X-Men First Class fic: Inevitable Things, 2/6
Title: Inevitable Things
Pairing: Erik/Charles (M/M)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: It would be just PG if not for the fact that the guys flirting are guys.
Author's Notes: This fanfic is a birthday present for my dear friend delirium1995 -- I love you oodles! It was beta-read (under light duress and subtle but well-intended coercion) by another friend who shall remain nameless to protect the still-mostly-innocent -- I owe you tons! To new readers: the entire thing weighs in at almost 22k words. All scenes fit within the movie. Read Part 1 first.
Inevitable Things: Part Two
October 1, 1962
9:10 pm
"Name!" the officer shouted at Erik, right after he hauled the man up over the rail and deposited him on the steel deck.
"That can wait!" Charles yelled through his chattering teeth. Saltwater was dripping from his hair into his eyes, and it stung, which strongly suggested the adrenalin was wearing off. "We're not going anywhere, there's plenty of time for that later--"
The officer spared Charles a calculating glance, just long enough to say "You're going to sickbay. Jameson! Morris! Take Mr. Xavier to sickbay and get him something dry." He was still looming over Erik, who was half-sprawled on the deck against the railing, when Jameson and Morris hauled Charles to his feet and slipped their arms under his armpits and across his back, as if he was a drunk partygoer and they were taking him home.
"That man is working for us! You've no right to interrogate him!" Charles yelled over his shoulder as he was hustled toward an open hatch. He tried to brace his feet against the bottom lip of the doorframe to give him a little extra time, but mostly he just succeeded in stumbling and taking down one of the seamen who was supporting him. He dearly wished he had enough energy to wrestle his right arm free and give the boor of an officer a mental push in the right direction, but his arms were like lead weights, and so was the rest of him. When he looked over towards Erik, he saw Moira in profile, looking first at the officer and Erik, then at Charles, her lips pressed together in a thin, unhappy line. It was all rather embarrassing.
"Hold on there, sir, I've almost got you," the seaman said with a politeness incongruous with the very firm hold he had on Charles and the effort it took to get back to his feet from underneath nearly all of Charles' weight. "Just a moment, and we'll get you to sick bay. Sorry there's no rum on board, but the doc'll get you some tea and you--" and Charles was manhandled through the hatch and into the hallway, his feet having lost all purchase with the floor, --"and you'll… ah… you'll be…"
"Chipper in no time," his compatriot finished for him. Charles could feel the laugh behind the professional military deadpan, even though most of his psychic attention was still with Erik. Ah yes, burly American men making fun of his British accent; no doubt they'll be making a point to offer him biscuits next.
They left him on a vinyl bench in a tiny room that somehow reeked of hospital, overwhelming even the saltwater smell clinging to his clothes and skin. A moment later Jameson returned to toss him a thin wool blanket, and left with a curt reminder to stay in the room and out of the way. But Charles didn't have to wait alone for long; Erik was deposited on the opposite bench shortly after, and they shared a brief eyeroll at their rescuer-captors before Erik leaned forward with his hands on his knees and asked Charles if he was alright.
Charles felt his eyes widen and his pulse speed up -- for a moment it was like being trapped in someone else's body, which seemed to be reacting to Erik's words without waiting for him to catch up -- and then he shrugged and shook his head to get his hair out of his eyes, breaking the spell. "I'm fine," he said, clutching the blanket tighter around shoulders. "After all, I wasn't in the water nearly as long as you were."
Erik's lips curled up in a half-smile. "Unlike you, I was dressed for it." He indicated his wetsuit and was about to say something more when the medical officer stormed in, placed towels and a pile of clothing on the table that took up the majority of the room, and spun abruptly to face Charles.
"OK. Clothes off, and they go in this duffel. You can towel dry while I examine you, then put on dry underclothes and we'll get some more blankets on you." He watched Charles fumble with the first button -- his fingers still felt frozen and unresponsive -- and then reached over and matter-of-factly pulled the shirt and sweater up over his head in and into the duffle in one swift motion. "Up" he said, and Charles stood up, feeling a little stupid at being too slow to undress himself, but more impressed at the speed with which the officer stripped off his wet clothes and got him down to bare skin.
