(no subject)
Author: girlfromsouth
Title: Thirty Years with T.H. White
Rating: PG, probably
Disclaimer: Not my toys, only playing. I’ll give ‘em back to Marvel, Fox & Co. in one piece.
Summary: Charles gets a birthday gift.
Written for: yahtzee63, whom I idolize immensely (*fangirls*)-I was terrified when I saw I drew your name.
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Request: Only that the divide should remain deep.
Warnings (if any): I have a thing for The Once and Future King. It’s sad.
Notes: Sorry it’s a smidge late-my computer should be beaten to death. But oooh, go me, posting fic at work on the sly!
The card was simple, elegant. Happy Birthday, Charles, it read, in the flourishing handwriting he knew so well, and was attached to a first edition copy of T.H. White. There was no signature, no address, and no sign of how it had arrived.
Charles Xavier smiled softly. Forty years later, it was nice to know that Erik could still surprise him. He hadn’t expected him to remember, not any more. Well not entirely, he reminded himself. Erik forgot nothing. Perhaps he meant that he hadn’t expected him to take any note of it.
They weren’t speaking, after all. Again.
“Is it your birthday, Professor?” came a voice from behind him.
Charles turned, smiling to find Rogue. “Yes, it is, though I’d rather not consider how old it makes me.”
The girl grinned at him. “Well, Happy Birthday, then,” she said. “What’d you get?”
“Oh, a book I happen to like very much.” He paused, thinking, and chose the coward’s way out, and passed the book to her. “From a friend. You should read it.”
Rogue’s face suddenly hardened as she looked down at the cover. “Wait. I know this.” Puzzled, she shook her head. “Every sensible person ought to be an anarchist.”
“I didn’t know you liked Arthurian legend,” Charles said, oddly pleased.
“I don’t,” she said, and her voice dropped further. “And I’ve never read this.”
Oh, come now. Every sensible person ought to be an anarchist. You are, most days, a sensible person.
You really need to find another book to read.
I like this one at the moment.
I liked it until you read it.
That’s hardly fair. It interests me. And, by the way, you bought it for me.
What’s this, the fifth trip through?
Sixth.
You disturb me greatly.
You’re avoiding the fact that I have a point.
You’re ignoring the fact that we’ve had this discussion before. It doesn’t go anywhere.
It could.
Must we fight about this tonight?
Who said anything about fighting? We’re conversing.
We’ll end up fighting.
Now which of us is the pessimist?
Come to bed.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” Charles said softly. “I…” He felt ashamed of himself. “I should have remembered how much Eri-Magneto…” He gave up. “It was a favorite of his. I am sorry. Sometimes, I let myself forget how much you know.”
“Me too,” she said, and looked down.
A long moment passed between them, neither speaking. Charles studiously did not look at her, and viciously controlled his impulse to peer into Rogue’s mind. He hated himself for it, this wondering he felt sometimes, about how much of Erik remained in her head. He hated her on occasion, in his weaker moments, because he could not help it; he felt so desperate for the tiniest fragment of...
God, how he disgusted himself.
Rogue’s head tilted in thought. “Was that your birthday, then, too?” she asked suddenly.
“No,” Charles answered, surprised. “It was his.”
“Oh,” she said, then blushed as the rest of the memory came back to her. “Oh.”
And just like that, Charles saw it; he couldn’t help it. They were twined together in bed, in that ridiculous studio Erik had near Chelsea. They were kissing deeply, and his fingers were wound in Erik’s hair. The image was so strong, so real, he could taste that peculiar brand of cigarette Erik had smoked back then. Something unfiltered and heavy, the taste of it stayed on his tongue for so long…
Shut up and kiss me.
You’re insatiable.
On occasion.
Happy Birthday.
I love you.
I know.
I hate telepaths.
No, you don’t.
Take all the fun out of everything. I wonder that I even need to talk.
You don’t, you know. I hear you all the time.
Well. Isn’t that romantic?
I’m often given to thinking so, yes.
“We don’t have to talk about this,” Charles said quickly, shaking his head, rather embarrassed. “Probably better for both of us, if we didn’t.” He took the book from her hand, placed it on his desk. “I’m sorry. It’s inadequate, I know, but there you are.”
“I’ve never asked you. You know. About…that.” Rogue sat in a chair, suddenly, all her weight seeming to drop into it in one motion.
