I'm a bad little faun.
Writing this long-hand in a notebook made me realize how crap I am at writing in past-tense anymore. I switch into present-tense without thinking. I think I've gotten all of the little buggers, but they are tricksy.
Summary: Erik visits Charles several months after that fateful day on the beach. MMM MMM GOOD CLICHES! Spoilers for “First Class,” which I don’t own, etc. Will be cross-posted to the usual places. Rated PG.
Going Forward
*
“So it’s true.”
They hadn’t seen one another for many months, though not for lack of wondering how the other had fared since they’d last parted. Once, Erik had returned to the beach alone, taking a modicum of satisfaction in bending the pieces of Shaw’s abandoned submarine beyond recognition. Then he sank to his knees in the sand and remembered when he’d cradled Charles there in his arms and pleaded with him to reconsider their partnership. He hadn’t cried when Charles had turned him down. He hadn’t cried since a single tear had crawled hotly down his cheek after he had driven the coin through Shaw’s brain. It wasn’t until his return to the beach when, exchanging one piece of metal for the souvenir he had tugged out of Charles’ back and rolling it around in his palm, Erik, now Magneto, dipped his head, the helmet now an ever-present fixture, and mourned all that he had lost.
Finding out had been incidental. Word had begun to spread about the nature of mutants, particularly in the pockets of larger cities, and Erik had made it a priority for Mystique and Emma and Azazel and Riptide to learn all they could and report back to him. Naturally, the fabled Xavier school could be counted on to be spoken of in hushed tones, as well as its leader, and his … condition.
“He’s crippled, boss.” Azazel’s tip-off had been the source of a cavalcade of emotions. Mystique had also, understandably, been devastated by the news and plied him for comfort, but Erik had pushed her away, even denying her her usual place in his bed. The others had little regard for Charles’ well-being, so Erik did not let on how deeply it cut him to know that he’d been directly responsible for the fact that Charles Xavier was now confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life.
When curiosity had gotten the better of him, and when the rest of his small-yet-loyal Brotherhood had been sent off on individual missions, Erik returned to the mansion in the night, careful not to be seen. Immediately, sense memories threatened to overtake him, and he couldn’t help but reminisce about his short time spent here. In particular, he had enjoyed his morning runs, physical exertion without the need for a destination in which to hide. Under Charles’ care, he had been safe. It had been the only time in his nearly 30 years about which he could make such a claim, save for perhaps the early years with his mother, and neither had lasted for long.
Sneaking around inside proved trickier, but he managed to remain unseen by anyone, until at last, he came to the graceful, oak door (closed) that, even unlabeled and identical to several others in the same hallway, he knew to belong to Charles. He considered knocking, but it seemed foolish somehow. Instead, he tugged the helmet from his skull, hesitating only a second before taking it off completely. Immediately, he was enveloped in an achingly familiar essence of warmth, and love, and -
‘Erik.’ Even in his head, Charles’ voice lilted. His name had been uttered with reverence, and suddenly, Erik’s head felt itchy.
‘Come in,’ Charles told him, and they both watched as Erik turned the metal doorknob with but a tendril of his mind. ‘Close the door behind you, if you would,’ he continued, and Erik did as he was bade.
If it hadn’t been for the chair, the image of Charles in his office would have been so iconic, so familiar that it could have scrubbed everything else from Erik’s mind and left only that. As it was, the sheer nostalgia of the room and the smell and the appearance of Charles, handicapped or not, made Erik blink furiously. Then, because he supposed he hadn’t come all that way to snivel in Charles’ doorway, he focused on the wheelchair.
“It’s Hank’s design,” Charles said, and it issued in the first words they had spoken face-to-face since they parted ways. Carefully, he sidestepped Erik’s pained utterance of “so it’s true” by pretending not to hear it, and looked at him, his expression placating. “I’m glad to see you’re well, Erik. Did you have trouble finding the place again?”
In spite of himself, Erik felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. “Not much. Your security is terrible.”