The doctor gave him a quick glance, his hands on Charles' shoulders to steady him as the floor pitched for no apparent reason -- "McSweeny," the medical officer muttered, and Charles couldn't help but overhear his next thought "Fer crissake, kid can't find a quarter-sea boogie if it slapped him in the face and asked him to dance," which meant something about not being able to align the bow of the boat across the incoming waves at a certain angle that the ship preferred; and the fact that he was picking up all this mental detritus meant that Charles' control was practically nonexistent. If he didn't pull himself together soon, he'd be overwhelmed by the minutiae of strangers' thoughts. Overwhelmed was useless, and uselessness simply did not become Charles Xavier.
"Bit of rope burn, couple bruises and minor abraisions, probably got that cut coming up over the rail." Charles focused on the medical officer's voice, willing himself not to hear the thoughts underneath as the man whipped a towel around Charles' hips, guided him back down onto the bench and placed another towel on his shoulders. He grimaced and bit his lip to keep from gasping when the alcohol swab passed over the long cut above his ankle -- really, he hadn't felt it at all before the alcohol lit it up with a sensation of intense burning -- and Charles had just a moment to glance at Erik, who was grinning at him tiredly and shaking his head, before the doctor was done placing the bandage and stood up again, blocking his view. Damn the doc!, Charles thought uncharitably as the man placed his right hand firmly on his head and thumbed his left eyelid up, pointing a bright little flashlight at his eye. Bright-dark-bright-dark, look down, look up, OK -- then the same thing on the right eye, and a gruff, "You'll live. Put on some dry things and get that blanket tucked around you again."
Charles reached for the stack of clothes on the table as the doctor turned to Erik.
"Now for you, Kraut --"
Whether the metal in the room was actually humming, or it was just humming in Erik's mind and Charles was still privy to it, the sound made Charles' blood run cold. He had his fingers at his temple immediately, and the medical officer stopped with his hand outstretched towards Erik's face.
"I'm fine," Erik said with no inflection at all.
"He's fine," Charles echoed, doing that thing where he slipped inside a human's mind and gave them thoughts to think.
"You're fine." the medical officer replied.
Erik cocked his head a little to the right, then darted Charles a quick look.
"But he could use some dry clothes." Charles added.
"But you could use some dry clothes. I'll have Jameson find you something, and then you can go back to your stateroom," the medical officer continued, as Charles let his hand drop back to his side. "Once our boys are back on board, we'll be heading to homeport. 3 hours, most likely. Just stay out of the way, please."
Erik watched the doctor walk out the hatch and close it behind him, dumbfounded and staring with his mouth gaping open, then turned wide-eyed to Charles.
"So you're a--" Charles started to ask, finally picking up a white cotton t-shirt and slipping it on.
"Metall-bender," Erik supplied, giving the words a distinct German crispness. "And you're a, what?"
"Telepath." He stepped further behind the table so he could drop the towel without feeling quite so self-conscious. "But I think you're more than just a metal bender, my friend. Those weren't spoons you used to disable Shaw's boat."
"And you don't just hear other people's thoughts. You were a voice in my head. And… and you controlled him like a puppet!"
"Well, not exactly." Charles hurried to say, discomfited by Erik's apparent awe at what he'd done. "But yes, my mutation has several manifestations, as I suspect yours does."
Erik shrugged unhappily. "And limitations, too."
"Yes, of course. I believe exploring those limitations can provide the key to understanding our gifts. I feel as though I'm just beginning to find my limitations, myself. I've never encountered another telepath, and to be blocked so completely -- there must be a way around it, but I need to… And you! You're…"
As if conjuring a ghost by saying its name, Charles fell into Erik's mind as soon as he tried and failed to express in words what Erik was -- and Erik was laid bare. The pain in his chest and the tightness in his ribs -- bruised? -- were from the crystalline woman's terrifically forceful palm-heel. The exhaustion was from having slept only six hours in the past three days, and the recent exertion in the water and the effort it took to bend and focus the magnetic fields. On the edge of everything was an incredible sense of failure, creating a ragged sort of tunnel vision, barely held in check by the hope of a second chance; the sharp focus in the center was less bright than before, but still there, and underneath it all was a deep sense of purpose, dark and limitless as an abyss.
"Excuse me," Charles said, trying to reel himself in again, pinching the bridge of his nose to help draw him back. "You're exhausted, and I'm being a terrible host. I probably should have let the medical officer look you over--."
Erik stood up abruptly. "I take care of myself," he said. His tone of voice said This is a fact, and the set of his shoulders said There is no arguing with facts.
