew...’ He paused, overcome with emotion. ‘In the camps, they made foot-patches out of taleisim, Charles. They took them from the luggage of those they gassed, and made us sew foot-patches from them.’ The memory which had risen inside him, so suddenly that Charles thought he could see it move to the front of his mind, provided the explanation he needed. The texture of the prayer shawl against his feet - the mismatched, too big clogs making him bleed into it - with every step, he grows more ashamed, because he is made to act out their hatred in their stead.
‘How can anyone bear such humiliation?’ Erik asked quietly. ‘Every scrap of knowledge about our customs, our faith, they used against us. My father was a devout man, and they made him and men like him strip naked before forcing them into the gas-chambers, and then they cut off his beard and hair to stuff mattresses with. How can I simply go on, as if none of it happened? How can anyone?’
‘You mean that your faith has been... tainted?’
‘Yes,’ Erik answered, sounding at once exhausted. ‘Ripped away from us and ground in the dirt and now handed back. That was one thing they succeeded with. I sometimes wish I could proclaim myself a non-believer - atheism would be less painful. But it would leave phantom pains, I suppose, and my conviction of God’s existence runs too deep.’ Slowly, he returned to the steps and sat down. ‘Sometimes I hate how unobservant I have grown,’ he confided. ‘I envy those who still trust their God. I simply cannot. I realised, only a week ago, that I did not even know when Hanukkah fell this year. It was in the end of November - I must have spent those days marking papers and dealing with students.’
‘There is no reason why you shouldn’t find a congregation,’ Charles said. ‘I think there’s one in town.’ Erik shook his head firmly.
‘No,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I... could not. Even if I occasionally want to.’ He unclipped his cufflink and made it spin around his hand. ‘This makes me as much a monster in their eyes as in anyone else’s. I’m an outcast even among my own people.’
‘“I will break in pieces the gates of brass, and cut in sunder the bars of iron”,’ Charles quoted. Erik replaced his cufflink and sneered.
‘That is a reference to the Messiah,’ he pointed out sternly, but nevertheless seemed entertained by Charles’ ability to quote Isaiah off by heart. ‘Not in the least appropriate.’
‘I suppose,’ Charles said with a shrug. ‘I didn’t really mean anything by it - I simply came to think of that verse. There was always something in it that caught my imagination.’ To his relief, Erik actually smiled at him, even if his sadness lingered. ‘If there is anything - anything at all - I can do to help...’ Erik took his hand and pressed it.
‘This time, my friend, you cannot help,’ he said. ‘But thank you all the same.’
‘You know I am happy to listen.’ He refrained from answering, and it struck Charles suddenly that, despite everything, when it came to this he was as much as stranger as anyone else. But Erik did not seem to notice the realisation, and spoke.
‘If I make myself scarce the next few days, it is not because of any spite. Mostly it is that I don’t like crowds, particularly ones where people expect you to be happy.’
‘Of course,’ Charles said. ‘I understand.’
As Erik pushed him back towards the mansion, Charles considered what had been said, and thought of the first time they had walked this route, when Erik had said that being here “stirred things” - memories. Perhaps it was not just the impending holiday after all, but a greater process at work. All the different facets of him - Max Eisenhardt, Erik Lehnsherr, Magneto - were merging, but like the healing of a broken bone, it took time, and the process was painful and slow.
Erik was barely to be seen during all of Christmas Eve. As Charles watched the children decorating the Christmas tree, he cast his out mind to find him, afraid that he might be alone and miserable. He found that he was on the top floor, perched in a bay window with a blanket and a book. There he stayed practically all day, hidden away from the bustle and the stress of the lower floors. The dejection Charles had expected was not there at all. Instead, there was a kind of resigned content, enabled by the escapism of the novel he was reading. He was still there when Charles went to bed, and he sent him a fond thought. He held the contact for a few moments, and felt a flare of love responding to his wordless message. It was enough to put his worries to rest.
On Christmas morning, Charles woke early, alone for the first time in months. From downstairs, he could sense the yawning church-goers at the breakfast table. He had declined going with them the previous day, but now he lay still, listening to them getting ready. As they pulled on coats and stepped into shoes and left, Charles thought about what a strange force religion was. To him, it had not been an active one for many years. At the age of fifteen, he had spent some time thinking about it, and had come to the conclusion that there was no way of proving or disproving the existence of God. He was convinced that religion could be a positive force, but as soon as he had started studying the sciences, it had stopped doing anything for him. The quirks and turns in evolution seemed to him random, sometimes even callous, but there was a beauty to the unpredictability. The wonders of nature were to him self-contained. He knew that it did not have to be so - through his microscope, Hank glimpsed something divine in the workings of the world, and it was the same marvel at the cosmos which drove his research that made him don a hat and trench-coat and sit hunched in the back of the church this morning. Charles had been raised to such religiosity, but he had shed it, which had vexed his mother. But it had been a conscious decision, one which he had ultimately been glad to make. He had never lost his faith, but given it up. Experimentally, he clasped his hands and tried to remember the prayers he had been taught as a child. Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur Nomen Tuum...
But it was just words to him, words in a dead language which he had half forgotten. It held no emotional importance to him anymore. With some relief, he unclasped his hands. He had never thought about how different giving up your faith voluntarily was to having it wrenched away. If he remembered correctly (and memories of teenage years often seemed exaggerated), the discussions on the topic with his mother had been bitter, and involved some amount of shouting, but after that, it had caused him little pain. Now he recalled his discussion with Erik the other day, and felt a swell of pity, but also a stab of longing for the man. At once, the bed seemed wrong without Erik in it. Once again, he reached out with his mind. Ororo was fast asleep in her dormitory on the other side of the building, and the others had left. Satisfied that he would not run into anyone, he found his dressing-gown, moved to his wheelchair and left his room.
