X-Men: First Class fic: First Breath After Coma (2/3)
header and part 1
First Breath After Coma (part 2)
"I'll fetch you a rug for your legs. And what about a fire? I can light a fire. Well, I think I can - you can always tell me how. Stupid old house - we'll have to get a new heating system installed."
"Raven," Charles interjects, but she cuts him off and carries on as though he didn't say a word. She paces around the room, moves an armchair a smidgeon to the left, pushes a coffee table up against the wall. It's driving him nuts.
"The doctor said it would be easy for your legs to get cold without you realizing it. I'll unpack you some warm socks. I don't suppose anything in your room will be fit to wear, the place has been closed up so long."
Charles wheels around to face her. "I know you mean well, but you have to stop fussing, my dear." He's tired after the Atlantic flight, and still weak from two years inactivity, but he doesn't need to be treated like an invalid, settled into the study like an old man. He doesn't want to be treated so - that might be the more honest assessment. Whatever his current physical state, he is used to caring for others, not being fussed over. He can't so easily hand over the reins, especially not to his little sister. It's bad enough that he's reliant on her to push him wherever he needs to go.
The look on Raven's face, and the distress that she's broadcasting (he can't even beg her to think more quietly), stop him from saying any of that. She means well, and he does need her. They'll find a balance soon enough. In the meantime, it's up to him to ensure that the move back here, and Charles' own return to health, goes as smoothly as possible.
Charles reaches out for her and takes her hand. "Sit down," he says, and when she lets go of his hand to sit on the nearest part of the sofa, he has just enough strength in his arms to wheel his stupid chair a few inches across the carpet so that they're just pressing knee to knee.
Raven preempts him. She looks a little tearful but she's smiling, determined to be optimistic and cheerful for him. "I hope you're not going to give me some stupid speech about how I mustn't put my life on hold for yours and that I should be out there, having fun. Or living up to my potential by doing some serious, meaningful job as befits the bright future you've always seen for me."
"That is a terrible imitation of me," Charles says, because it was, but he can't entirely hide his smile. This - Raven mimicking him, Charles lecturing her - this feels more like the relationship he remembers.
"Actually, I thought I got the stuffy, pompous attitude down pretty well."
Charles interrupts her before she can insult him any further. "And," he says, "that isn't what I was going to say. Well, not exactly," he adds, honestly. He had planned to say something about how he couldn't begin to say how grateful he was that she'd taken care of him all this time; the nurses at the John Radcliffe told him she'd read to him and talked to him almost daily. But he wanted her to have her own life, not be stuck with him.
"Well, you can skip all the bits about being grateful and how wonderful I am and how lucky you are to have me as your sister - you can just owe me a favor or two," she says wickedly. "And, if you like, you can pay me to be your personal assistant or something else that sounds official, and then it'll look good on my resume when you're well enough to do without me."
"You know I'll never want to be without you entirely," Charles says, and is very glad he thought to articulate that out loud when he feels the warmth and happiness it brings to the surface of her mind. "But yes, you being around full time does need to be a temporary matter, just until I get stronger and more accustomed to being-" Charles has thought of words for what he is now, lacking the use of his legs, a weak facsimile of himself, he just doesn't like them very much. Paralyzed is the nice one. Crippled, not so nice. "Less mobile," he settles for.
"And you'll make it an official job? With a regular pay check?" She's teasing, but there's an earnestness underneath her words - she wants to be sure of her place in his life.
Charles laughs. "Of course I will. And you can even choose your own job title."
"I won't wear a uniform though," Raven says, shuddering with mock disgust. "You'd make me wear some hideous, frumpy dress down to my knees and sensible flat lace-ups."
"Heaven forbid that you should look so respectable!"
"I just have no desire to look like an old fogey before my time," Raven says, and her smirk says exactly who she's implying does look like an old fogey. Personally, he thinks he's always dressed perfectly appropriately for a professor. A very young professor. According to Raven, he is still a professor of genetics, still studied human mutations. That much of his memory matches hers.
Charles grins back at her for a moment, then lets his expression fall serious and leans forward, looking straight at her. "I do have to say this once at least, though. I am so incredibly grateful to you. For being a wonderful sister, and for being there for me all this time." Raven ducks her head, and Charles can tell she's embarrassed. He doesn't let it stop him. "I love you dearly, and I am so glad that you're my sister."
He doesn't get any further, because Raven jumps up and hugs him, face tucked into his shoulder. He's not sure he could have said more anyway, not in words. And he can't project his thoughts into her mind any more, not yet. Not until things get back to normal between them - or what feels normal to him, two proud mutants. He just hopes that they can have that again, because for all that it feels good to hold Raven like this, he still feels the loss of the extra bond they shared before.
*
His second day back home, Charles sets out on a dual endeavor: working out what needs to be done to make the house habitable for him, and searching for signs that there was ever a team of mutants here. The latter he has to do discreetly, while Raven wheels him around. He makes notes to get an elevator installed, and some ramps built - the elevator will be useful anyway, and the ramps can be removed if-when-no, if (he has to be honest with himself) he ever gets out of this chair. He makes a list of the thicker, bulkier rugs that he'll have put into storage, and doorways where the carpet strip needs to be replaced with a flatter edge.
He decides to hold off on any outside changes for now, anything that would diminish the beauty of the place. Gravel walkways might be tiring to wheel through, but they're not an insurmountable problem. Besides, it'll be good exercise. Charles knows he needs to get stronger, both mentally and physically. He needs to build up his upper body strength so he can wheel himself around for more than a few minutes at a time, and so that dealing with his more intimate physical needs won't be so awkward and embarrassing.
He sees no signs of the other mutants. No newly repaired windows, no textbooks that don't belong to him or Raven. No uniform grey sweat suits. No trash bin full of charred objects. There's no sign that anybody has lived in the house for years. Nothing.
He tries not to react, but his despondency must show, because it's not long before Raven declares they've seen enough for the day, and no amount of cajoling or threatening can persuade her to prolong the tour.
"I take my job very seriously, and it's my job to put your welfare first," she says firmly, taking him to the kitchen. There's only a skeleton staff at the moment, Williams the caretaker doubling up as chauffeur, Mrs. Williams the housekeeper as cleaner, plus a head gardener and two boys to help him. They'll need to hire more, but for the time being, they can fend for themselves in the kitchen.
"Omelet?" Raven offers, checking the fridge.
"Scrambled eggs," Charles suggests. There's less chance she'll burn those, and Charles does loathe burned eggs.
She only burns the toast, and even that's not too bad, once the surface layer's scrapped off and replaced with butter. There's a bowl of red apples on the table, and they munch on those after they've finished their eggs.
"I found some hand weights this morning," Raven says, once they're sitting back with a mug of coffee each. At least her time waitressing taught her how to make good coffee.
"Thanks," Charles says.
He'll get Raven to set up a simple gym for him. And he'll set aside some time to work on mental exercises too. He curses his lack of Cerebro. All those years, it was just him and Raven experimenting with his powers, and even then he achieved a lot. But with Cerebro and Hank it was amazing. He learned so much so quickly, felt how big the world was and expanded his mind out to fit it. If he had their help, he'd find Erik in a day. Faster, even.
But, much as he's itching to rush straight into searching for Erik, his mind's too weak. Building up his mental powers to a state where he can approximate the range he had with Cerebro, if it's even possible - that's always been one of the exciting things about his power, not knowing how far he can take it - is going to take time. He's taunted by the memories of being so much stronger. It's bad enough that his body is feeble, but his mental powers are just as important a part of who he is, and he feels the same frustration at not being able to reach out mentally as he does every morning he wakes up to one glorious second when he forgets he can't walk and then comes back down to earth in a miserable rush.
He wishes he could do something to speed up the process. Cerebro was all electrical, but maybe there's some chemical that would help. He'd do anything.
For now, though, he'll just have to try more ordinary channels to find Erik, maddeningly slow as that's likely to be.
*
His first phone call is to his lawyer. His firm is discreet and has handled the Xavier family's business for decades, so a request to locate the man Charles crashed his car into is taken on board without a hint of curiosity.