"The stateroom they assigned me is a double," Charles offered. "And…" he cautiously raised his hand to his temple again, trying to concentrate past the fascinating glimmer that was Erik back into the chaotic mess of thoughts of the sailors on the ship, to "Moira! We're heading to my stateroom."
"Good, things are too nuts up here. Need any help with that guy?" Moira was on the bridge, tucked shoulder-to-shoulder between the radioman and the second mate, keeping an eye on the ongoing recovery, seething with annoyance and worry and, incongruously, wondering if she had time to reapply her lipstick.
"Erik's fine. We'll be out of the way."
"Thanks. Can you get out of my head now and let me do my work?"
"Of course, love. You know where to find us."
Charles yanked the stiff handle of the door down and swung it open. "No point in waiting," he said.
Erik was holding the duffle with Charles' clothes in one hand and handed him the blanket with the other. "You'll want this." Their hands touched, briefly; Charles felt a flush in his cheeks as he swung the blanket around his shoulders and turned to lead the way. These things were certainly unrelated.
October 5, 1962
<<> 6:30 am
"You will move the coin." A disembodied voice. Cold. Clinical.
The words were German, and that was Charles' first clue that he was not in his own dream; he should wake up, he should do this awake; no, he shouldn't do this at all; he can't do anything but watch when he's asleep, and shouldn't he be having his own dreams now?
But the coin was not a coin, it was a knife, and the substitution was too intriguing.
"You know what will happen if you do not move the coin."
There was a coin -- in front of him, on the desk. The knife was -- he knew without seeing, in the curious logic of dreams -- hovering over the back of his neck, threatening him with its single-minded malevolence. He was shirtless, and the knife was dipping down to rest its point where the neck met the shoulder. The coin resolutely refused to move.
"Anger is motivation enough for normal people. But not you. You need to hurt."
The knife pierced the skin, sharp pain drawing all his attention in an instant. Charles would have woken up, but he was trapped in place, unable to move as the knife drew a long line down his back, was returned to his shoulder, pierced the skin, began another long searing cut down. Someone was looming over him, holding him in place. "I am always happy to hurt you," the voice said, "if this is what you need. Move the coin."
But there was no coin. There was only the knife, cutting his back to shreds, slow and methodical. He turned to look at the wielder behind him, but behind him there were only dead bodies on the ground, lying in an ever-widening pool of blood.
Charles woke in a cold sweat. Of course there was only one person whose dream that could have been. He rolled out of the narrow bed, still groggy from sleep, and stumbled into the tiny bathroom to brush his teeth. Then he stumbled into the shower and stood under the barely lukewarm spray with his arms braced against the wall, imagining the water washing the blood off his back into a pool at his feet before swirling down the drain. He could almost see it, could almost taste it. He wished the nausea he felt was just a simple hangover, and not due to the fact that last night he'd learned what human death smelled like, from the dream-memories of someone who knew first hand.
He was dressed and collecting his things at 7:15 when he felt Erik nearby, thinking "Can you hear me, Charles?"
"I always hear you," Charles thought, tucking his folder of notes under his arm and scanning the room for anything he didn't want to leave behind for curious eyes. "Come on in. The door' s not locked against you."
"Funny, the same was true about the cafeteria." The lock clicked as the handle turned slowly, and a moment later the door swung open to reveal Erik holding two mugs of coffee in his hands and a slight frown on his face. "That shouldn't have been so hard." Frustration and disappointment.
"But obviously you were up to the task," Charles thought, smiling in spite of himself at Erik. "Good morning," he said out loud as he took the proffered mug. "And thank you. How did you sleep last night?”
“Same as always,” Erik replied with a shrug.
"Me too," Charles lied. Erik had closed up, with not a whisper of surface thought for him to latch on to, and he would not delve into Erik's mind uninvited. But he hoped.
October 1, 1962
10 pm
He had entered Erik's mind accidentally on several occasions already. The first time, of course, when Charles had jumped in the ocean to keep Erik from dying. The second was later that night, in the stateroom that was just long enough for narrow twin bunks stacked one atop the other, just wide enough to allow a person to stand between the beds and the shallow metal cabinets lining the other wall. It was nigh impossible to avoid touching one another in such a small space, so Charles clambered into the upper bunk in an effort to get out of the tall German's way as quickly as he could.
Erik closed the door, muttered about the lack of a locking mechanism, and with a reflexive flick of the wrist deformed the edge of the frame to keep the door from swinging into the room. Charles watched his shoulders slump ever so slightly, felt from Erik that with the outside safely locked outside, it was finally permissible to relax. As soon as he did, though, Erik reached a hand to his diaphragm, hissing lightly.