“He was very different then. So was I.”
“You could walk,” she said, now looking at him intently.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Did you love him very much?”
Charles had a quick argument with himself in his head, about what he should tell her, what she needed to know, if saying anything would make it all worse, if perhaps he shouldn’t be so personal with the girl, who was so young. She wasn’t Jean.
Finally, he said simply, “Yes.”
A wry smile appeared on her lips. “Man. You were way different.”
Charles raised an eyebrow at her.
“No,” Rogue amended, quickly. “I just mean--I can’t see you dating.”
“That’s probably because I haven’t,” he shrugged. “In about fifteen years.”
“They made me see that the world was beautiful if you were beautiful, and that you couldn't get unless you gave”.
Are you fishing for a compliment, now?
Charles. Honestly.
You’re the one still up reading that thing. We do have other books. Several hundred, I should think.
That statement-it’s so saccharine, so cloying. Everything in this novel says he knows that is entirely a lie.
By the way, I do.
What?
Think you’re beautiful.
How maudlin.
How gracious.
I told you to stay out of the vodka.
It was gin.
I was being serious.
Things could be like that. In fact, they should.
They’re not.
Why can’t we make them like that? For us?
Because that’s not how the world works. And even though you never go out in it, you know that. And he knew that. Camelot is a myth. In all senses of the word.
How are things ever to get better with that attitude?
The world is not made beautiful by pretending.
It’s beautiful to me, at the moment, and I’m not pretending.
You are such a sentimental fool sometimes.
And you’re missing the point of the whole damn book.
“I don’t understand why you forgive him so much,” Rogue said stiffly, looking awkward again. “I shouldn’t say this, not to you, it’s ungrateful, but…I saw. The things he did. And it’s not…He’s not…”
“Do you really want me to tell you? You don’t have to understand it, my dear. It’s all right.” He rolled himself closer to her chair. “If I told you that the man who is now Magneto was once a good person, would you even believe me?”
She hesitated. “Probably not.” Then she shook her head. “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve seen it. His memory. I know that he loves-and…that he wasn’t always, well, the way he is now. But, that’s the same guy that tried to kill me and he’s just out walking arou-“
”I don’t….I didn’t condone it,” Charles said sharply. “I simply… It’s complicated.”
“It always used to irritate him when you’d do that,” Rogue said, suddenly.
“What?”
“Finish the thought for you before you know what you’re going to say. Then answer it. One becomes entirely lost.” Her phrasing, combined with the way she tossed her head at that moment looked so much like Erik that it hurt. He hadn’t noticed how much she’d picked up, in spite of herself. “He’s right; it’s annoying.”
I just happen to not agree with your interpretation, that’s all
You’re so stubborn. Have you ever thought about why you like that book so much?
You’re the burgeoning psychologist, my dear. You tell me.
I remain hopeful that if you read it enough times-surely we must be approaching that by now-you’ll figure it out.
That’s your carefully considered opinion?
Well, I can only take it as a good sign that your current favorite novel is about pacifism and understanding. I might even go so far as to say that the reason you like the idea of Camelot so much is that you’d like to build one. Read it again, and we’ll see.
If this is the part where you try to tell me I’m really a simpering idealist wrapping myself in a banner of cynicism and bitterness, I fear I’m going to be ill.
Why, Erik. You read my mind.
“I should go,” Rogue said, rising. “I have to meet Bobby. But, look. Thanks. For being honest with me. I know you don’t like to talk about it. He doesn’t either.” Her expression turned to surprise briefly, as it had whenever she said something she didn’t realize she knew.
She sighed. “It’d be a sight easier to hate him if he weren’t in my head so much. Sometimes he starts to make entirely too much sense.” One thought pushed out of her mind to his. John.
“Maybe I ought to read that book.”
“Take it with you.”
Rogue stopped near the door and spoke again. “Professor Xavier?
She turned back, and Charles felt the press of a wave of emotions from her mind. Finally, she blew out a hard breath.
“He misses you,” she said, carefully not meeting his eyes.
Charles looked out the window, thinking of all the things he couldn’t say, and all the ways he had failed. Her. The other children. Erik. Himself.
“I know,” he said. I miss him too, he added silently, putting so much behind the thought he wouldn’t have been surprised if Erik heard him. Wherever he was.
But, there was only the sound of Rogue’s footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.