When he reached Erik’s door, he did not bother to knock, but simply opened it. At the sound of the creaking hinges, Erik jerked awake, shaking off the slumber and sitting up. Then he realised who the intruder was, and with a sigh he sank down against the pillow again.
‘What’s the time, Charles?’ he muttered.
‘Just after six AM,’ he answered and made sure to close and lock the door before crossing to the bed. ‘The others are at church.’ They looked at each other for a drawn-out moment. ‘I thought we might...’ Erik propped himself up on his elbows and grinned.
‘...Add to the sinfulness of the household?’ he suggested. Charles laughed nervously.
‘If you’d be up for it.’ Erik moved to give him room and cocked his head.
‘Come to bed, then.’ Charles crossed to the bed and started maneuvering himself onto it. As soon as he sat on the edge of the bed, Erik grabbed him and pulled him into a kiss. He laughed into the kiss and pulled his legs straight, even as Erik undid the sash in the night-gown. Charles watched as he hitched up his pyjamas jacket, edged lower and kissed his nipple. A strangled shout escaped his throat. His hand lay against Erik’s groin, and his other hand cupped his cheek and brought him up for a kiss. As their caresses grew more focused and then more desperate, he wondered if this was their way of coping. They escaped by finding refuge in physical pleasure, simple irrefutable intimacy. Was that a form of cowardice, or simply a way to stay sane? It had to mean something on its own as well - they had to have meaning. Needing to say it and hear himself say it, as they lay close, catching their breath, he said:
‘I love you.’ It felt a cliché thing to say, but rather than chiding him for it, Erik’s embrace tightened.
‘I love you,’ he whispered into his ear and then rested his lips against it, frustrated at the semantic emptiness of the words. They felt inadequate and too obvious, made prosaic by too many insincere speakers.
‘I know,’ Charles assured him and, nestling his hand between them, pressed it over his heart. Even when they had been enemies, he had not doubted it. ‘I feel it.’ It passed between them with every look, and later when their intimacy once again deepened, Charles sensed every part of it, all the beauty and the pain and the searing unquenchable longing for it all to last a little longer and grow a little more intense. This went beyond any simple, romantic association - it was unbridled, violent, all-consuming. It was like the thrusts of a desperate lover, the tight embrace of a husband called away to war, the fierce pain of a broken heart even before it had been smashed, but also the steadfastness of a comrade-in-arms, the touching shoulders of brothers at the dawn of battle, the clasped hands of friends for comfort and guidance in the mist. That was something Charles could believe in.
Next chapter
Fandom X-Men: First Class
Pairings Erik/Charles, past Erik/Raven, mention of Hank/Raven, sort of brief Raven/Angel, references to future Scott/Jean
Beta cicero_drayon
Word count of chapters 7353
Word count of entire fic approx. 115 000
Ratings/warnings NC-17. Sexual situations, past physical and mental trauma, discussion of genocide, period transphobia, homophobia, ableism and racism, brief mentions of rape and suicide
Spoilers X-Men: First Class, X2 and (to a lesser extent) X-Men: The Last Stand. Some comic canon thrown in for good measure.
Disclaimer Marvel owns it, I don’t.
Summary Two arrivals to Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters coincide - Jason Stryker, a child branded a freak because of his psychic powers, and Erik Lehnsherr, wanted terrorist and old friend of the professor. Jason is there as his father wants him cured - Erik claims that he has gone rogue from his own renegades. As tensions rise between mutants and humans, as well as between the suddenly reunited friends, who can truly be trusted?
Author's notes I've realised that what I had put as one chapter should really be two chapters, so there are now 18 chapters to this fic. Happy holidays, everyone (and this chapter just happens to be set this very date)!
There were occasions when Alex did not know why he stayed in the mansion. This was not one of them.
Of course, he would never think of leaving. First and foremost there was Scott, who, despite occasionally being difficult meant more to him than he liked to say. Then there was the other students. No one would catch him admitting it, of course, but when they came welling out of the building, chatting and laughing, he felt like he mattered. He did not teach them, like the professor and Hank and Erik did. He trained them, and made them learn things which he knew might one day save their skins. The professor disapproved of violence in the way only a man who had never had to fight for his life could, but he agreed that the combat training was important, which was all the encouragement Alex needed.
Still a year ago, he would probably have claimed that it was just because it was someplace to be, but from the very start, it had been something else than just a roof over his head. The mansion had rapidly become a home and the team had become a family. This evening, after the end of term, it felt more obvious than for a long time. Most of the children had gone home, and the ones who had no place to go were tucked up in bed and most probably fast asleep by now, which meant that the teachers did not have to feel bad about all the noise they were making. It was almost midnight, and by now they were all quite drunk. Sean’s head kept lolling against his arm in a comic manner, and Hank, who was blushing almost purple, was talking animatedly. The professor was propping his chin up in his hand, an inebriated smile on his face. When they had settled down, Erik had sat down on a chair beside the professor, but now he had turned to rest his head against his shoulder and put his feet up on the corner of the sofa. Professor X had his head turned towards him, and they spoke in hushed voices, occasionally laughing and sipping their drinks. Alex could not help sighing. The way they acted was only rivaled by Susanna and Betsy, who as fifteen-year old girls were entitled to giggling and gossiping. Men in their thirties were not. He could not figure out what was so special with their connection; however contradictory it was, Erik was closer to the professor than to anyone else in the mansion. He was not happy about his presence at the school, even if he was supposedly reformed now - he had to take Xavier’s word for it. Alex had still not forgiven him for what he had done to the professor. It was not just the whole spine business, but also the fact that he had just left - but between them, it seemed forgotten. If he did not know better, he would almost think...