"I can help, if you'd like," Charles offered, pivoting onto an elbow, trying to keep his head from brushing the ceiling.
He started lifting his fingers to his temple, but Erik said "No thanks," over his shoulder, "I've got it." The zipper at the back of his wetsuit glided open easily, untouched. It practically peeled itself off his shoulders, the sides of the zipper leading the way until Erik could comfortably roll the thick, wet material the rest of the way down, revealing old scars faded white that criss-crossed from his shoulder blades down past his hips.
Charles promptly fell back down on the bunk and stared at the ceiling. He didn't want to be lecherous. Really, he didn't. "I meant I could help turn the pain off. It's one of my tricks." Pure force of will kept his voice from sounding strangled.
"I--" Erik was toweling himself dry. Charles could practically hear the frown in the pause. "It's not enough to warrant that." Erik slid into the bunk below him, not bothering to even look for underclothes.
Charles didn't have to imagine the feel of scratchy sheets against bare skin; he had only thought of it when he was immediately feeling it from Erik. Since he couldn't seem to pull his awareness away completely, he settled on attempting to rest as quietly as possible in the outermost part of Erik's mind, just lightly aware of the body's sensations. Erik was asleep in 5 breaths; and then deeply asleep, well past dreaming or feeling the tightness in his ribs or -- because he slept so very deeply -- being aware of the memories that Charles accidentally tripped across as he scanned Erik's body, in case there was something serious that he'd missed earlier.
There was the perpetual tightness in the back of Erik's neck, the tension from his head being held firmly in place while Shaw tortured him as a child, every day for the first year he was in his care, less often after that. There were the fingers that had been systematically broken with a small metal hammer until Erik had been able to flatten the hammer into the shape Shaw desired. And there was a sick feeling associated with the inside of his left forearm, a sense of loss of self and dignity that was the tattooing of the identification number upon his entry to Auschwitz, and that was when Charles felt tears leaving hot tracks slipping from the corners of his own eyes toward his ears, before falling on the pillow with tiny slaps.
He couldn't possibly sleep. He kept watch over Erik's slumber until the ship's engines slowed and she eased into port.
Part 3
Pairing: Erik/Charles (M/M)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: It would be just PG if not for the fact that the guys flirting are guys.
Author's Notes: This fanfic is a birthday present for my dear friend delirium1995 -- I love you oodles! It was beta-read (under light duress and subtle but well-intended coercion) by another friend who shall remain nameless to protect the still-mostly-innocent -- I owe you tons! To new readers: the entire thing weighs in at almost 22k words. All scenes fit within the movie. Read Part 1 first.
Inevitable Things: Part Two
October 1, 1962
9:10 pm
"Name!" the officer shouted at Erik, right after he hauled the man up over the rail and deposited him on the steel deck.
"That can wait!" Charles yelled through his chattering teeth. Saltwater was dripping from his hair into his eyes, and it stung, which strongly suggested the adrenalin was wearing off. "We're not going anywhere, there's plenty of time for that later--"
The officer spared Charles a calculating glance, just long enough to say "You're going to sickbay. Jameson! Morris! Take Mr. Xavier to sickbay and get him something dry." He was still looming over Erik, who was half-sprawled on the deck against the railing, when Jameson and Morris hauled Charles to his feet and slipped their arms under his armpits and across his back, as if he was a drunk partygoer and they were taking him home.
"That man is working for us! You've no right to interrogate him!" Charles yelled over his shoulder as he was hustled toward an open hatch. He tried to brace his feet against the bottom lip of the doorframe to give him a little extra time, but mostly he just succeeded in stumbling and taking down one of the seamen who was supporting him. He dearly wished he had enough energy to wrestle his right arm free and give the boor of an officer a mental push in the right direction, but his arms were like lead weights, and so was the rest of him. When he looked over towards Erik, he saw Moira in profile, looking first at the officer and Erik, then at Charles, her lips pressed together in a thin, unhappy line. It was all rather embarrassing.