"His name is Erik Lehnsherr, he is in his thirties, and he is probably a German citizen. He may live in the US now," Charles says.
"Do you have any information as to which city or state?"
"No, that is as much as I can tell you."
"It might take some time, sir."
"Just let me know when you have something. And-"
"Yes?"
"Please speak to me personally if you have any questions, and when you have an answer." He doesn't want Raven to know what he's doing.
*
"The library? Really?" Raven steps into the car and Williams shuts the door behind her. "Your first proper trip out after leaving the hospital, and you want to go to the library?"
"Stuffy professor here, remember," Charles says. The car rolls slowly along the driveway, and Charles winds down the window. The fresh air feels good, and the change of view. It's nearly fall, leaves beginning to turn gold and red. The county has always been incredibly beautiful at this time of the year, all rolling hills dotted with old trees and horses in pastures. He used to despise the obvious wealth, feel bad that he was a part of it, but he's still able to appreciate the beauty.
"You're not that stuffy, really," Raven says, bumping him with her shoulder. She's treating him a little less like he's breakable now, and he's grateful for it.
Charles turns to her and grins. "I still want to go to the library. But don't worry; you don't have to come with me. I won't force you into a building full of books."
"I'm not allergic to books," Raven counters. "I even enjoy reading them sometimes." She adds a mock gasp for his benefit. "Just not all the time, and not the tedious, dreary ones you're so fond of. Those are only any good as a cure for insomnia."
"So you want to come to the library?"
"Hell, no," Raven laughs. "I'm going to the ice-cream parlor. So you'd better not be too long in the library, or I'll make myself sick on strawberry sundaes. You're treating me."
"You're a working girl - you can treat yourself!"
"But you're a generous employer," Raven wheedles, and Charles ends up slipping her a dollar when they pull up outside the library.
The library looks just like Charles remembers it.
Mr. Zimmermann is on duty in the reference room, and he exclaims in genuine pleasure at the sight of Charles.
"My favorite young visitor," he says. There's no hint of pity in his tone. "I hope zat you have an intriguing search for me - I have missed your requests while you vere in England."
Mr. Zimmermann is looking even more stooped than the last time Charles saw him, and his hairline has receded another inch or so, but he's a permanent fixture here. He always used to get tetchy with other children - silence in ze library was his regular refrain, repeated in quiet, mocking tones when he turned away - but he was never impatient with Charles. He sensed Charles' genuine love both of books and the knowledge in them, and it was he who taught Charles how to use a library and how to find information. How to make a library talk to him.
It's comforting that this, at least, hasn't changed at all.
"Just a couple of things today, old friend," Charles says. "Do you have any texts on the latest developments in genetics? And any articles on the Cuban Missile Crisis. And I'd like to see back issues of the Hudson Hills Herald from two years ago, please."
Charles comes away with two new, untouched textbooks - he has a strong feeling that Mr. Zimmermann ordered them with him in mind, because they are most certainly not on a level that anyone else in the area is likely to be able to comprehend - and a sense of frustration at the lack of information from the local paper. It followed the story of his crash, as he knew it would, even though the crash was in England; stories about the Xavier family always make the Herald. But it didn't tell him anything he hadn't already learned from Raven or Moira MacTaggert. Most importantly, it didn't give him any clues to Erik's whereabouts.
He's quiet on the drive home, listening to Raven talk without paying much attention. He knows he has to consider the possibility - the probability - that what he remembers is not in fact the truth. He could make excuses for one mind's memories not matching his, but every scrap of evidence so far indicates that he's the only one who has the memories of the children, his team of mutants, and their battle on the beach. The Cuban Missile Crisis happened, but not the way he remembers it - there was no eleventh hour intervention between two fleets.
The only thing that gives him hope is that he is still most definitely a mutant. His abilities might not be as strong as they were, but he can still read minds, still influence them. He is a mutant.
And where there is one mutant, surely, surely there must be more.
*
He isn't sure who to contact within the CIA. He remembers names, but doesn't know if in this reality any of them know him, or even if they work for the CIA.
He starts with the research facility.
He gives Williams directions, expecting to get halted before they can get too close. It's a bad sign that they drive right up to the front without being confronted.
It's a school. A high school, full of teenagers. Very ordinary, messed-up, argumentative, sulky, irritable, horny, bored teenagers. There's no way it's hiding anything.
Charles doesn't let the set-back get him down too much. It's only to be expected. And just because the research facility doesn't exist, it doesn't mean the people he met there don't exist either. He knows Hank's real, even though he's a dead end when it comes to finding answers.
John Smith is his best bet.
Charles is certain that John Smith isn't his real name. He and Erik mockingly nicknamed him the Man in Black after he'd mysteriously introduced himself. "Call me-John Smith," he'd said, a grin at the back of his eyes. Charles never used his powers to find his real name, but all he needs to do is get close to Langley and eavesdrop. If John Smith is in the CIA, he'll find him. And Charles is certain that, even if this man too has no memory of mutants, he'll be open-minded enough to listen.
It takes Charles some time - and in the process he learns that being stealthy in a large chauffeured sedan, or in a wheelchair, is incredibly difficult and takes a lot more mind manipulation than he'd like - but he eventually eavesdrops on enough minds to learn John Smith's habits. He discovers three things: John Smith is the name he goes by, at least to the low level operatives who Charles reads, he's interested in the unusual, though no one knows exactly what directive he works under, and he sometimes patronizes a small bar on the edge of McLean.
Charles spends two evenings drinking in the bar before he meets the man he's looking for. The first evening he drinks too much - he's lost his capacity for drinking all night - and ends up flirting with a young woman who reminds him a little of his first girlfriend in Oxford. Her name is Olivia, and she's not conventionally beautiful - her face too broad, teeth a little crooked - but she's drinking the same beer as him and she laughs at his lame jokes, and she lets him kiss her.
He wants to do more, but he's drunk enough that his mental controls aren't as finely honed as usual, and he hears her thoughts: concern mingled with curiosity as to whether he's even able to do anything more, and a trace of pity. She's wondering if she's the first woman he's approached since his accident. She's not sure what she'll do if they go back to her place and he can't get it up.
None of this shows on her face. She's perfectly nice, and if Charles weren't a telepath he'd never pick up on any of her doubts. But he can't take the pity. It sobers him enough that he drops her hand and leaves her with a quick excuse. He heads straight back to his hotel. It's only a block away from the bar, chosen deliberately so he didn't need to keep the car at hand. Raven had argued against him coming here without her, but McLean is a five hour drive from home, and he wants to keep his search from her, so he told her it was a doctor's appointment and eventually persuaded her that he might just be able to manage for a few days with only Williams to help him.
So here he is, a lonely man wheeling himself in the dark to a solitary hotel room, wondering if he's impotent. Sober enough to think, drunk enough to be maudlin.
And now the question is there, staring him boldly in the face. He hasn't had an erection since he woke from the coma; at first he had neither the privacy nor the desire, and since he got home he hasn't had the inclination to try to get aroused.
It wasn't a matter he felt he could raise with his doctor back in Oxford - he didn't feel like discussing erections or the potential lack of them with a nicely brought up Scottish girl, and the one time she'd awkwardly broached the subject, he'd feigned exhaustion. But now he needs to know. He needs to get to his room and find out for himself. And for all that he tells himself that he should have stayed at the bar and waited a little longer in case the Man in Black turned up, he's only thirty-two and he's a man, and he wants to have sex again. He wants to know that he can have sex again.
His room is on the ground floor, and he's strong enough now to lift himself out of his chair and onto the bed, though it leaves him gasping for breath. It's late, and he's tired, and he's had too much to drink. But he has to try.
Charles opens his fly and lifts his hips enough to pull his pants down to his thighs. He unbuttons his shirt and opens it, but leaves it on - there's a fall chill in the air, and he doesn't want to get back into his chair to close the window. He must look ridiculous, legs stretched out like useless sticks in front of him, his penis flaccid and pale.