“Yes, we really should invest in a metal detector,” Charles joked.
Erik’s stomach twisted even as he laughed. He missed this, he thought; he missed it so much more than he thought he would. It had been so long since he’d felt any strong emotions towards another being besides hatred. His single-minded resolve for years had been to hunt down Shaw. He didn’t regret that he’d succeeded, but it didn’t right all of the world’s wrongs. Mutants were still distrusted, were still hunted and feared and alienated by humans, and so Erik knew his own hunting was not yet finished. That Charles could act as though there was a second option galled him. At the same time, he was humbled by the notion that simply by being caring and patient, things could get better for them; not because it was true, but because Erik could tell that Charles truly believed it. It almost made Erik believe that Charles could make it happen.
Almost.
Charles looked conscientious of himself as he took to rearranging some papers and other odds and ends on his desk. He looked up, slightly harried, when Erik floated a paperweight to himself. “So is there a specific reason you’ve come?” Charles bit out. “I’m just rather surprised is all.”
“No, you’re not,” Erik said quietly, returning the item to its original position on the desk, and Charles looked away guiltily. “You were always two moves ahead.”
“If that were true, I daresay my chess game would be much better.” The smile he gave did not quite reach his eyes. “Honestly, though, Erik, is someone in trouble? Hurt? Do you need my assistance? Or,” he sighed, and then gestured again to the metal contraption beneath him, “Perhaps you came to see this?”
“No,” Erik whispered. ‘Yes,’ he thought. He fingered his helmet. “You are two steps ahead, my friend,” he said again, smiling grimly. “For example, you knew before I left that day that you were paralyzed.”
Charles closed his eyes and then reopened them slowly. When he spoke again, he sounded weary: “I may have had an inkling, I suppose.”
“Bullshit,” Erik snarled suddenly, and he strode towards Charles until their legs could have touched; he kneeled on the ground in front of the wheelchair, and then set the helmet aside. “I would have stayed, Charles. I’m not that heartless.” He paused. “And Raven, too.” He didn’t need to tell Charles that she missed him. He already knew.
“Of course.” Charles smiled affectionately at him, and allowed Erik to take his hand, to massage the softly callused fingers that had grown adept at commandeering his chair in recent months. “You would have stayed for a time. But then what, Erik? Could you have given up your crusade to remain here?” The unspoken ‘with me’ nonetheless entered Erik’s mind, and like Charles’ actual voice, it was sweet and sad. “Could that have changed your mind?” Charles continued. “Would knowing have done that?” He tactfully avoided mentioning that feeling the coin carve its way through Sebastian Shaw’s membrane and knowing who was responsible for that was worse than taking ten bullets. It wasn’t the place for such things. There wasn’t one, really.
Erik laid his head in the other man’s lap and closed his eyes. In his pocket, the bullet from Moira’s gun seemed to vibrate. He did not take it out. “No,” he whispered. “No, you’re right, of course.” He looked up again. “But just because we disagree on our methods, I still …” His mouth went dry, and he wet his lips. “I need …”
“I know,” Charles intoned; of course, he did. “I love you, Erik,” he said simply.
Erik nodded. Then he stood again and brushed himself off, and then bent forward, resting his hands on either side of the chair. “Until we meet again, then,” Erik said, and then leaned close so that their lips could meet. Briefly, much too briefly, Charles’ fingers tangled lightly in his slightly matted (‘helmet head does not really suit you, my friend, I’m afraid,’ Charles teased) hair, and then he tugged them apart gently as he felt Erik’s tongue work its way past his own teeth. There was both everything and nothing more to say after that, and so Erik nodded and picked up his helmet again, blinking when it seemed heavier than usual in his hands.
“Safe journey home,” Charles told him politely, watching as Erik shoved the headpiece back into place.
Erik returned to the doorway, tugging on the knob again with his mind. He turned back briefly. “Never home,” he said hoarsely, honestly. “Never again.” He left at that, leaving Charles to his thoughts, and to the memory of Erik’s hands clasping his, imprinted on his mind forever.