"Hold on there, sir, I've almost got you," the seaman said with a politeness incongruous with the very firm hold he had on Charles and the effort it took to get back to his feet from underneath nearly all of Charles' weight. "Just a moment, and we'll get you to sick bay. Sorry there's no rum on board, but the doc'll get you some tea and you--" and Charles was manhandled through the hatch and into the hallway, his feet having lost all purchase with the floor, --"and you'll… ah… you'll be…"
"Chipper in no time," his compatriot finished for him. Charles could feel the laugh behind the professional military deadpan, even though most of his psychic attention was still with Erik. Ah yes, burly American men making fun of his British accent; no doubt they'll be making a point to offer him biscuits next.
They left him on a vinyl bench in a tiny room that somehow reeked of hospital, overwhelming even the saltwater smell clinging to his clothes and skin. A moment later Jameson returned to toss him a thin wool blanket, and left with a curt reminder to stay in the room and out of the way. But Charles didn't have to wait alone for long; Erik was deposited on the opposite bench shortly after, and they shared a brief eyeroll at their rescuer-captors before Erik leaned forward with his hands on his knees and asked Charles if he was alright.
Charles felt his eyes widen and his pulse speed up -- for a moment it was like being trapped in someone else's body, which seemed to be reacting to Erik's words without waiting for him to catch up -- and then he shrugged and shook his head to get his hair out of his eyes, breaking the spell. "I'm fine," he said, clutching the blanket tighter around shoulders. "After all, I wasn't in the water nearly as long as you were."
Erik's lips curled up in a half-smile. "Unlike you, I was dressed for it." He indicated his wetsuit and was about to say something more when the medical officer stormed in, placed towels and a pile of clothing on the table that took up the majority of the room, and spun abruptly to face Charles.
"OK. Clothes off, and they go in this duffel. You can towel dry while I examine you, then put on dry underclothes and we'll get some more blankets on you." He watched Charles fumble with the first button -- his fingers still felt frozen and unresponsive -- and then reached over and matter-of-factly pulled the shirt and sweater up over his head in and into the duffle in one swift motion. "Up" he said, and Charles stood up, feeling a little stupid at being too slow to undress himself, but more impressed at the speed with which the officer stripped off his wet clothes and got him down to bare skin.
The doctor gave him a quick glance, his hands on Charles' shoulders to steady him as the floor pitched for no apparent reason -- "McSweeny," the medical officer muttered, and Charles couldn't help but overhear his next thought "Fer crissake, kid can't find a quarter-sea boogie if it slapped him in the face and asked him to dance," which meant something about not being able to align the bow of the boat across the incoming waves at a certain angle that the ship preferred; and the fact that he was picking up all this mental detritus meant that Charles' control was practically nonexistent. If he didn't pull himself together soon, he'd be overwhelmed by the minutiae of strangers' thoughts. Overwhelmed was useless, and uselessness simply did not become Charles Xavier.
"Bit of rope burn, couple bruises and minor abraisions, probably got that cut coming up over the rail." Charles focused on the medical officer's voice, willing himself not to hear the thoughts underneath as the man whipped a towel around Charles' hips, guided him back down onto the bench and placed another towel on his shoulders. He grimaced and bit his lip to keep from gasping when the alcohol swab passed over the long cut above his ankle -- really, he hadn't felt it at all before the alcohol lit it up with a sensation of intense burning -- and Charles had just a moment to glance at Erik, who was grinning at him tiredly and shaking his head, before the doctor was done placing the bandage and stood up again, blocking his view. Damn the doc!, Charles thought uncharitably as the man placed his right hand firmly on his head and thumbed his left eyelid up, pointing a bright little flashlight at his eye. Bright-dark-bright-dark, look down, look up, OK -- then the same thing on the right eye, and a gruff, "You'll live. Put on some dry things and get that blanket tucked around you again."
Charles reached for the stack of clothes on the table as the doctor turned to Erik.
"Now for you, Kraut --"
Whether the metal in the room was actually humming, or it was just humming in Erik's mind and Charles was still privy to it, the sound made Charles' blood run cold. He had his fingers at his temple immediately, and the medical officer stopped with his hand outstretched towards Erik's face.
"I'm fine," Erik said with no inflection at all.
"He's fine," Charles echoed, doing that thing where he slipped inside a human's mind and gave them thoughts to think.
"You're fine." the medical officer replied.
Erik cocked his head a little to the right, then darted Charles a quick look.
"But he could use some dry clothes." Charles added.
"But you could use some dry clothes. I'll have Jameson find you something, and then you can go back to your stateroom," the medical officer continued, as Charles let his hand drop back to his side. "Once our boys are back on board, we'll be heading to homeport. 3 hours, most likely. Just stay out of the way, please."