He doesn't have any magazines to help, so he calls on memories. He starts with Olivia, and thinks of the swell of her breasts underneath her cashmere rollneck, the warmth of her lips against his, and the whiff of patchouli. She tasted of lip gloss and beer, and it should stir something in him, but he feels no sense of arousal, and his penis remains resolutely limp.
He goes back in time. If kissing doesn't help, then sex surely should. He remembers making out with Virginia in her dorm room, half his mind stretched out to make sure her roommate didn't come back to interrupt them, the rest of his mind very firmly caught up in the warmth of his hand under her blouse, the way she shuddered in pleasure when he slipped his other hand up her thigh and under her panties. She'd giggled nervously when he'd started to finger her, but she'd pushed her skirt up to make it easier for him, and bitten her lip in anticipation when he'd slipped her panties off. He can still remember how wet she'd been, how hot he'd felt, how he'd had to concentrate for a moment on the opening paragraph of his molecular biology essay so that he didn't come the moment he slid inside her.
It isn't helping. He can remember the feeling, but it's a pale imitation of actual arousal, and he can't even be sure the memory is real. He can't be sure of any of his memories these days.
He tugs almost angrily at his dick, frustrated. All the times he's had unwelcome and ill-timed erections, and now, nothing.
He doesn't mean his mind to go in the direction it does, to think of Erik, long evenings spent together playing chess, drinking and laughing and arguing, but once Erik is in his thoughts, he's there to stay. Charles imagines Erik kneeling in front of him. Right here, in this hotel room, on this bed. He imagines the huff of warm breath as Erik leans almost close enough to kiss, then smirks at him and backs away. Charles is certain Erik would be a tease like that, deliberate and obvious. But then he would brush Charles' hand aside and wrap his own hand around Charles' dick. His hands are larger than Charles', more calloused, scarred in places. No mistaking those hands for anyone else, or for his own touch.
Erik might not be able to read minds, but he would still know what Charles wants, the sort of touch he needs. Nothing gentle. Firm and assured, and he'd look Charles in the eyes as he jerked him off, and there'd be no uncertainty about Charles' arousal.
Charles' heart would start to pound and he'd breathe faster. Erik would pull his upper lip into his mouth in concentration and when he let it go again it would be moist and reddened as though he'd just been kissed, and Charles would ache so badly to kiss him that he'd push himself upright and press up against Erik and they'd be kissing then, both demanding and needy, and Erik would still be twisting his hand around Charles' dick, faster and faster, and then Charles would be coming, splashing warm on his own naked belly.
And when they'd pull apart eventually, because Charles' dick was getting sensitive, he'd see splashes of white on Erik's black pants, and they'd laugh at it, a little rueful on Erik's part. But they wouldn't laugh for long because the bulge in Erik's pants would be obvious, and he'd pull his zip down without even touching it, and it would be Charles' turn to make him come.
Charles gasps. The image is far more vivid than any fantasy he's conjured before. He looks down at himself, the mess on his stomach, his softening dick, and takes a deep breath. At least he knows he's fully functional there.
And he's just confirmed every stray thought he's repressed about how he really feels about Erik.
It is not possible that he could feel this way about a man he's never met. There has to be something more between them than a car crash, and Charles takes comfort in that as much as in his orgasm.
*
He goes back to the bar the next night. He drinks less, and doesn't flirt as much, and doesn't see the man he's looking for.
The night after that is a Friday, and Charles is hopeful.
It's nine thirty when his hope is validated. The Man in Black walks in alone and sits up at the bar. If Charles could stand, he would walk over and sit down next to him and touch his mind enough to start up a successful conversation. Instead, he waits until the Man in Black has ordered a drink and has it in his hand, and then sends him a light nudge. Just the idea that company might be good, and the man in the wheelchair is also alone, so why doesn't he go and sit at his table.
The Man in Black introduces himself as John Smith, a consultant. He doesn't say what field he consults in, or offer any further information, true or false. So Charles leads the conversation, talks about his PhD, gets excited about genetics and mutation which is easy enough. And then posits the crazy idea that mutations might suddenly occur, not the natural, barely noticeable ones that have been gradually changing humans for millennia, but massive, ground-breaking mutations happening in one generation. He thinks of all the times he's had this same conversation, he and Erik together on the recruiting trail. He's missed it.
John Smith shakes his head in disbelief. "They would kill the people suffering from them," he says. "Or lock them away in labs."
"Some might," Charles agrees, "but what if there were useful mutations? Improvements and skills that could advance the human race."
"Such as?"
"Such as mind-reading or shape-shifting, or being able to adapt to any environment. Or human flight. Imagine the possibilities." Charles isn't sure quite why he doesn't mention Erik's ability in his list; it just seems safest not to.
John Smith takes a long drink, pondering the idea. "Those could be as dangerous as they could be helpful. And I can only imagine how ordinary people would react to somebody who could read minds."
He's imagining the possibility now, but Charles skims his mind just enough to know that he has never knowingly met a mutant and that it's all just a rather wacky theoretical idea to him. An entertaining conversation over a glass of good single malt, but nothing more.
*
Charles drives home that night, dozing in the back of the car as they head up the I-95. He falls asleep long enough to dream, but when he wakes up to the sound of wheels crunching over gravel and the feel of the car stopping, he doesn't remember any details beyond standing in a field, Erik beside him, and an overwhelming feeling of contentment.
He hopes it's a good omen.
It is. The following day, his lawyer calls. They're an old firm, fond of the personal touch.
"I have an address and phone number for you," the man says, and Charles' mouth goes dry. He thought he might have to wait weeks for a result, if they'd even been able to find anything. "We haven't confirmed if either one is current, though."
Charles interrupts. "I'll see to that," he says.
Charles jots down the details on the back of an envelope, and stares at them once he's put the receiver down. The number is a Yonkers code, and the address is just off the New York State Freeway. Erik could be minutes away.
It's late afternoon, and Charles has been lifting weights and overseeing workmen and ignoring Raven's attempts to get him to take a nap. He's exhausted - and secretly wishes he had taken the nap - but he calls for the car anyway. He can't wait until tomorrow.
He needs to do this in person. Over the phone, Charles won't be able to use his powers - not at the moment, not until he's stronger - and he won't even be able to read Erik's face. And he wants to see Erik. Hearing his voice just isn't enough.
He taps his fingers on his thighs and counts every mile until they pull up outside an old brownstone. There are six steps leading up to the front door, and the column of buzzers is set high on the wall, so Charles waits on the sidewalk while Williams rings. There's a constant hum of traffic, and Charles doesn't hear anyone coming until the door opens. Time has never felt so slow.
There's a man standing in the doorway. Too short, too blond. Charles doesn't recognize him.
"Don't know anything," the man says, after Charles tells him who they're looking for. "I've lived here for a couple of months, and I've only got one forwarding address for mail, and that's not for your Mr. Lehnsherr. But you should try the landlord. He lives in the basement." He points out the correct buzzer before he climbs the steps two at a time and closes the door firmly behind him.
Charles can feel the tension in his shoulders. His head aches too, and he wishes Raven were here, his old Raven, the one who knew his secrets, the sister he could talk to about almost anything.
The landlord is swarthy and greasy and Charles knows immediately, without even scratching the surface of his mind, that he won't be helpful unless he's bribed. And while Charles would willingly part with just about anything to find Erik, he has no intention of making this man any wealthier, so he doesn't say a word, just holds him still and scans through his thoughts.
The man remembers Erik. Charles gets a clear visual of Erik striding up the steps right here, scowling, and an argument. There'd been something strange about Erik's room after he'd left: the light fittings were all twisted and there was a coin embedded in the wall.
But Charles' joy at the confirmation of Erik's powers is muted quickly: the landlord doesn't have an address. Erik stayed for a few months, and left with the same single suitcase and duffle bag that he arrived with. No clue at all as to where he might have gone, or why he left. Charles looks deeper, to see if there's any hint that this Erik might have some vendetta or be searching for someone, but there's nothing.
Charles lets go of the landlord in frustration, not pulling out of his mind as gently as he could. The man reels a little, standing in the doorway looking puzzled, before glaring at them and slamming the door.