Title: Thirty Years with T.H. White
Rating: PG, probably
Disclaimer: Not my toys, only playing. I’ll give ‘em back to Marvel, Fox & Co. in one piece.
Summary: Charles gets a birthday gift.
Written for: yahtzee63, whom I idolize immensely (*fangirls*)-I was terrified when I saw I drew your name.
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Request: Only that the divide should remain deep.
Warnings (if any): I have a thing for The Once and Future King. It’s sad.
Notes: Sorry it’s a smidge late-my computer should be beaten to death. But oooh, go me, posting fic at work on the sly!
The card was simple, elegant. Happy Birthday, Charles, it read, in the flourishing handwriting he knew so well, and was attached to a first edition copy of T.H. White. There was no signature, no address, and no sign of how it had arrived.
Charles Xavier smiled softly. Forty years later, it was nice to know that Erik could still surprise him. He hadn’t expected him to remember, not any more. Well not entirely, he reminded himself. Erik forgot nothing. Perhaps he meant that he hadn’t expected him to take any note of it.
They weren’t speaking, after all. Again.
“Is it your birthday, Professor?” came a voice from behind him.
Charles turned, smiling to find Rogue. “Yes, it is, though I’d rather not consider how old it makes me.”
The girl grinned at him. “Well, Happy Birthday, then,” she said. “What’d you get?”
“Oh, a book I happen to like very much.” He paused, thinking, and chose the coward’s way out, and passed the book to her. “From a friend. You should read it.”
Rogue’s face suddenly hardened as she looked down at the cover. “Wait. I know this.” Puzzled, she shook her head. “Every sensible person ought to be an anarchist.”
“I didn’t know you liked Arthurian legend,” Charles said, oddly pleased.
“I don’t,” she said, and her voice dropped further. “And I’ve never read this.”
Oh, come now. Every sensible person ought to be an anarchist. You are, most days, a sensible person.
You really need to find another book to read.
I like this one at the moment.
I liked it until you read it.
That’s hardly fair. It interests me. And, by the way, you bought it for me.
What’s this, the fifth trip through?
Sixth.
You disturb me greatly.
You’re avoiding the fact that I have a point.
You’re ignoring the fact that we’ve had this discussion before. It doesn’t go anywhere.
It could.
Must we fight about this tonight?
Who said anything about fighting? We’re conversing.
We’ll end up fighting.
Now which of us is the pessimist?
Come to bed.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” Charles said softly. “I…” He felt ashamed of himself. “I should have remembered how much Eri-Magneto…” He gave up. “It was a favorite of his. I am sorry. Sometimes, I let myself forget how much you know.”
“Me too,” she said, and looked down.
A long moment passed between them, neither speaking. Charles studiously did not look at her, and viciously controlled his impulse to peer into Rogue’s mind. He hated himself for it, this wondering he felt sometimes, about how much of Erik remained in her head. He hated her on occasion, in his weaker moments, because he could not help it; he felt so desperate for the tiniest fragment of...
God, how he disgusted himself.
Rogue’s head tilted in thought. “Was that your birthday, then, too?” she asked suddenly.
“No,” Charles answered, surprised. “It was his.”
“Oh,” she said, then blushed as the rest of the memory came back to her. “Oh.”
And just like that, Charles saw it; he couldn’t help it. They were twined together in bed, in that ridiculous studio Erik had near Chelsea. They were kissing deeply, and his fingers were wound in Erik’s hair. The image was so strong, so real, he could taste that peculiar brand of cigarette Erik had smoked back then. Something unfiltered and heavy, the taste of it stayed on his tongue for so long…
Shut up and kiss me.
You’re insatiable.
On occasion.
Happy Birthday.
I love you.
I know.
I hate telepaths.
No, you don’t.
Take all the fun out of everything. I wonder that I even need to talk.
You don’t, you know. I hear you all the time.
Well. Isn’t that romantic?
I’m often given to thinking so, yes.
“We don’t have to talk about this,” Charles said quickly, shaking his head, rather embarrassed. “Probably better for both of us, if we didn’t.” He took the book from her hand, placed it on his desk. “I’m sorry. It’s inadequate, I know, but there you are.”
“I’ve never asked you. You know. About…that.” Rogue sat in a chair, suddenly, all her weight seeming to drop into it in one motion.