Erik watched the doctor walk out the hatch and close it behind him, dumbfounded and staring with his mouth gaping open, then turned wide-eyed to Charles.
"So you're a--" Charles started to ask, finally picking up a white cotton t-shirt and slipping it on.
"Metall-bender," Erik supplied, giving the words a distinct German crispness. "And you're a, what?"
"Telepath." He stepped further behind the table so he could drop the towel without feeling quite so self-conscious. "But I think you're more than just a metal bender, my friend. Those weren't spoons you used to disable Shaw's boat."
"And you don't just hear other people's thoughts. You were a voice in my head. And… and you controlled him like a puppet!"
"Well, not exactly." Charles hurried to say, discomfited by Erik's apparent awe at what he'd done. "But yes, my mutation has several manifestations, as I suspect yours does."
Erik shrugged unhappily. "And limitations, too."
"Yes, of course. I believe exploring those limitations can provide the key to understanding our gifts. I feel as though I'm just beginning to find my limitations, myself. I've never encountered another telepath, and to be blocked so completely -- there must be a way around it, but I need to… And you! You're…"
As if conjuring a ghost by saying its name, Charles fell into Erik's mind as soon as he tried and failed to express in words what Erik was -- and Erik was laid bare. The pain in his chest and the tightness in his ribs -- bruised? -- were from the crystalline woman's terrifically forceful palm-heel. The exhaustion was from having slept only six hours in the past three days, and the recent exertion in the water and the effort it took to bend and focus the magnetic fields. On the edge of everything was an incredible sense of failure, creating a ragged sort of tunnel vision, barely held in check by the hope of a second chance; the sharp focus in the center was less bright than before, but still there, and underneath it all was a deep sense of purpose, dark and limitless as an abyss.
"Excuse me," Charles said, trying to reel himself in again, pinching the bridge of his nose to help draw him back. "You're exhausted, and I'm being a terrible host. I probably should have let the medical officer look you over--."
Erik stood up abruptly. "I take care of myself," he said. His tone of voice said This is a fact, and the set of his shoulders said There is no arguing with facts.
"The stateroom they assigned me is a double," Charles offered. "And…" he cautiously raised his hand to his temple again, trying to concentrate past the fascinating glimmer that was Erik back into the chaotic mess of thoughts of the sailors on the ship, to "Moira! We're heading to my stateroom."
"Good, things are too nuts up here. Need any help with that guy?" Moira was on the bridge, tucked shoulder-to-shoulder between the radioman and the second mate, keeping an eye on the ongoing recovery, seething with annoyance and worry and, incongruously, wondering if she had time to reapply her lipstick.
"Erik's fine. We'll be out of the way."
"Thanks. Can you get out of my head now and let me do my work?"
"Of course, love. You know where to find us."
Charles yanked the stiff handle of the door down and swung it open. "No point in waiting," he said.
Erik was holding the duffle with Charles' clothes in one hand and handed him the blanket with the other. "You'll want this." Their hands touched, briefly; Charles felt a flush in his cheeks as he swung the blanket around his shoulders and turned to lead the way. These things were certainly unrelated.
October 5, 1962
<<> 6:30 am
"You will move the coin." A disembodied voice. Cold. Clinical.
The words were German, and that was Charles' first clue that he was not in his own dream; he should wake up, he should do this awake; no, he shouldn't do this at all; he can't do anything but watch when he's asleep, and shouldn't he be having his own dreams now?
But the coin was not a coin, it was a knife, and the substitution was too intriguing.
"You know what will happen if you do not move the coin."
There was a coin -- in front of him, on the desk. The knife was -- he knew without seeing, in the curious logic of dreams -- hovering over the back of his neck, threatening him with its single-minded malevolence. He was shirtless, and the knife was dipping down to rest its point where the neck met the shoulder. The coin resolutely refused to move.
"Anger is motivation enough for normal people. But not you. You need to hurt."
The knife pierced the skin, sharp pain drawing all his attention in an instant. Charles would have woken up, but he was trapped in place, unable to move as the knife drew a long line down his back, was returned to his shoulder, pierced the skin, began another long searing cut down. Someone was looming over him, holding him in place. "I am always happy to hurt you," the voice said, "if this is what you need. Move the coin."
But there was no coin. There was only the knife, cutting his back to shreds, slow and methodical. He turned to look at the wielder behind him, but behind him there were only dead bodies on the ground, lying in an ever-widening pool of blood.