‘Friends, Romans, countrymen!’ Hank shouted, jumping to his feet.
‘No bloody Shakespeare!’ whined Sean and buried his head in the sofa, laughing.
‘Speech!’ called the professor and banged his arm-rest with his palm.
‘Yes, speech!’ agreed Erik.
‘Give me the booze first,’ Alex said and was handed a bottle of vodka. Hank was swaying alarmingly, but kept his balance.
‘Friends,’ he said again, brandishing his glass. ‘We are not only celebrating the end of term - the end of the beginning of the second very successful year of our school.’
‘Hear, hear!’
‘We are also celebrating the hero of the hour, our very own Doctor King - professor Charles Xavier!’ They all cheered, and the professor waved it away, looking a little embarrassed. Hank retrieved his glasses and a newspaper and waved it at them. ‘Today the bigots and the chauvinists have had the opportunity to read this excellent article...’
‘Hank, please don’t read it aloud,’ Charles said. ‘It’d be embarrassing.’
‘We’ve all read it anyway,’ Alex pointed out.
‘You don’t sound so excited,’ Erik observed.
‘It was just a bit... careful,’ he said with a shrug. ‘And you sounded like you were dying to bring up the Civil Rights movement and then you didn’t in the end.’
‘Of course I wanted to mention the Civil Rights movement, but coming from me, it would come out wrong,’ the professor said and shrugged with his free shoulder. ‘Supporters of the Civil Rights Movement would point out that I was trying to make their argument arbitrary, or even that I was trying to undermine their cause by associating them with a group which is considered criminal. Besides, those who oppose the Civil Rights movements would become opposed to us in no time at all.’
‘Although most of them probably already are,’ Erik added.
‘I think it’s completely obvious what you’re referring to,’ Hank said and peered at the newspaper. ‘“In an age where the right of every citizen is marshalled, where the equal value of every man, woman and child has become a beacon to light the way, oppression in any form has become abhorrent to us, and no exception should be made, least we lose the moral high-ground we claim to have obtained”...’
‘I should have mentioned the Universal Declaration of Human Rights,’ the professor mused. ‘Next time, perhaps.’
‘They would just claim that we aren’t human,’ Erik pointed out. ‘That was how they kept Frost without trail for so long.’
‘Are we human?’ Alex asked. He had not really thought about that.
‘If a mutant can have fertile offspring with a human, then we are the same species,’ Hank observed, sitting down again. He seemed to have given up the plan of holding a speech.
‘Are you asking us to go and knock someone up to check?’ Sean wondered.
‘You’ve had enough,’ Hank announced and promptly spilled half his glass over the carpet. The professor chuckled. Alex watched as he tapped Erik on the shoulder and said:
‘There’ll probably be reactions in tomorrow’s paper. I think it’s time for bed.’ Erik stood up, looking much steadier than Alex had expected, and put both his and the professor’s glasses aside.
‘I’m putting the hero of the hour to bed,’ he said. ‘Don’t wake the children, would you?’ The professor waved at them and bid them good night as Erik pushed him out of the room. Alex looked after them, trying to quench the unsettling feeling the scene gave him.
***
Charles woke next morning, hungover and confused, after having dreamt a particularly vivid nightmare. He had been having dinner with his mother the old-fashioned way, with all the guests in evening-wear. Erik had sat beside him, and even if his looks were pristine, Charles had worried that there was really something wrong with his clothes and that his mother would notice and point it out. She did not, but instead kept dropping remarks about the war, again and again saying, ‘Lehnsherr - isn’t that a German name?’ When she had finally dropped the matter, she instead complained about the staff, and it was only then that Charles had realised that Hank was serving. ‘I told you to stay in the kitchen, Hank, what are you doing here?’ he hissed at him when he poured him wine, but Hank pretended not to hear. Then suddenly, Raven burst in and sat down, and Charles started worrying that she might be planning to make a scene by letting her dress slip off. Was there at all any way, if that were to happen, to make sure that his mother did not notice?
Unsettled by the chaotic domestic scene his subconscious had presented him with, probably caused by the imminent responses to his article, he was glad that there was no need to get up at once. As the aspirin started working, he lay with Erik’s head propped against his chest, and even when they felt a little better, they did not rise at one. When they finally went downstairs for breakfast, the newspaper was laid out at his place. When he hesitated, Erik told him:
‘Just do it - get it over with.’
‘Like pulling off a band-aid,’ Charles said. Of course it was nothing like it, because pulling a band-aid did not cause a wound. After a rather dispirited breakfast, they moved into Charles’ study, where Erik reread the responses and Charles rearranged the pens on his desk.
‘Was I wrong to write it now?’ he asked when Erik put it down. ‘Considering those people who died, as they said...’
‘You mean that we should not discuss atrocities through misguided worry for their families?’ Erik supplied. ‘That is ridiculous - in fact, it is offensive. Personal feelings should not enter into public debate, which most of these authors have not realised.’
‘Did I really come across as a - what was it? - “overprivileged scientist content to watch the crisis from his ivory tower”?’ Charles asked.
‘That one only read what you wrote about genetics and missed the human rights,’ Erik observed and came to perch on the desk, his hand on Charles’ shoulder. He in turn moved his pens in order of size, but when he was about to rearrange them yet again, Erik took his hand. ‘Write another article. Tell them yet again why they are wrong.’