“He was very different then. So was I.”
“You could walk,” she said, now looking at him intently.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Did you love him very much?”
Charles had a quick argument with himself in his head, about what he should tell her, what she needed to know, if saying anything would make it all worse, if perhaps he shouldn’t be so personal with the girl, who was so young. She wasn’t Jean.
Finally, he said simply, “Yes.”
A wry smile appeared on her lips. “Man. You were way different.”
Charles raised an eyebrow at her.
“No,” Rogue amended, quickly. “I just mean--I can’t see you dating.”
“That’s probably because I haven’t,” he shrugged. “In about fifteen years.”
“They made me see that the world was beautiful if you were beautiful, and that you couldn't get unless you gave”.
Are you fishing for a compliment, now?
Charles. Honestly.
You’re the one still up reading that thing. We do have other books. Several hundred, I should think.
That statement-it’s so saccharine, so cloying. Everything in this novel says he knows that is entirely a lie.
By the way, I do.
What?
Think you’re beautiful.
How maudlin.
How gracious.
I told you to stay out of the vodka.
It was gin.
I was being serious.
Things could be like that. In fact, they should.
They’re not.
Why can’t we make them like that? For us?
Because that’s not how the world works. And even though you never go out in it, you know that. And he knew that. Camelot is a myth. In all senses of the word.
How are things ever to get better with that attitude?
The world is not made beautiful by pretending.
It’s beautiful to me, at the moment, and I’m not pretending.
You are such a sentimental fool sometimes.
And you’re missing the point of the whole damn book.
“I don’t understand why you forgive him so much,” Rogue said stiffly, looking awkward again. “I shouldn’t say this, not to you, it’s ungrateful, but…I saw. The things he did. And it’s not…He’s not…”
“Do you really want me to tell you? You don’t have to understand it, my dear. It’s all right.” He rolled himself closer to her chair. “If I told you that the man who is now Magneto was once a good person, would you even believe me?”
She hesitated. “Probably not.” Then she shook her head. “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve seen it. His memory. I know that he loves-and…that he wasn’t always, well, the way he is now. But, that’s the same guy that tried to kill me and he’s just out walking arou-“
”I don’t….I didn’t condone it,” Charles said sharply. “I simply… It’s complicated.”
“It always used to irritate him when you’d do that,” Rogue said, suddenly.
“What?”
“Finish the thought for you before you know what you’re going to say. Then answer it. One becomes entirely lost.” Her phrasing, combined with the way she tossed her head at that moment looked so much like Erik that it hurt. He hadn’t noticed how much she’d picked up, in spite of herself. “He’s right; it’s annoying.”
I just happen to not agree with your interpretation, that’s all
You’re so stubborn. Have you ever thought about why you like that book so much?
You’re the burgeoning psychologist, my dear. You tell me.
I remain hopeful that if you read it enough times-surely we must be approaching that by now-you’ll figure it out.
That’s your carefully considered opinion?
Well, I can only take it as a good sign that your current favorite novel is about pacifism and understanding. I might even go so far as to say that the reason you like the idea of Camelot so much is that you’d like to build one. Read it again, and we’ll see.
If this is the part where you try to tell me I’m really a simpering idealist wrapping myself in a banner of cynicism and bitterness, I fear I’m going to be ill.
Why, Erik. You read my mind.
“I should go,” Rogue said, rising. “I have to meet Bobby. But, look. Thanks. For being honest with me. I know you don’t like to talk about it. He doesn’t either.” Her expression turned to surprise briefly, as it had whenever she said something she didn’t realize she knew.
She sighed. “It’d be a sight easier to hate him if he weren’t in my head so much. Sometimes he starts to make entirely too much sense.” One thought pushed out of her mind to his. John.
“Maybe I ought to read that book.”
“Take it with you.”
Rogue stopped near the door and spoke again. “Professor Xavier?
She turned back, and Charles felt the press of a wave of emotions from her mind. Finally, she blew out a hard breath.
“He misses you,” she said, carefully not meeting his eyes.
Charles looked out the window, thinking of all the things he couldn’t say, and all the ways he had failed. Her. The other children. Erik. Himself.
“I know,” he said. I miss him too, he added silently, putting so much behind the thought he wouldn’t have been surprised if Erik heard him. Wherever he was.
But, there was only the sound of Rogue’s footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.