"Home," Charles says, and wheels himself wearily towards the car.
"Is everything okay, Mr. Xavier?" Williams asks as he helps Charles out of the chair.
"Fine," Charles says, and slips into his mind. Just some gentle nudging and Williams is reassured.
Charles tries the phone number when he gets home, but it's disconnected. He thumps his fists on the desk in disappointment. Yet another failure.
*
Charles is running out of options. His lawyer's investigators have hit a dead end, and he doesn't know of any other way to track people down, especially if they don't wish to be found. So far, there's little to suggest that Erik wants to be found. Charles' only reason to hope Erik will be glad to see him is the indentations in his bed frame back in the hospital. Erik must have visited him, and why would he do that if there were nothing between them?
Strengthening his mind is Charles' only option. He pours over books and medical journals to see if he can find some way to make his powers reach across greater distances, or become more receptive to specific minds, but he has to improvise based on barely related studies. He's on his own in this. But he was on his own before he found Raven - at least, in his memory, that's how it goes - and he can do this.
The worst thing is constantly lying to Raven. That, and the headaches. He has painkillers, but they barely touch the throbbing in his head after a day of reaching out as far as he can possibly go and then pushing just that bit further. Of feeling mind after mind, seeking signs of other mutants, hunting for that one most familiar mind. Of being utterly alone in his search.
He begins to wonder if he's sane. If this is what a breakdown feels like, the desire to believe that he is right and everyone else is wrong, even against all the evidence. He's sleeping less and less, his mind buzzing like it used to when he drank pint after pint of coffee during his exams. He can't quiet it, can't switch off. When he does sleep, he has nightmares that he searches every mind on the planet and still doesn't find Erik, that Erik is so different that he passes by his mind without recognizing him. He wakes before it's light, restless and impatient to get back to his search, even though he's becoming more and more exhausted.
*
The nights draw in, and the evenings grow chillier. Charles has always liked this time of year, even the storms and longer hours of darkness.
Raven has lit a fire in the study this evening. They curl up on the sofa in front of it, a blanket tucked around Charles' legs, and play card games, Snap and Old Maid. It's something they both remember.
"Did you know that the first card games were invented during the Tang dynasty, in China?" Charles asks, just to make Raven smile.
"Oddly enough, no, I didn't know that. Want to know why I didn't know?"
Charles bites. "Why?"
"Because I am not a gigantic freak like my brother, that's why. Also, I win," she adds triumphantly, putting her last two cards down.
"Winner gets the drinks," Charles says.
"I'm pretty sure it's the other way around," Raven says, but she gets up and pours them both another drink.
He sleeps well that night.
*
The next day, Raven leaves early in the morning without telling him where she's going. She has a sly expression on her face that he doesn't remember seeing for years, not since she was too small to understand how expressive her face could be. He refuses to read her mind - she doesn't know he can, isn't in a position to give or deny him permission - so he frets until she returns.
The moment she returns, the reason for her guilty expression is obvious.
"Raven," Charles exclaims, wheeling himself out towards the car. "What on earth were you thinking?"
She steps out of the car with a puppy cradled in her arms. "I was thinking she'd be company for you," Raven says. She sets the puppy on the ground; it stands a little shakily on too large paws, and then totters slowly towards Charles.
He can't help himself. He leans down and scratches under the puppy's neck. Her fur is thick and soft, a dark bluish-grey.
"Don't try telling me you haven't fallen instantly in love with her, because I won't believe you for a minute," Raven says. She lifts the puppy up into his lap and looks proud.
The puppy wriggles around, then settles down facing him. It's strange, not being able to feel her weight, or the warmth of her on his legs, just the press of her chin against his stomach. She looks up at him with big, dark eyes.
"You are incredibly manipulative and sneaky," Charles says, ostensibly to Raven, but he's including the puppy too. Raven grins as though he's just given her the best compliment ever.
He calls the puppy Blue. He can't help overhearing Raven's loud thought that he's obsessed with the color blue, just as he can't help picking up her relief that he now has something to take care of. She thinks it'll help him snap out of whatever he's working through.
*
Charles takes Blue with him when he wheels himself around the grounds each morning. She trots along at his side, and sometimes she jumps up on his lap. Charles has fallen in love with her, it's true. And she's entirely his girl. In the evenings, it's always Charles she gravitates towards, even though Raven feeds her just as often. He doesn't detect any jealousy from Raven though - she's glad for him.
And Charles is glad for company who won't notice when he pushes himself too hard, won't worry about him when he experiments with ways of stretching his mind further.
He's never used drugs before - weed doesn't count - but he needs all the help he can get. He tries all sorts: some to help him relax, others to help him focus. He's careful, trying small doses at a time, allowing time for each drug to leave his system before he tries a new one. He makes precise notes of each experience, estimating the effect or lack of effect each one has on his abilities.
Dextroamphetamine turns out to be the key. It takes a while to balance the dosage, to increase his concentration and capacity without too many significant side-effects, but once he gets it right, the effect is cumulative, day to day. He reaches further and further, passing through hundreds, thousands of minds a day. He stops in some briefly, whenever he senses anything familiar or different, but few of them turn out to be mutants, and none of them are Erik.
For the first time, he doesn't miss the use of his legs so badly. He's seen two more doctors since he came home, and neither of them offered him any hope. He's coming to terms with it. There are still mornings when he wakes up and tries to climb out of bed, thinks of going for a run, aches inside when he remembers he can't. But those days are getting fewer and fewer, and as his mind gets stronger, it makes up for his other loss.
*
The day he finds Erik starts off badly.
He's developed a pressure sore and has hired a nurse to treat it each morning. She's quick and kind and efficient, but it's still humiliating to lie face-down and half naked in his bed while she dresses it.
Raven is full of guilt that she didn't notice the problem earlier and spends all morning on the telephone ordering a variety of cushions for his chair, along with more equipment for the gym. She makes him promise that he'll work out in the gym every day, not just once or twice a week, and the nurse gives him a list of do's and don't's.
After lunch Blue has an accident on the bearskin rug in front of the fire, which makes Raven burst into tears. Charles tells her she's being ridiculous, and then mentally slaps himself for being so unkind when she runs out of the room, projecting guilt and grief.
Charles wheels himself to the summerhouse in the afternoon, Blue trotting along by his side. It's peaceful out here, far enough from any other minds that he doesn't have to set up any sort of blocks. There's no heating, and the door is slightly warped and lets in a draft, but he's wrapped up warm enough. He takes two pills, swallowing them down dry, then casts out, focusing his mind carefully so that he can manage a three hundred and sixty degree search at each new distance that he achieves.
He touches a bored schoolteacher and a new mother trying to hush her baby. A funeral director, a salesman, a toddler on a swing. A secretary who wants to quit her job and a pensioner in a nursing home who thinks she's just about to get married to her sweetheart. So many minds.
When he touches Erik's mind, the sensation is so astounding he almost doesn't believe it. He grips the arms of his chair so hard that his fingers go numb, determined to hold on long enough to be absolutely certain.
There is one memory he is certain that both his Erik and this one will share. He knows exactly where to look, deep down, in a forgotten corner. He finds it. Erik and his mother celebrating Hanukkah together; a golden glow of candles, a soft smile on her face, the warmth of being loved.
It's as beautiful now as the first time he saw the memory. Even more, perhaps, for all that it means to Charles. It means he has found Erik.
Charles hadn't given up on finding him, but as each day passed it had grown harder to cling to his hope. But here is Erik, alive and familiar, and Charles feels an overwhelming burst of sheer joy. He can't hold the link much longer, so overwhelmed with emotion that his concentration is shot, but he stays there just long enough to see through Erik's eyes for a second. It's sufficient for him to catch the image of a building. A new building, modern, covered in glass, with a statue of a man playing a pipe in front of it.