‘And then?’ he said, leaning back.
‘They won’t listen, not at once,’ he conceded, ‘but if you simply let it drop, they will remain ignorant. Continue argue against them, and they may start to listen, which means that they can be convinced. Not all of them, but perhaps some, and they will be valuable allies.’ Charles could not help smiling.
‘I rather think you have become my voice of sanity,’ he observed. Erik laughed.
‘God help us.’ In unison, they moved together and kissed carefully, as if any sudden movement might stir their tamed headaches. When Erik drew back, Charles smiled at him, grateful for his encouragement, even if he did not always agree with him. Erik smiled back, but then his face grew alarmed; he had noticed how Charles’ eyes grew unfocused briefly. ‘Charles?’
Charles swallowed to compose himself.
‘I’m afraid that this day just got rather worse,’ he said. ‘The Strykers are on their way here.’
***
In the ten minutes until the Strykers’ car came up the driveway, there was a panicked flurry to get the parts of the house they would see in order. When the car engine stopped in front of the front door, Sean had just removed the last bottles from the study. Charles and Alex were at the top of the steps to greet the guests.
‘Colonel - what a pleasant surprise,’ Charles said and stretched out his hand preemptively. It took the couple a few seconds to ascend the steps, and even when they did so, the gruff colonel hesitated at shaking his hand. Finally politeness won out and he took his hand, but drew back as soon as he could, staring at his hand as if he might have been contaminated by something. His wife, from whom Charles sensed pity and urgency rather than anger and disgust, shook his hand more firmly and smiled at his compliments. The niceties over, he gestured inside. ‘Shall we talk in my study?’ Alex opened the door for them, falling in line after the Strykers. He was simply there to provide a buffer, in case Stryker had planned to start quarreling as soon as he got out of the car. Charles could feel his frustration at being the muscle, so when Alex held the door to the study open, he nodded at him and smiled appreciatively.
‘Have fun,’ Alex muttered under his breath and left.
Colonel Stryker looked around the study, part suspicious and part curious. He took in the armchairs, the couch, the books on psychology and biology and physics, the photographs on the mantlepiece. Not trying to hide his verdict, he wrinkled his nose in disapproval.
‘Please, take a seat,’ Charles said, pretending that he had not noticed the scrutiny. As soon as they had sat down, Stryker reached into his inner pocket and drew out an envelope, which he threw onto the desk. It bore the emblem of the school.
‘You sent us this.’ His voice was much calmer than Charles had expected it to be.
‘Jason’s end-of-term report,’ Charles said. ‘Did we send you the wrong letter by accident?’ He knew that it was not the case; already he sensed how this discussion would go. Still, his false cheerfulness seemed to convince Stryker, who quenched a momentary bout of annoyance.
‘No, professor, it’s Jason’s,’ he said, his voice tense. ‘But to be frank, I don’t care if he’s not quite top-of-the-class in maths or enjoys French literature. That’s not what I sent him here for.’ Charles threw out his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
‘This is a school,’ he explained. ‘We teach the children what you would expect.’
‘I sent my son here to be cured,’ Stryker pointed out sharply. ‘Now all I’m told is that there’s been “progress”, and a “recommendation” that he spends the vacation here.’
‘That’s all it was - a recommendation,’ Charles said diplomatically. He took care to hide his annoyance that that was all he could do. ‘But if you did not agree with it... well, I had expected you to call first.’ Stryker did not answer his smile.
‘How long until my son is cured, Xavier?’
‘There is nothing to cure about his abilities,’ Charles sighed. ‘It is not an illness. Would you ask me to cure him if Jason were highly musical?’
‘That is not the same thing,’ Mrs Stryker said suddenly. Her high-pitched voice had a tremble to it. Worry for her son seeped off her.
‘I would argue that it is,’ Charles answered. ‘After all, we are fast to encourage and award excellence in so many other ways - so why not in for example forming illusions?’
‘Do you think you’re clever, arguing in the national press and all?’ Stryker asked tartly. ‘It was a godawful article, Professor. Are we wasting your time? Are you wasting our money? Because I don’t think that you’re taking our son’s condition seriously.’ The headmaster paused, realising the importance of treading carefully.
‘Nothing is being wasted,’ he said calmly. ‘Colonel, when your son came to my school, he was verging on autistic. Now, his self-confidence has improved considerably, he interacts with the other students, he has made friends...’
‘And has he stopped making people see things?’ Stryker pressed.
‘He can control it,’ Charles repeated.
‘I don’t want him to be able to do it at all!’ he exclaimed, bristling. Then, drawing a deep breath, he announced: ‘This isn’t good enough. Jason should be at a mental institution, not some school.’
‘With all due respect, Colonel, Jason’s medical needs are being seen to,’ Charles assured him. ‘How they would treat him at a mental hospital does not bear thinking about.’
‘At least they wouldn’t try to glorify these ungodly abilities of his,’ Stryker said through gritted teeth.
Charles’ reply was cut short by a knock on the door. Erik stepped in, closing the door behind him, and gave the professor a telling look. His small movements as clear as semaphore, he pressed his thumb, ring and little finger to his palm and extended the two other fingers. Charles mirrored the gesture and put his fingers to his temple, finding the memory Erik directed him to.
The floor of the dormitory is cold under his cheek where he lies on his stomach - a nail is working its way through the knee of his trousers, but he ignores it. His attention is on the bundle wedged under the bed, shaking.
‘Komm mal raus, Kind.’