Charles woke in a cold sweat. Of course there was only one person whose dream that could have been. He rolled out of the narrow bed, still groggy from sleep, and stumbled into the tiny bathroom to brush his teeth. Then he stumbled into the shower and stood under the barely lukewarm spray with his arms braced against the wall, imagining the water washing the blood off his back into a pool at his feet before swirling down the drain. He could almost see it, could almost taste it. He wished the nausea he felt was just a simple hangover, and not due to the fact that last night he'd learned what human death smelled like, from the dream-memories of someone who knew first hand.
He was dressed and collecting his things at 7:15 when he felt Erik nearby, thinking "Can you hear me, Charles?"
"I always hear you," Charles thought, tucking his folder of notes under his arm and scanning the room for anything he didn't want to leave behind for curious eyes. "Come on in. The door' s not locked against you."
"Funny, the same was true about the cafeteria." The lock clicked as the handle turned slowly, and a moment later the door swung open to reveal Erik holding two mugs of coffee in his hands and a slight frown on his face. "That shouldn't have been so hard." Frustration and disappointment.
"But obviously you were up to the task," Charles thought, smiling in spite of himself at Erik. "Good morning," he said out loud as he took the proffered mug. "And thank you. How did you sleep last night?”
“Same as always,” Erik replied with a shrug.
"Me too," Charles lied. Erik had closed up, with not a whisper of surface thought for him to latch on to, and he would not delve into Erik's mind uninvited. But he hoped.
October 1, 1962
10 pm
He had entered Erik's mind accidentally on several occasions already. The first time, of course, when Charles had jumped in the ocean to keep Erik from dying. The second was later that night, in the stateroom that was just long enough for narrow twin bunks stacked one atop the other, just wide enough to allow a person to stand between the beds and the shallow metal cabinets lining the other wall. It was nigh impossible to avoid touching one another in such a small space, so Charles clambered into the upper bunk in an effort to get out of the tall German's way as quickly as he could.
Erik closed the door, muttered about the lack of a locking mechanism, and with a reflexive flick of the wrist deformed the edge of the frame to keep the door from swinging into the room. Charles watched his shoulders slump ever so slightly, felt from Erik that with the outside safely locked outside, it was finally permissible to relax. As soon as he did, though, Erik reached a hand to his diaphragm, hissing lightly.
"I can help, if you'd like," Charles offered, pivoting onto an elbow, trying to keep his head from brushing the ceiling.
He started lifting his fingers to his temple, but Erik said "No thanks," over his shoulder, "I've got it." The zipper at the back of his wetsuit glided open easily, untouched. It practically peeled itself off his shoulders, the sides of the zipper leading the way until Erik could comfortably roll the thick, wet material the rest of the way down, revealing old scars faded white that criss-crossed from his shoulder blades down past his hips.
Charles promptly fell back down on the bunk and stared at the ceiling. He didn't want to be lecherous. Really, he didn't. "I meant I could help turn the pain off. It's one of my tricks." Pure force of will kept his voice from sounding strangled.
"I--" Erik was toweling himself dry. Charles could practically hear the frown in the pause. "It's not enough to warrant that." Erik slid into the bunk below him, not bothering to even look for underclothes.
Charles didn't have to imagine the feel of scratchy sheets against bare skin; he had only thought of it when he was immediately feeling it from Erik. Since he couldn't seem to pull his awareness away completely, he settled on attempting to rest as quietly as possible in the outermost part of Erik's mind, just lightly aware of the body's sensations. Erik was asleep in 5 breaths; and then deeply asleep, well past dreaming or feeling the tightness in his ribs or -- because he slept so very deeply -- being aware of the memories that Charles accidentally tripped across as he scanned Erik's body, in case there was something serious that he'd missed earlier.
There was the perpetual tightness in the back of Erik's neck, the tension from his head being held firmly in place while Shaw tortured him as a child, every day for the first year he was in his care, less often after that. There were the fingers that had been systematically broken with a small metal hammer until Erik had been able to flatten the hammer into the shape Shaw desired. And there was a sick feeling associated with the inside of his left forearm, a sense of loss of self and dignity that was the tattooing of the identification number upon his entry to Auschwitz, and that was when Charles felt tears leaving hot tracks slipping from the corners of his own eyes toward his ears, before falling on the pillow with tiny slaps.
He couldn't possibly sleep. He kept watch over Erik's slumber until the ship's engines slowed and she eased into port.
Part 3