Charles grabs his notebook and a pencil and sketches every feature of the building that he can remember. He pictures the way the light falls on the statue, and works out the building's aspect, makes a guess at the size, tries to recall every little detail that might help him find it. Find Erik.
part 3
First Breath After Coma (part 2)
"I'll fetch you a rug for your legs. And what about a fire? I can light a fire. Well, I think I can - you can always tell me how. Stupid old house - we'll have to get a new heating system installed."
"Raven," Charles interjects, but she cuts him off and carries on as though he didn't say a word. She paces around the room, moves an armchair a smidgeon to the left, pushes a coffee table up against the wall. It's driving him nuts.
"The doctor said it would be easy for your legs to get cold without you realizing it. I'll unpack you some warm socks. I don't suppose anything in your room will be fit to wear, the place has been closed up so long."
Charles wheels around to face her. "I know you mean well, but you have to stop fussing, my dear." He's tired after the Atlantic flight, and still weak from two years inactivity, but he doesn't need to be treated like an invalid, settled into the study like an old man. He doesn't want to be treated so - that might be the more honest assessment. Whatever his current physical state, he is used to caring for others, not being fussed over. He can't so easily hand over the reins, especially not to his little sister. It's bad enough that he's reliant on her to push him wherever he needs to go.
The look on Raven's face, and the distress that she's broadcasting (he can't even beg her to think more quietly), stop him from saying any of that. She means well, and he does need her. They'll find a balance soon enough. In the meantime, it's up to him to ensure that the move back here, and Charles' own return to health, goes as smoothly as possible.
Charles reaches out for her and takes her hand. "Sit down," he says, and when she lets go of his hand to sit on the nearest part of the sofa, he has just enough strength in his arms to wheel his stupid chair a few inches across the carpet so that they're just pressing knee to knee.
Raven preempts him. She looks a little tearful but she's smiling, determined to be optimistic and cheerful for him. "I hope you're not going to give me some stupid speech about how I mustn't put my life on hold for yours and that I should be out there, having fun. Or living up to my potential by doing some serious, meaningful job as befits the bright future you've always seen for me."
"That is a terrible imitation of me," Charles says, because it was, but he can't entirely hide his smile. This - Raven mimicking him, Charles lecturing her - this feels more like the relationship he remembers.
"Actually, I thought I got the stuffy, pompous attitude down pretty well."
Charles interrupts her before she can insult him any further. "And," he says, "that isn't what I was going to say. Well, not exactly," he adds, honestly. He had planned to say something about how he couldn't begin to say how grateful he was that she'd taken care of him all this time; the nurses at the John Radcliffe told him she'd read to him and talked to him almost daily. But he wanted her to have her own life, not be stuck with him.
"Well, you can skip all the bits about being grateful and how wonderful I am and how lucky you are to have me as your sister - you can just owe me a favor or two," she says wickedly. "And, if you like, you can pay me to be your personal assistant or something else that sounds official, and then it'll look good on my resume when you're well enough to do without me."
"You know I'll never want to be without you entirely," Charles says, and is very glad he thought to articulate that out loud when he feels the warmth and happiness it brings to the surface of her mind. "But yes, you being around full time does need to be a temporary matter, just until I get stronger and more accustomed to being-" Charles has thought of words for what he is now, lacking the use of his legs, a weak facsimile of himself, he just doesn't like them very much. Paralyzed is the nice one. Crippled, not so nice. "Less mobile," he settles for.
"And you'll make it an official job? With a regular pay check?" She's teasing, but there's an earnestness underneath her words - she wants to be sure of her place in his life.
Charles laughs. "Of course I will. And you can even choose your own job title."
"I won't wear a uniform though," Raven says, shuddering with mock disgust. "You'd make me wear some hideous, frumpy dress down to my knees and sensible flat lace-ups."
"Heaven forbid that you should look so respectable!"
"I just have no desire to look like an old fogey before my time," Raven says, and her smirk says exactly who she's implying does look like an old fogey. Personally, he thinks he's always dressed perfectly appropriately for a professor. A very young professor. According to Raven, he is still a professor of genetics, still studied human mutations. That much of his memory matches hers.
Charles grins back at her for a moment, then lets his expression fall serious and leans forward, looking straight at her. "I do have to say this once at least, though. I am so incredibly grateful to you. For being a wonderful sister, and for being there for me all this time." Raven ducks her head, and Charles can tell she's embarrassed. He doesn't let it stop him. "I love you dearly, and I am so glad that you're my sister."
He doesn't get any further, because Raven jumps up and hugs him, face tucked into his shoulder. He's not sure he could have said more anyway, not in words. And he can't project his thoughts into her mind any more, not yet. Not until things get back to normal between them - or what feels normal to him, two proud mutants. He just hopes that they can have that again, because for all that it feels good to hold Raven like this, he still feels the loss of the extra bond they shared before.
*
His second day back home, Charles sets out on a dual endeavor: working out what needs to be done to make the house habitable for him, and searching for signs that there was ever a team of mutants here. The latter he has to do discreetly, while Raven wheels him around. He makes notes to get an elevator installed, and some ramps built - the elevator will be useful anyway, and the ramps can be removed if-when-no, if (he has to be honest with himself) he ever gets out of this chair. He makes a list of the thicker, bulkier rugs that he'll have put into storage, and doorways where the carpet strip needs to be replaced with a flatter edge.
He decides to hold off on any outside changes for now, anything that would diminish the beauty of the place. Gravel walkways might be tiring to wheel through, but they're not an insurmountable problem. Besides, it'll be good exercise. Charles knows he needs to get stronger, both mentally and physically. He needs to build up his upper body strength so he can wheel himself around for more than a few minutes at a time, and so that dealing with his more intimate physical needs won't be so awkward and embarrassing.
He sees no signs of the other mutants. No newly repaired windows, no textbooks that don't belong to him or Raven. No uniform grey sweat suits. No trash bin full of charred objects. There's no sign that anybody has lived in the house for years. Nothing.
He tries not to react, but his despondency must show, because it's not long before Raven declares they've seen enough for the day, and no amount of cajoling or threatening can persuade her to prolong the tour.
"I take my job very seriously, and it's my job to put your welfare first," she says firmly, taking him to the kitchen. There's only a skeleton staff at the moment, Williams the caretaker doubling up as chauffeur, Mrs. Williams the housekeeper as cleaner, plus a head gardener and two boys to help him. They'll need to hire more, but for the time being, they can fend for themselves in the kitchen.
"Omelet?" Raven offers, checking the fridge.
"Scrambled eggs," Charles suggests. There's less chance she'll burn those, and Charles does loathe burned eggs.
She only burns the toast, and even that's not too bad, once the surface layer's scrapped off and replaced with butter. There's a bowl of red apples on the table, and they munch on those after they've finished their eggs.
"I found some hand weights this morning," Raven says, once they're sitting back with a mug of coffee each. At least her time waitressing taught her how to make good coffee.
"Thanks," Charles says.
He'll get Raven to set up a simple gym for him. And he'll set aside some time to work on mental exercises too. He curses his lack of Cerebro. All those years, it was just him and Raven experimenting with his powers, and even then he achieved a lot. But with Cerebro and Hank it was amazing. He learned so much so quickly, felt how big the world was and expanded his mind out to fit it. If he had their help, he'd find Erik in a day. Faster, even.
But, much as he's itching to rush straight into searching for Erik, his mind's too weak. Building up his mental powers to a state where he can approximate the range he had with Cerebro, if it's even possible - that's always been one of the exciting things about his power, not knowing how far he can take it - is going to take time. He's taunted by the memories of being so much stronger. It's bad enough that his body is feeble, but his mental powers are just as important a part of who he is, and he feels the same frustration at not being able to reach out mentally as he does every morning he wakes up to one glorious second when he forgets he can't walk and then comes back down to earth in a miserable rush.
He wishes he could do something to speed up the process. Cerebro was all electrical, but maybe there's some chemical that would help. He'd do anything.
For now, though, he'll just have to try more ordinary channels to find Erik, maddeningly slow as that's likely to be.
*
His first phone call is to his lawyer. His firm is discreet and has handled the Xavier family's business for decades, so a request to locate the man Charles crashed his car into is taken on board without a hint of curiosity.