‘No, no, no....’
‘They will not hurt you,’ he tells her. One blue eye and one green stares at him through the darkness, like a cat’s.
‘But they have.’
‘They are your parents. They only want to see you. Why do you hate them?’ The eyes blink, and she leaps from under the bed. He tries to scramble away, startled, but he knows that all she wants is comfort, and when she curls up against him to cry against his chest, he holds her. Her body feels so frail. Children - such strange creatures. How can they grow up to become so vile? Where is that innocence lost? But how could anyone want to hurt this? A wayward mutant child is no less vulnerable than a human child, even if it is more dangerous. Whatever Jason can do towards her parents, now she is simply a child, shaking with fear.
‘Don’t give me to them, Mister Lehnsherr,’ she sobs. ‘They’ll kill me.’
The memory was followed by a thought, like an addition to a report. The child is right, Charles. These people want a human son - not a mutant daughter. They must not take her.
‘Who the hell are you?’ It was Stryker who had broken the silence.
‘Colonel, this is Erik Lehnsherr,’ he explained, and Erik approached. He did not speak, finding that no polite phrase felt appropriate, but bowed his head a little and shook their hands. As the colonel shook his hand, Charles saw him measuring up the newcomer, as if recognising a fellow fighter. It did not seem to change his low opinion of him. ‘Mister Lehnsherr teaches German and French,’ Charles explained.
‘Your son has a talent for languages,’ Erik offered. Mrs Stryker winced at his accent. Usually her disapproval was so restrained, but this was something which she felt was within the realms which her husband let her understand and she could disapprove of.
Deciding to address the issue at hand, Charles said:
‘Colonel, I must ask - are you planning to take your son home?’
‘Are you threatening to keep him?’ Stryker asked, challenging him. Charles forced himself to chuckle, pretending it was all a joke, but as he spoke, he concentrated.
‘By no means.’ Your son should stay. ‘I simply think that it may be better if your son remained here.’ Your son should stay. ‘After all, it is not constructive for children to be thrown between different environments.’ Your son should stay. They nodded, not placated but still content.
‘Very well,’ Stryker said and rose. ‘But I expect results, Xavier.’
‘Of course,’ Charles said and smiled, false appreciation on his face. Mrs Stryker rose too, but more reluctantly.
‘Where is Jason?’ she asked, clutching her bag. ‘It’s his birthday next week, and I wanted to give him his present...’
‘Jason has a mild head-cold,’ Erik said before Charles had time to act. ‘I advised him to stay in bed - I think he’s asleep.’
‘If you leave it with me, I’ll make sure he gets it,’ Charles offered. Sighing, she took a soft wrapped gift from her bag and handed it to him. He placed it on the desk and gestured to the door. ‘We’ll walk you.’
They made their way outside in silence, and the farewell was strained. Stryker took his wife by the arm and lead her quickly down the stairs, and as soon as they stepped onto the gravel, he started speaking, perfectly aware that they could still hear him.
‘Who do these people think they are? They’re just a bunch of freaks who think they can say whatever they want. That professor must be a queer. And the kind of people he employs! As if it wasn’t bad enough that they’re all muties. White trash, foreigners, Jews...’ Erik’s hand closed into a fist. Charles grabbed his wrist.
‘Erik,’ he muttered, calling him to control himself as the Strykers stepped into the car.
‘I could break something inside the engine, and they wouldn’t know until it was too late,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘What good would come of it?’ Charles asked. Erik shook off his hand.
‘More than you’d accept, I think.’ Then he turned on his heel and went inside again. Charles followed, and together they went back to the study. Well there, Erik lit a cigarette, as if to do something to calm himself. As Charles started to clean and stuff his pipe, he pointed out:
‘That man is no better than Schmidt.’ Charles glanced up; it was not a verdict Erik would make lightly. They smoked in silence, until Erik said: ‘You can’t let him take the child.’
‘Well, if he insists, we don’t really have a choice,’ Charles sighed. ‘I can’t bend his mind every time, and I don’t think I’ll ever convince him the conventional way.’ He paused and blew a half-formed smoke-ring. ‘He’s Jason’s father - we’re just his teachers. We have no say in the matter.’
‘You saw how scared Jason is of him,’ Erik said sharply. ‘You couldn’t possibly...’ He broke off and stared out of the window. ‘It seems abhorrent, that anyone should treat their child like that,’ he said. ‘I scarcely thought it possible.’ Charles looked away, understanding the workings of his mind all too well. Erik’s family had been his one refuge from hatred, the only thing standing between him and those intent on destroying them. Even now, twenty years after their deaths, he loved them fiercely and uncompromisingly. To imagine someone not having that, on top of being hated by society... If I turned out the way I did, what kind of monster will poor Jason become?
‘Stryker’s human - couldn’t we use human means against him?’ Erik asked.
‘Are you suggesting calling in social services?’ Charles said sceptically.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it wouldn’t work,’ he explained. ‘Stryker has friends in high places. The matter would be hushed up at once. Social services doesn’t care about well-to-do families, Erik. As far as they are concerned, children from good homes aren’t mistreated.’
‘That is a fallacy,’ Erik pointed out.
‘Of course it is,’ Charles said with a shrug, ‘but it suits their purpose.’
‘That is all it comes down to,’ he sighed.
‘I’m afraid that there are other reasons why we need to stay on the right side of Stryker,’ Charles admitted. This was something he had not really explained to any of the others, but it suddenly seemed important that Erik should know. ‘Stryker’s doing us a favour by keeping the CIA off our backs. When he contacted me about Jason, it was the deal we reached.’ Erik considered this.