*
ADDENDUM: Read the quick-and-dirty parody, of sorts, here.
Summary: Erik visits Charles several months after that fateful day on the beach. MMM MMM GOOD CLICHES! Spoilers for “First Class,” which I don’t own, etc. Will be cross-posted to the usual places. Rated PG.
Going Forward
*
“So it’s true.”
They hadn’t seen one another for many months, though not for lack of wondering how the other had fared since they’d last parted. Once, Erik had returned to the beach alone, taking a modicum of satisfaction in bending the pieces of Shaw’s abandoned submarine beyond recognition. Then he sank to his knees in the sand and remembered when he’d cradled Charles there in his arms and pleaded with him to reconsider their partnership. He hadn’t cried when Charles had turned him down. He hadn’t cried since a single tear had crawled hotly down his cheek after he had driven the coin through Shaw’s brain. It wasn’t until his return to the beach when, exchanging one piece of metal for the souvenir he had tugged out of Charles’ back and rolling it around in his palm, Erik, now Magneto, dipped his head, the helmet now an ever-present fixture, and mourned all that he had lost.
Finding out had been incidental. Word had begun to spread about the nature of mutants, particularly in the pockets of larger cities, and Erik had made it a priority for Mystique and Emma and Azazel and Riptide to learn all they could and report back to him. Naturally, the fabled Xavier school could be counted on to be spoken of in hushed tones, as well as its leader, and his … condition.
“He’s crippled, boss.” Azazel’s tip-off had been the source of a cavalcade of emotions. Mystique had also, understandably, been devastated by the news and plied him for comfort, but Erik had pushed her away, even denying her her usual place in his bed. The others had little regard for Charles’ well-being, so Erik did not let on how deeply it cut him to know that he’d been directly responsible for the fact that Charles Xavier was now confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life.
When curiosity had gotten the better of him, and when the rest of his small-yet-loyal Brotherhood had been sent off on individual missions, Erik returned to the mansion in the night, careful not to be seen. Immediately, sense memories threatened to overtake him, and he couldn’t help but reminisce about his short time spent here. In particular, he had enjoyed his morning runs, physical exertion without the need for a destination in which to hide. Under Charles’ care, he had been safe. It had been the only time in his nearly 30 years about which he could make such a claim, save for perhaps the early years with his mother, and neither had lasted for long.
Sneaking around inside proved trickier, but he managed to remain unseen by anyone, until at last, he came to the graceful, oak door (closed) that, even unlabeled and identical to several others in the same hallway, he knew to belong to Charles. He considered knocking, but it seemed foolish somehow. Instead, he tugged the helmet from his skull, hesitating only a second before taking it off completely. Immediately, he was enveloped in an achingly familiar essence of warmth, and love, and -
‘Erik.’ Even in his head, Charles’ voice lilted. His name had been uttered with reverence, and suddenly, Erik’s head felt itchy.
‘Come in,’ Charles told him, and they both watched as Erik turned the metal doorknob with but a tendril of his mind. ‘Close the door behind you, if you would,’ he continued, and Erik did as he was bade.
If it hadn’t been for the chair, the image of Charles in his office would have been so iconic, so familiar that it could have scrubbed everything else from Erik’s mind and left only that. As it was, the sheer nostalgia of the room and the smell and the appearance of Charles, handicapped or not, made Erik blink furiously. Then, because he supposed he hadn’t come all that way to snivel in Charles’ doorway, he focused on the wheelchair.
“It’s Hank’s design,” Charles said, and it issued in the first words they had spoken face-to-face since they parted ways. Carefully, he sidestepped Erik’s pained utterance of “so it’s true” by pretending not to hear it, and looked at him, his expression placating. “I’m glad to see you’re well, Erik. Did you have trouble finding the place again?”
In spite of himself, Erik felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. “Not much. Your security is terrible.”
“Yes, we really should invest in a metal detector,” Charles joked.