"His name is Erik Lehnsherr, he is in his thirties, and he is probably a German citizen. He may live in the US now," Charles says.
"Do you have any information as to which city or state?"
"No, that is as much as I can tell you."
"It might take some time, sir."
"Just let me know when you have something. And-"
"Yes?"
"Please speak to me personally if you have any questions, and when you have an answer." He doesn't want Raven to know what he's doing.
*
"The library? Really?" Raven steps into the car and Williams shuts the door behind her. "Your first proper trip out after leaving the hospital, and you want to go to the library?"
"Stuffy professor here, remember," Charles says. The car rolls slowly along the driveway, and Charles winds down the window. The fresh air feels good, and the change of view. It's nearly fall, leaves beginning to turn gold and red. The county has always been incredibly beautiful at this time of the year, all rolling hills dotted with old trees and horses in pastures. He used to despise the obvious wealth, feel bad that he was a part of it, but he's still able to appreciate the beauty.
"You're not that stuffy, really," Raven says, bumping him with her shoulder. She's treating him a little less like he's breakable now, and he's grateful for it.
Charles turns to her and grins. "I still want to go to the library. But don't worry; you don't have to come with me. I won't force you into a building full of books."
"I'm not allergic to books," Raven counters. "I even enjoy reading them sometimes." She adds a mock gasp for his benefit. "Just not all the time, and not the tedious, dreary ones you're so fond of. Those are only any good as a cure for insomnia."
"So you want to come to the library?"
"Hell, no," Raven laughs. "I'm going to the ice-cream parlor. So you'd better not be too long in the library, or I'll make myself sick on strawberry sundaes. You're treating me."
"You're a working girl - you can treat yourself!"
"But you're a generous employer," Raven wheedles, and Charles ends up slipping her a dollar when they pull up outside the library.
The library looks just like Charles remembers it.
Mr. Zimmermann is on duty in the reference room, and he exclaims in genuine pleasure at the sight of Charles.
"My favorite young visitor," he says. There's no hint of pity in his tone. "I hope zat you have an intriguing search for me - I have missed your requests while you vere in England."
Mr. Zimmermann is looking even more stooped than the last time Charles saw him, and his hairline has receded another inch or so, but he's a permanent fixture here. He always used to get tetchy with other children - silence in ze library was his regular refrain, repeated in quiet, mocking tones when he turned away - but he was never impatient with Charles. He sensed Charles' genuine love both of books and the knowledge in them, and it was he who taught Charles how to use a library and how to find information. How to make a library talk to him.
It's comforting that this, at least, hasn't changed at all.
"Just a couple of things today, old friend," Charles says. "Do you have any texts on the latest developments in genetics? And any articles on the Cuban Missile Crisis. And I'd like to see back issues of the Hudson Hills Herald from two years ago, please."
Charles comes away with two new, untouched textbooks - he has a strong feeling that Mr. Zimmermann ordered them with him in mind, because they are most certainly not on a level that anyone else in the area is likely to be able to comprehend - and a sense of frustration at the lack of information from the local paper. It followed the story of his crash, as he knew it would, even though the crash was in England; stories about the Xavier family always make the Herald. But it didn't tell him anything he hadn't already learned from Raven or Moira MacTaggert. Most importantly, it didn't give him any clues to Erik's whereabouts.
He's quiet on the drive home, listening to Raven talk without paying much attention. He knows he has to consider the possibility - the probability - that what he remembers is not in fact the truth. He could make excuses for one mind's memories not matching his, but every scrap of evidence so far indicates that he's the only one who has the memories of the children, his team of mutants, and their battle on the beach. The Cuban Missile Crisis happened, but not the way he remembers it - there was no eleventh hour intervention between two fleets.
The only thing that gives him hope is that he is still most definitely a mutant. His abilities might not be as strong as they were, but he can still read minds, still influence them. He is a mutant.
And where there is one mutant, surely, surely there must be more.
*
He isn't sure who to contact within the CIA. He remembers names, but doesn't know if in this reality any of them know him, or even if they work for the CIA.
He starts with the research facility.
He gives Williams directions, expecting to get halted before they can get too close. It's a bad sign that they drive right up to the front without being confronted.
It's a school. A high school, full of teenagers. Very ordinary, messed-up, argumentative, sulky, irritable, horny, bored teenagers. There's no way it's hiding anything.
Charles doesn't let the set-back get him down too much. It's only to be expected. And just because the research facility doesn't exist, it doesn't mean the people he met there don't exist either. He knows Hank's real, even though he's a dead end when it comes to finding answers.
John Smith is his best bet.
Charles is certain that John Smith isn't his real name. He and Erik mockingly nicknamed him the Man in Black after he'd mysteriously introduced himself. "Call me-John Smith," he'd said, a grin at the back of his eyes. Charles never used his powers to find his real name, but all he needs to do is get close to Langley and eavesdrop. If John Smith is in the CIA, he'll find him. And Charles is certain that, even if this man too has no memory of mutants, he'll be open-minded enough to listen.
It takes Charles some time - and in the process he learns that being stealthy in a large chauffeured sedan, or in a wheelchair, is incredibly difficult and takes a lot more mind manipulation than he'd like - but he eventually eavesdrops on enough minds to learn John Smith's habits. He discovers three things: John Smith is the name he goes by, at least to the low level operatives who Charles reads, he's interested in the unusual, though no one knows exactly what directive he works under, and he sometimes patronizes a small bar on the edge of McLean.
Charles spends two evenings drinking in the bar before he meets the man he's looking for. The first evening he drinks too much - he's lost his capacity for drinking all night - and ends up flirting with a young woman who reminds him a little of his first girlfriend in Oxford. Her name is Olivia, and she's not conventionally beautiful - her face too broad, teeth a little crooked - but she's drinking the same beer as him and she laughs at his lame jokes, and she lets him kiss her.
He wants to do more, but he's drunk enough that his mental controls aren't as finely honed as usual, and he hears her thoughts: concern mingled with curiosity as to whether he's even able to do anything more, and a trace of pity. She's wondering if she's the first woman he's approached since his accident. She's not sure what she'll do if they go back to her place and he can't get it up.
None of this shows on her face. She's perfectly nice, and if Charles weren't a telepath he'd never pick up on any of her doubts. But he can't take the pity. It sobers him enough that he drops her hand and leaves her with a quick excuse. He heads straight back to his hotel. It's only a block away from the bar, chosen deliberately so he didn't need to keep the car at hand. Raven had argued against him coming here without her, but McLean is a five hour drive from home, and he wants to keep his search from her, so he told her it was a doctor's appointment and eventually persuaded her that he might just be able to manage for a few days with only Williams to help him.
So here he is, a lonely man wheeling himself in the dark to a solitary hotel room, wondering if he's impotent. Sober enough to think, drunk enough to be maudlin.
And now the question is there, staring him boldly in the face. He hasn't had an erection since he woke from the coma; at first he had neither the privacy nor the desire, and since he got home he hasn't had the inclination to try to get aroused.
It wasn't a matter he felt he could raise with his doctor back in Oxford - he didn't feel like discussing erections or the potential lack of them with a nicely brought up Scottish girl, and the one time she'd awkwardly broached the subject, he'd feigned exhaustion. But now he needs to know. He needs to get to his room and find out for himself. And for all that he tells himself that he should have stayed at the bar and waited a little longer in case the Man in Black turned up, he's only thirty-two and he's a man, and he wants to have sex again. He wants to know that he can have sex again.
His room is on the ground floor, and he's strong enough now to lift himself out of his chair and onto the bed, though it leaves him gasping for breath. It's late, and he's tired, and he's had too much to drink. But he has to try.
Charles opens his fly and lifts his hips enough to pull his pants down to his thighs. He unbuttons his shirt and opens it, but leaves it on - there's a fall chill in the air, and he doesn't want to get back into his chair to close the window. He must look ridiculous, legs stretched out like useless sticks in front of him, his penis flaccid and pale.