‘Is Jason a hostage?’ he asked matter-of-factly.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Charles said. ‘It’s more likely that his father thinks of his son as a booby-trap, which I could plant, or a scandal I could bring down on him, but if I do, he will disclose our location to the CIA... perhaps even make the information public.’
‘“Mutant training camp in New York State”?’ Erik said, suggesting a headline.
‘“Corruption of youth for the good of evolution?”’
‘“Oxford don in mutie school scandal”.’
‘“Former terrorist teaches French romantics”.’ At that point, they both burst out laughing. When they finally calmed down, some of the previous gloom had been dispelled.
‘I don’t want to deal with that man when I’m hungover again,’ Charles said. Erik brushed their hands together.
‘Next time, just say the word and I’ll pour you a drink before he gets here.’
‘With ideas like that, I should make you my deputy,’ Charles answered, and once again they laughed.
***
Outside of term, the mansion seemed to grow. It was a huge house; back in its day, it had been staffed by an army of maids, footmen, chars and cooks. The auxiliary forces for the garden and the grounds had been even bigger. That had been before Charles’ time, but he remembered the servants in their starched aprons and rustling skirts who had still worked there when he had been little. By the time he went off to university, his mother had only been able to keep a maidservant and a cleaning lady, as well as a part-time cook; during the war, most of the girls had realised that working in a munitions factory paid better, so, inspired by Rosie the Riveter, they had disappeared, shedding their lace aprons for head-cloths and overalls.
Now, there were only ten of them left, and it left the mansion, usually so full of life, empty. The division between teachers and students blurred, when they all took their meals together in the dining room, and the children sat with the adults in the drawing room in the evenings, when they wanted to. Charles was afraid that they might go wandering around the mansion and either end up snooping or getting lost, so it was better that they were encouraged to spend time with them. Hank took it upon himself to entertain them and lead them on a spree of making various Christmas decorations out of paper, hay and sequins. Both Sean and Alex seemed glad that term was over, and spent the time catching up on sleep and training, while Charles shared Hank’s sense of being understimulated. Hoping to keep idleness away, he spent his days writing down article ideas, and drafting Christmas shopping lists.
But while the others were in good spirits, Erik was growing pensive and unpredictable. One day, Rahne played with the other children in wolf-form and ran right in front of Erik, so that he almost tripped over the scurrying animal. His response had been to scream at her in German until she turned back into a child and started weeping. Sean came running to the site and tried to comfort her, but Erik stalked off before Charles had time to stop him and ask what had set off the tantrum, because it was obvious that it was only a symptom. Most of the time, however, he would simply slip away from the others, often so discreetly that Charles did not notice it until he was gone. When he looked for him, he would most often find him in his room, deep in thought. He had resolved not to read his thoughts, but his attempts to bring up the subject had led to nothing. Being excluded from the workings of his friend’s mind annoyed him, even if he tried to tell himself that Erik was under no obligation of telling him. But he wished he knew - then, at least, he could help. Unless... it is about us. Or about his being here. Or about what the world is coming to. Charles fought his own frustration, fearing it might turn into resentment or suspicion.
He supposed that his eventual transgression, a fortnight after the end of term, could be blamed on a lapse of concentration. They had gone to bed, and Charles was slipping off, while Erik lay, chest pressed against Charles’ back, still wide awake. In that twilight state, it felt almost like a reflex to dip into Erik’s mind. The realisation shook him awake, and he retreated, but he had stayed long enough to read that part of his mind. He pressed a hand against his mouth, afraid that he might laugh with the relief. I was wrong - thank God, I was wrong. It’s not about us at all. Then he remembered what actually was the reason, and his exclamation seemed ironic. What was causing such turmoil within Erik was the thought of religion. Now when he thought about it, Charles realised that he should have anticipated it. With everyone getting increasingly excited about Christmas, it was bound to make him feel excluded.
But there was nothing to do about it now. So Charles found his hand and pressed it, and settled to sleep.
Even now, when he had identified the reason for Erik’s pensiveness, it took Charles several days to figure out a way to breach the subject. It was on the twenty-third of the month during a walk, just as they were approaching the old paddocks, that Charles decided to speak. Knowing that there was no way to start such a conversation which would not be blunt, he asked:
‘Do you consider yourself religious at all, Erik?’ He heard Erik harrumphing from his position behind the wheelchair.
‘God and I are not on speaking terms,’ he said finally. Charles considered this.
‘That implies that you believe in the existence of God, but... do not approve of dogma? Or simply feel alienated by it?’ Erik made no reply, and Charles dared not press him, afraid that he might overstep some line. When they reached the stables and Erik sat down on the stone steps as he always did, Charles decided that it was decent to at least offer him an explanation. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking. It’s just that I’ve noticed that it’s been on your mind lately.’ Erik shot him a look. ‘I haven’t read your mind without permission,’ he added, hoping to convince himself as well. ‘Some thoughts have... bled through.’ Erik sighed and shifted, leaning back against the wall of the stable. It seemed like a physical sign of resignation, acknowledging that he did not mind. They sat in silence for a long time, both waiting for the other to speak first. Finally, Charles decided to break the ice. ‘Is it all that talk of Christmas?’ Erik gave a minute nod. ‘I didn’t realise it upset you - I’m sorry.’
‘It doesn’t really upset me, only... makes me think,’ Erik said. Charles found it rather a relief that he decided to speak at all. When Erik noticed his gaze on him, he sighed yet again and rubbed his eyes. ‘I don’t know if I want to talk about it. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘I want to understand,’ Charles answered.