Erik’s stomach twisted even as he laughed. He missed this, he thought; he missed it so much more than he thought he would. It had been so long since he’d felt any strong emotions towards another being besides hatred. His single-minded resolve for years had been to hunt down Shaw. He didn’t regret that he’d succeeded, but it didn’t right all of the world’s wrongs. Mutants were still distrusted, were still hunted and feared and alienated by humans, and so Erik knew his own hunting was not yet finished. That Charles could act as though there was a second option galled him. At the same time, he was humbled by the notion that simply by being caring and patient, things could get better for them; not because it was true, but because Erik could tell that Charles truly believed it. It almost made Erik believe that Charles could make it happen.
Almost.
Charles looked conscientious of himself as he took to rearranging some papers and other odds and ends on his desk. He looked up, slightly harried, when Erik floated a paperweight to himself. “So is there a specific reason you’ve come?” Charles bit out. “I’m just rather surprised is all.”
“No, you’re not,” Erik said quietly, returning the item to its original position on the desk, and Charles looked away guiltily. “You were always two moves ahead.”
“If that were true, I daresay my chess game would be much better.” The smile he gave did not quite reach his eyes. “Honestly, though, Erik, is someone in trouble? Hurt? Do you need my assistance? Or,” he sighed, and then gestured again to the metal contraption beneath him, “Perhaps you came to see this?”
“No,” Erik whispered. ‘Yes,’ he thought. He fingered his helmet. “You are two steps ahead, my friend,” he said again, smiling grimly. “For example, you knew before I left that day that you were paralyzed.”
Charles closed his eyes and then reopened them slowly. When he spoke again, he sounded weary: “I may have had an inkling, I suppose.”
“Bullshit,” Erik snarled suddenly, and he strode towards Charles until their legs could have touched; he kneeled on the ground in front of the wheelchair, and then set the helmet aside. “I would have stayed, Charles. I’m not that heartless.” He paused. “And Raven, too.” He didn’t need to tell Charles that she missed him. He already knew.
“Of course.” Charles smiled affectionately at him, and allowed Erik to take his hand, to massage the softly callused fingers that had grown adept at commandeering his chair in recent months. “You would have stayed for a time. But then what, Erik? Could you have given up your crusade to remain here?” The unspoken ‘with me’ nonetheless entered Erik’s mind, and like Charles’ actual voice, it was sweet and sad. “Could that have changed your mind?” Charles continued. “Would knowing have done that?” He tactfully avoided mentioning that feeling the coin carve its way through Sebastian Shaw’s membrane and knowing who was responsible for that was worse than taking ten bullets. It wasn’t the place for such things. There wasn’t one, really.
Erik laid his head in the other man’s lap and closed his eyes. In his pocket, the bullet from Moira’s gun seemed to vibrate. He did not take it out. “No,” he whispered. “No, you’re right, of course.” He looked up again. “But just because we disagree on our methods, I still …” His mouth went dry, and he wet his lips. “I need …”
“I know,” Charles intoned; of course, he did. “I love you, Erik,” he said simply.
Erik nodded. Then he stood again and brushed himself off, and then bent forward, resting his hands on either side of the chair. “Until we meet again, then,” Erik said, and then leaned close so that their lips could meet. Briefly, much too briefly, Charles’ fingers tangled lightly in his slightly matted (‘helmet head does not really suit you, my friend, I’m afraid,’ Charles teased) hair, and then he tugged them apart gently as he felt Erik’s tongue work its way past his own teeth. There was both everything and nothing more to say after that, and so Erik nodded and picked up his helmet again, blinking when it seemed heavier than usual in his hands.
“Safe journey home,” Charles told him politely, watching as Erik shoved the headpiece back into place.
Erik returned to the doorway, tugging on the knob again with his mind. He turned back briefly. “Never home,” he said hoarsely, honestly. “Never again.” He left at that, leaving Charles to his thoughts, and to the memory of Erik’s hands clasping his, imprinted on his mind forever.
*
ADDENDUM: Read the quick-and-dirty parody, of sorts, here.