He doesn't have any magazines to help, so he calls on memories. He starts with Olivia, and thinks of the swell of her breasts underneath her cashmere rollneck, the warmth of her lips against his, and the whiff of patchouli. She tasted of lip gloss and beer, and it should stir something in him, but he feels no sense of arousal, and his penis remains resolutely limp.
He goes back in time. If kissing doesn't help, then sex surely should. He remembers making out with Virginia in her dorm room, half his mind stretched out to make sure her roommate didn't come back to interrupt them, the rest of his mind very firmly caught up in the warmth of his hand under her blouse, the way she shuddered in pleasure when he slipped his other hand up her thigh and under her panties. She'd giggled nervously when he'd started to finger her, but she'd pushed her skirt up to make it easier for him, and bitten her lip in anticipation when he'd slipped her panties off. He can still remember how wet she'd been, how hot he'd felt, how he'd had to concentrate for a moment on the opening paragraph of his molecular biology essay so that he didn't come the moment he slid inside her.
It isn't helping. He can remember the feeling, but it's a pale imitation of actual arousal, and he can't even be sure the memory is real. He can't be sure of any of his memories these days.
He tugs almost angrily at his dick, frustrated. All the times he's had unwelcome and ill-timed erections, and now, nothing.
He doesn't mean his mind to go in the direction it does, to think of Erik, long evenings spent together playing chess, drinking and laughing and arguing, but once Erik is in his thoughts, he's there to stay. Charles imagines Erik kneeling in front of him. Right here, in this hotel room, on this bed. He imagines the huff of warm breath as Erik leans almost close enough to kiss, then smirks at him and backs away. Charles is certain Erik would be a tease like that, deliberate and obvious. But then he would brush Charles' hand aside and wrap his own hand around Charles' dick. His hands are larger than Charles', more calloused, scarred in places. No mistaking those hands for anyone else, or for his own touch.
Erik might not be able to read minds, but he would still know what Charles wants, the sort of touch he needs. Nothing gentle. Firm and assured, and he'd look Charles in the eyes as he jerked him off, and there'd be no uncertainty about Charles' arousal.
Charles' heart would start to pound and he'd breathe faster. Erik would pull his upper lip into his mouth in concentration and when he let it go again it would be moist and reddened as though he'd just been kissed, and Charles would ache so badly to kiss him that he'd push himself upright and press up against Erik and they'd be kissing then, both demanding and needy, and Erik would still be twisting his hand around Charles' dick, faster and faster, and then Charles would be coming, splashing warm on his own naked belly.
And when they'd pull apart eventually, because Charles' dick was getting sensitive, he'd see splashes of white on Erik's black pants, and they'd laugh at it, a little rueful on Erik's part. But they wouldn't laugh for long because the bulge in Erik's pants would be obvious, and he'd pull his zip down without even touching it, and it would be Charles' turn to make him come.
Charles gasps. The image is far more vivid than any fantasy he's conjured before. He looks down at himself, the mess on his stomach, his softening dick, and takes a deep breath. At least he knows he's fully functional there.
And he's just confirmed every stray thought he's repressed about how he really feels about Erik.
It is not possible that he could feel this way about a man he's never met. There has to be something more between them than a car crash, and Charles takes comfort in that as much as in his orgasm.
*
He goes back to the bar the next night. He drinks less, and doesn't flirt as much, and doesn't see the man he's looking for.
The night after that is a Friday, and Charles is hopeful.
It's nine thirty when his hope is validated. The Man in Black walks in alone and sits up at the bar. If Charles could stand, he would walk over and sit down next to him and touch his mind enough to start up a successful conversation. Instead, he waits until the Man in Black has ordered a drink and has it in his hand, and then sends him a light nudge. Just the idea that company might be good, and the man in the wheelchair is also alone, so why doesn't he go and sit at his table.
The Man in Black introduces himself as John Smith, a consultant. He doesn't say what field he consults in, or offer any further information, true or false. So Charles leads the conversation, talks about his PhD, gets excited about genetics and mutation which is easy enough. And then posits the crazy idea that mutations might suddenly occur, not the natural, barely noticeable ones that have been gradually changing humans for millennia, but massive, ground-breaking mutations happening in one generation. He thinks of all the times he's had this same conversation, he and Erik together on the recruiting trail. He's missed it.
John Smith shakes his head in disbelief. "They would kill the people suffering from them," he says. "Or lock them away in labs."
"Some might," Charles agrees, "but what if there were useful mutations? Improvements and skills that could advance the human race."
"Such as?"
"Such as mind-reading or shape-shifting, or being able to adapt to any environment. Or human flight. Imagine the possibilities." Charles isn't sure quite why he doesn't mention Erik's ability in his list; it just seems safest not to.
John Smith takes a long drink, pondering the idea. "Those could be as dangerous as they could be helpful. And I can only imagine how ordinary people would react to somebody who could read minds."
He's imagining the possibility now, but Charles skims his mind just enough to know that he has never knowingly met a mutant and that it's all just a rather wacky theoretical idea to him. An entertaining conversation over a glass of good single malt, but nothing more.
*
Charles drives home that night, dozing in the back of the car as they head up the I-95. He falls asleep long enough to dream, but when he wakes up to the sound of wheels crunching over gravel and the feel of the car stopping, he doesn't remember any details beyond standing in a field, Erik beside him, and an overwhelming feeling of contentment.
He hopes it's a good omen.
It is. The following day, his lawyer calls. They're an old firm, fond of the personal touch.
"I have an address and phone number for you," the man says, and Charles' mouth goes dry. He thought he might have to wait weeks for a result, if they'd even been able to find anything. "We haven't confirmed if either one is current, though."
Charles interrupts. "I'll see to that," he says.
Charles jots down the details on the back of an envelope, and stares at them once he's put the receiver down. The number is a Yonkers code, and the address is just off the New York State Freeway. Erik could be minutes away.
It's late afternoon, and Charles has been lifting weights and overseeing workmen and ignoring Raven's attempts to get him to take a nap. He's exhausted - and secretly wishes he had taken the nap - but he calls for the car anyway. He can't wait until tomorrow.
He needs to do this in person. Over the phone, Charles won't be able to use his powers - not at the moment, not until he's stronger - and he won't even be able to read Erik's face. And he wants to see Erik. Hearing his voice just isn't enough.
He taps his fingers on his thighs and counts every mile until they pull up outside an old brownstone. There are six steps leading up to the front door, and the column of buzzers is set high on the wall, so Charles waits on the sidewalk while Williams rings. There's a constant hum of traffic, and Charles doesn't hear anyone coming until the door opens. Time has never felt so slow.
There's a man standing in the doorway. Too short, too blond. Charles doesn't recognize him.
"Don't know anything," the man says, after Charles tells him who they're looking for. "I've lived here for a couple of months, and I've only got one forwarding address for mail, and that's not for your Mr. Lehnsherr. But you should try the landlord. He lives in the basement." He points out the correct buzzer before he climbs the steps two at a time and closes the door firmly behind him.
Charles can feel the tension in his shoulders. His head aches too, and he wishes Raven were here, his old Raven, the one who knew his secrets, the sister he could talk to about almost anything.
The landlord is swarthy and greasy and Charles knows immediately, without even scratching the surface of his mind, that he won't be helpful unless he's bribed. And while Charles would willingly part with just about anything to find Erik, he has no intention of making this man any wealthier, so he doesn't say a word, just holds him still and scans through his thoughts.
The man remembers Erik. Charles gets a clear visual of Erik striding up the steps right here, scowling, and an argument. There'd been something strange about Erik's room after he'd left: the light fittings were all twisted and there was a coin embedded in the wall.
But Charles' joy at the confirmation of Erik's powers is muted quickly: the landlord doesn't have an address. Erik stayed for a few months, and left with the same single suitcase and duffle bag that he arrived with. No clue at all as to where he might have gone, or why he left. Charles looks deeper, to see if there's any hint that this Erik might have some vendetta or be searching for someone, but there's nothing.
Charles lets go of the landlord in frustration, not pulling out of his mind as gently as he could. The man reels a little, standing in the doorway looking puzzled, before glaring at them and slamming the door.