‘The fact remains...’ The statement was finished with a melancholic smile.
‘I could...’
‘No.’ It came out very sharp - Charles was momentarily taken aback by the sudden anger in his voice.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But please, would you explain it to me?’ He could feel Erik’s resistance wearing thin, but still reminded himself to tread carefully. He had not seen his friend this disquieted for a long time. Now, Erik leaned his elbows on his knees and, clasping his hands, spoke.
‘The past few months, I have started considering you and the school as... family.’
‘We are a family,’ Charles said quickly. ‘All of us.’ Erik dipped his head, as if conceding his point. It was a family far from the norm - all he had was a lover, a few grudging friends, children who were not his own. ‘Why does that bother you?’ he asked softly.
‘Because we are not a family in every way,’ Erik answered, sounding bitter now. ‘In some ways, we are strangers. That is what I have realised recently.’
‘Does it matter?’ But even as he said it, Charles knew that it did. Along with Ororo, Erik was the only non-Christian at the school, and that was bound to make him feel isolated. ‘You know that no one at the school would...’ He struggled for a euphemistic enough term, and failed. ‘I mean, they are all tolerant people.’
‘I can bear intolerance, and I would not expect it from anyone in the school. Besides, I don’t know if my faith is generally known - not because of any attempts to hide it, of course. It has simply not come up in conversation. Sean, at least, still seems to think that I let him have my portion of bacon out of the goodness of my heart.’ Charles smiled at that, but it faded quickly. ‘If you’re worried that Stryker’s casual hatred hurt me worse than it hurt you, rest assured that there is no need to upset yourself about it,’ Erik said gravely. Charles gathered his courage and asked:
‘Why are you not on speaking-terms with God?’ Erik snorted.
‘I don’t see how I could be,’ he replied. ‘Jews do not believe in Hell, Charles, yet I have been there. How could He simply let us be killed like that? The Chosen People - chosen for what? Constant persecution? Industrialised slaughter?’ This was a new kind of anger, Charles reflected. He could not remember ever having seen someone so angry with God. It made Erik’s hands shake, and in an attempt to let it out, he got to his feet and started pacing. ‘All that devout studying and learning should have made my people fit for more than to feed the flames of the crematoria. Should it not have given us some protection, some right not to be treated like animals?’ He stopped, and as he turned his face up towards the cold winter sun, Charles saw a single tear trail down his cheek. ‘The Nazis did not just kill us because they thought we were racially inferior,’ he said. ‘They despised everything about us and our heritage - they were as intent on ridding the world of our religion as our genes.’ He turned his face down again, but his eyes remained open, as if the horrors would grow nearer if he closed them.
‘You know they had no right,’ Charles said finally. ‘Don’t let what they did to you and yours change you.’
‘How could it not?’ Erik exclaimed, whirling around to face him. ‘It’s easy for you to say, but if you knew...’ He paused, overcome with emotion. ‘In the camps, they made foot-patches out of taleisim, Charles. They took them from the luggage of those they gassed, and made us sew foot-patches from them.’ The memory which had risen inside him, so suddenly that Charles thought he could see it move to the front of his mind, provided the explanation he needed. The texture of the prayer shawl against his feet - the mismatched, too big clogs making him bleed into it - with every step, he grows more ashamed, because he is made to act out their hatred in their stead.
‘How can anyone bear such humiliation?’ Erik asked quietly. ‘Every scrap of knowledge about our customs, our faith, they used against us. My father was a devout man, and they made him and men like him strip naked before forcing them into the gas-chambers, and then they cut off his beard and hair to stuff mattresses with. How can I simply go on, as if none of it happened? How can anyone?’
‘You mean that your faith has been... tainted?’
‘Yes,’ Erik answered, sounding at once exhausted. ‘Ripped away from us and ground in the dirt and now handed back. That was one thing they succeeded with. I sometimes wish I could proclaim myself a non-believer - atheism would be less painful. But it would leave phantom pains, I suppose, and my conviction of God’s existence runs too deep.’ Slowly, he returned to the steps and sat down. ‘Sometimes I hate how unobservant I have grown,’ he confided. ‘I envy those who still trust their God. I simply cannot. I realised, only a week ago, that I did not even know when Hanukkah fell this year. It was in the end of November - I must have spent those days marking papers and dealing with students.’
‘There is no reason why you shouldn’t find a congregation,’ Charles said. ‘I think there’s one in town.’ Erik shook his head firmly.
‘No,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I... could not. Even if I occasionally want to.’ He unclipped his cufflink and made it spin around his hand. ‘This makes me as much a monster in their eyes as in anyone else’s. I’m an outcast even among my own people.’
‘“I will break in pieces the gates of brass, and cut in sunder the bars of iron”,’ Charles quoted. Erik replaced his cufflink and sneered.
‘That is a reference to the Messiah,’ he pointed out sternly, but nevertheless seemed entertained by Charles’ ability to quote Isaiah off by heart. ‘Not in the least appropriate.’
‘I suppose,’ Charles said with a shrug. ‘I didn’t really mean anything by it - I simply came to think of that verse. There was always something in it that caught my imagination.’ To his relief, Erik actually smiled at him, even if his sadness lingered. ‘If there is anything - anything at all - I can do to help...’ Erik took his hand and pressed it.
‘This time, my friend, you cannot help,’ he said. ‘But thank you all the same.’
‘You know I am happy to listen.’ He refrained from answering, and it struck Charles suddenly that, despite everything, when it came to this he was as much as stranger as anyone else. But Erik did not seem to notice the realisation, and spoke.
‘If I make myself scarce the next few days, it is not because of any spite. Mostly it is that I don’t like crowds, particularly ones where people expect you to be happy.’
‘Of course,’ Charles said. ‘I understand.’
As Erik pushed him back towards the mansion, Charles considered what had been said, and thought of the first time they had walked this route, when Erik had said that being here “stirred things” - memories. Perhaps it was not just the impending holiday after all, but a greater process at work. All the different facets of him - Max Eisenhardt, Erik Lehnsherr, Magneto - were merging, but like the healing of a broken bone, it took time, and the process was painful and slow.
Erik was barely to be seen during all of Christmas Eve. As Charles watched the children decorating the Christmas tree, he cast his out mind to find him, afraid that he might be alone and miserable. He found that he was on the top floor, perched in a bay window with a blanket and a book. There he stayed practically all day, hidden away from the bustle and the stress of the lower floors. The dejection Charles had expected was not there at all. Instead, there was a kind of resigned content, enabled by the escapism of the novel he was reading. He was still there when Charles went to bed, and he sent him a fond thought. He held the contact for a few moments, and felt a flare of love responding to his wordless message. It was enough to put his worries to rest.
On Christmas morning, Charles woke early, alone for the first time in months. From downstairs, he could sense the yawning church-goers at the breakfast table. He had declined going with them the previous day, but now he lay still, listening to them getting ready. As they pulled on coats and stepped into shoes and left, Charles thought about what a strange force religion was. To him, it had not been an active one for many years. At the age of fifteen, he had spent some time thinking about it, and had come to the conclusion that there was no way of proving or disproving the existence of God. He was convinced that religion could be a positive force, but as soon as he had started studying the sciences, it had stopped doing anything for him. The quirks and turns in evolution seemed to him random, sometimes even callous, but there was a beauty to the unpredictability. The wonders of nature were to him self-contained. He knew that it did not have to be so - through his microscope, Hank glimpsed something divine in the workings of the world, and it was the same marvel at the cosmos which drove his research that made him don a hat and trench-coat and sit hunched in the back of the church this morning. Charles had been raised to such religiosity, but he had shed it, which had vexed his mother. But it had been a conscious decision, one which he had ultimately been glad to make. He had never lost his faith, but given it up. Experimentally, he clasped his hands and tried to remember the prayers he had been taught as a child. Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur Nomen Tuum...
But it was just words to him, words in a dead language which he had half forgotten. It held no emotional importance to him anymore. With some relief, he unclasped his hands. He had never thought about how different giving up your faith voluntarily was to having it wrenched away. If he remembered correctly (and memories of teenage years often seemed exaggerated), the discussions on the topic with his mother had been bitter, and involved some amount of shouting, but after that, it had caused him little pain. Now he recalled his discussion with Erik the other day, and felt a swell of pity, but also a stab of longing for the man. At once, the bed seemed wrong without Erik in it. Once again, he reached out with his mind. Ororo was fast asleep in her dormitory on the other side of the building, and the others had left. Satisfied that he would not run into anyone, he found his dressing-gown, moved to his wheelchair and left his room.
When he reached Erik’s door, he did not bother to knock, but simply opened it. At the sound of the creaking hinges, Erik jerked awake, shaking off the slumber and sitting up. Then he realised who the intruder was, and with a sigh he sank down against the pillow again.
‘What’s the time, Charles?’ he muttered.
‘Just after six AM,’ he answered and made sure to close and lock the door before crossing to the bed. ‘The others are at church.’ They looked at each other for a drawn-out moment. ‘I thought we might...’ Erik propped himself up on his elbows and grinned.
‘...Add to the sinfulness of the household?’ he suggested. Charles laughed nervously.
‘If you’d be up for it.’ Erik moved to give him room and cocked his head.
‘Come to bed, then.’ Charles crossed to the bed and started maneuvering himself onto it. As soon as he sat on the edge of the bed, Erik grabbed him and pulled him into a kiss. He laughed into the kiss and pulled his legs straight, even as Erik undid the sash in the night-gown. Charles watched as he hitched up his pyjamas jacket, edged lower and kissed his nipple. A strangled shout escaped his throat. His hand lay against Erik’s groin, and his other hand cupped his cheek and brought him up for a kiss. As their caresses grew more focused and then more desperate, he wondered if this was their way of coping. They escaped by finding refuge in physical pleasure, simple irrefutable intimacy. Was that a form of cowardice, or simply a way to stay sane? It had to mean something on its own as well - they had to have meaning. Needing to say it and hear himself say it, as they lay close, catching their breath, he said:
‘I love you.’ It felt a cliché thing to say, but rather than chiding him for it, Erik’s embrace tightened.
‘I love you,’ he whispered into his ear and then rested his lips against it, frustrated at the semantic emptiness of the words. They felt inadequate and too obvious, made prosaic by too many insincere speakers.
‘I know,’ Charles assured him and, nestling his hand between them, pressed it over his heart. Even when they had been enemies, he had not doubted it. ‘I feel it.’ It passed between them with every look, and later when their intimacy once again deepened, Charles sensed every part of it, all the beauty and the pain and the searing unquenchable longing for it all to last a little longer and grow a little more intense. This went beyond any simple, romantic association - it was unbridled, violent, all-consuming. It was like the thrusts of a desperate lover, the tight embrace of a husband called away to war, the fierce pain of a broken heart even before it had been smashed, but also the steadfastness of a comrade-in-arms, the touching shoulders of brothers at the dawn of battle, the clasped hands of friends for comfort and guidance in the mist. That was something Charles could believe in.
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