"Home," Charles says, and wheels himself wearily towards the car.
"Is everything okay, Mr. Xavier?" Williams asks as he helps Charles out of the chair.
"Fine," Charles says, and slips into his mind. Just some gentle nudging and Williams is reassured.
Charles tries the phone number when he gets home, but it's disconnected. He thumps his fists on the desk in disappointment. Yet another failure.
*
Charles is running out of options. His lawyer's investigators have hit a dead end, and he doesn't know of any other way to track people down, especially if they don't wish to be found. So far, there's little to suggest that Erik wants to be found. Charles' only reason to hope Erik will be glad to see him is the indentations in his bed frame back in the hospital. Erik must have visited him, and why would he do that if there were nothing between them?
Strengthening his mind is Charles' only option. He pours over books and medical journals to see if he can find some way to make his powers reach across greater distances, or become more receptive to specific minds, but he has to improvise based on barely related studies. He's on his own in this. But he was on his own before he found Raven - at least, in his memory, that's how it goes - and he can do this.
The worst thing is constantly lying to Raven. That, and the headaches. He has painkillers, but they barely touch the throbbing in his head after a day of reaching out as far as he can possibly go and then pushing just that bit further. Of feeling mind after mind, seeking signs of other mutants, hunting for that one most familiar mind. Of being utterly alone in his search.
He begins to wonder if he's sane. If this is what a breakdown feels like, the desire to believe that he is right and everyone else is wrong, even against all the evidence. He's sleeping less and less, his mind buzzing like it used to when he drank pint after pint of coffee during his exams. He can't quiet it, can't switch off. When he does sleep, he has nightmares that he searches every mind on the planet and still doesn't find Erik, that Erik is so different that he passes by his mind without recognizing him. He wakes before it's light, restless and impatient to get back to his search, even though he's becoming more and more exhausted.
*
The nights draw in, and the evenings grow chillier. Charles has always liked this time of year, even the storms and longer hours of darkness.
Raven has lit a fire in the study this evening. They curl up on the sofa in front of it, a blanket tucked around Charles' legs, and play card games, Snap and Old Maid. It's something they both remember.
"Did you know that the first card games were invented during the Tang dynasty, in China?" Charles asks, just to make Raven smile.
"Oddly enough, no, I didn't know that. Want to know why I didn't know?"
Charles bites. "Why?"
"Because I am not a gigantic freak like my brother, that's why. Also, I win," she adds triumphantly, putting her last two cards down.
"Winner gets the drinks," Charles says.
"I'm pretty sure it's the other way around," Raven says, but she gets up and pours them both another drink.
He sleeps well that night.
*
The next day, Raven leaves early in the morning without telling him where she's going. She has a sly expression on her face that he doesn't remember seeing for years, not since she was too small to understand how expressive her face could be. He refuses to read her mind - she doesn't know he can, isn't in a position to give or deny him permission - so he frets until she returns.
The moment she returns, the reason for her guilty expression is obvious.
"Raven," Charles exclaims, wheeling himself out towards the car. "What on earth were you thinking?"
She steps out of the car with a puppy cradled in her arms. "I was thinking she'd be company for you," Raven says. She sets the puppy on the ground; it stands a little shakily on too large paws, and then totters slowly towards Charles.
He can't help himself. He leans down and scratches under the puppy's neck. Her fur is thick and soft, a dark bluish-grey.
"Don't try telling me you haven't fallen instantly in love with her, because I won't believe you for a minute," Raven says. She lifts the puppy up into his lap and looks proud.
The puppy wriggles around, then settles down facing him. It's strange, not being able to feel her weight, or the warmth of her on his legs, just the press of her chin against his stomach. She looks up at him with big, dark eyes.
"You are incredibly manipulative and sneaky," Charles says, ostensibly to Raven, but he's including the puppy too. Raven grins as though he's just given her the best compliment ever.
He calls the puppy Blue. He can't help overhearing Raven's loud thought that he's obsessed with the color blue, just as he can't help picking up her relief that he now has something to take care of. She thinks it'll help him snap out of whatever he's working through.
*
Charles takes Blue with him when he wheels himself around the grounds each morning. She trots along at his side, and sometimes she jumps up on his lap. Charles has fallen in love with her, it's true. And she's entirely his girl. In the evenings, it's always Charles she gravitates towards, even though Raven feeds her just as often. He doesn't detect any jealousy from Raven though - she's glad for him.
And Charles is glad for company who won't notice when he pushes himself too hard, won't worry about him when he experiments with ways of stretching his mind further.
He's never used drugs before - weed doesn't count - but he needs all the help he can get. He tries all sorts: some to help him relax, others to help him focus. He's careful, trying small doses at a time, allowing time for each drug to leave his system before he tries a new one. He makes precise notes of each experience, estimating the effect or lack of effect each one has on his abilities.
Dextroamphetamine turns out to be the key. It takes a while to balance the dosage, to increase his concentration and capacity without too many significant side-effects, but once he gets it right, the effect is cumulative, day to day. He reaches further and further, passing through hundreds, thousands of minds a day. He stops in some briefly, whenever he senses anything familiar or different, but few of them turn out to be mutants, and none of them are Erik.
For the first time, he doesn't miss the use of his legs so badly. He's seen two more doctors since he came home, and neither of them offered him any hope. He's coming to terms with it. There are still mornings when he wakes up and tries to climb out of bed, thinks of going for a run, aches inside when he remembers he can't. But those days are getting fewer and fewer, and as his mind gets stronger, it makes up for his other loss.
*
The day he finds Erik starts off badly.
He's developed a pressure sore and has hired a nurse to treat it each morning. She's quick and kind and efficient, but it's still humiliating to lie face-down and half naked in his bed while she dresses it.
Raven is full of guilt that she didn't notice the problem earlier and spends all morning on the telephone ordering a variety of cushions for his chair, along with more equipment for the gym. She makes him promise that he'll work out in the gym every day, not just once or twice a week, and the nurse gives him a list of do's and don't's.
After lunch Blue has an accident on the bearskin rug in front of the fire, which makes Raven burst into tears. Charles tells her she's being ridiculous, and then mentally slaps himself for being so unkind when she runs out of the room, projecting guilt and grief.
Charles wheels himself to the summerhouse in the afternoon, Blue trotting along by his side. It's peaceful out here, far enough from any other minds that he doesn't have to set up any sort of blocks. There's no heating, and the door is slightly warped and lets in a draft, but he's wrapped up warm enough. He takes two pills, swallowing them down dry, then casts out, focusing his mind carefully so that he can manage a three hundred and sixty degree search at each new distance that he achieves.
He touches a bored schoolteacher and a new mother trying to hush her baby. A funeral director, a salesman, a toddler on a swing. A secretary who wants to quit her job and a pensioner in a nursing home who thinks she's just about to get married to her sweetheart. So many minds.
When he touches Erik's mind, the sensation is so astounding he almost doesn't believe it. He grips the arms of his chair so hard that his fingers go numb, determined to hold on long enough to be absolutely certain.
There is one memory he is certain that both his Erik and this one will share. He knows exactly where to look, deep down, in a forgotten corner. He finds it. Erik and his mother celebrating Hanukkah together; a golden glow of candles, a soft smile on her face, the warmth of being loved.
It's as beautiful now as the first time he saw the memory. Even more, perhaps, for all that it means to Charles. It means he has found Erik.
Charles hadn't given up on finding him, but as each day passed it had grown harder to cling to his hope. But here is Erik, alive and familiar, and Charles feels an overwhelming burst of sheer joy. He can't hold the link much longer, so overwhelmed with emotion that his concentration is shot, but he stays there just long enough to see through Erik's eyes for a second. It's sufficient for him to catch the image of a building. A new building, modern, covered in glass, with a statue of a man playing a pipe in front of it.
Charles grabs his notebook and a pencil and sketches every feature of the building that he can remember. He pictures the way the light falls on the statue, and works out the building's aspect, makes a guess at the size, tries to recall every little detail that might help him find it. Find Erik.
part 3