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nekosmuseFic: Tessellation (4/?)
Fandom: XMFC (fusion with comic-canon and 1990s animated series)
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Back to chapter 3
The briefing room was filled to capacity. Shutting down Striker's latest project was going to require tremendous manpower. Casting a brief glance around the room, it was clear Mystique had recruited the best.
They'd only been back a few days, but Mystique, never one to sit idle, had immediately taken control of the project she'd been forced to abandon during their trip to New York. She was giving her day-before-the-mission speech now, making sure everyone knew their roles. Mystique wasn't one to leave things to chance, and with Striker's latest weapon deemed an extreme threat, she was being extra vigilant.
Magneto had always enjoyed watching her work, whether on the field or standing at the head of a room. She wore command like she was born for it. The men and women in the room listened with rapt attention. Even those who hadn't followed her into battle knew her by reputation. They might have feared and respected Magneto, but they admired and respected Mystique. It was one of the reasons they made such a good team.
Today, though, Mystique couldn't hold Magneto's attention. He was only vaguely aware of the hard, confident cadence of her words. Instead he found his attention drifting out the window, his gaze lighting on azure water where it lapped at pristine white sand. It was not the first time the view had captivated. It was so different from the greys and browns of his youth that, living here, Magneto often wondered if he had strayed into a dream.
It occurred to him then that the leaves would be changing in New York right now. The trees had held the first flush of colour when Magneto was there. By now the forests of upstate New York would be awash in brilliant reds and oranges. It was something he missed, living on this island; the changing of seasons that had once marked the passing of his childhood.
"I want you off this mission."
Magneto started when Mystique appeared at his side. He hadn't noticed her approach. He turned, furious that she would dare tell him his place. He was not hers to command. A snide remark died on his tongue when he realized the room was empty. She had dismissed the other mutants and he had missed it.
"Erik." It was Raven who stared up at him now, something he thought might be sympathy reflected in her gaze. "In the ten years we've known each other, I've never seen you like this. You're moping, completely lost in thought," she said.
Magneto opened his mouth to argue, to disagree, but Raven pressed forward, denying him the chance.
"If we're going to go after this Wolverine creature, I need everyone--and I mean everyone--on their game. I don't think I need to tell you that you've been distracted since we got back."
And what could he possibly say to that? It was true, however much he might not want to admit it. Xavier was one man, and hardly the first to refuse membership in the Brotherhood, but for some reason Magneto couldn't shake his disappointment.
"I'm fine," he finally said, shaking himself. It was well past time he put Xavier from his mind. "Besides, if those medical reports you collected are accurate, then Striker's infused this guy's skeletal structure with adamantium, and that means you're going to need someone capable of manipulating metal."
The shift from Raven to Mystique was subtle, but Magneto didn't miss it. She drew herself up, spine straightening, eyes narrowing even as her expression hardened.
"I think we can manage him."
Magneto doubted that. From all reports they had read, Wolverine was the pinnacle of the Weapons X program, a weapon programmed for the exclusive purpose of killing other mutants. He had to be stopped, and if they could find a way to restrain him, to undo his programming, then he would make an excellent addition to the Brotherhood's fighting forces.
"Start your prep work, and don't worry about me. And that's an order, Mystique," Magneto said. This was just another recruiting mission, and if they happened to destroy Striker's latest research lab in the process, all the better. It was nothing Magneto couldn't handle.
The ironic part, he thought as Mystique stalked from the room, was that Charles Xavier probably could have recruited this Wolverine without ever leaving the comfort of his home. He probably wouldn't have broken a sweat. Hell, he was probably capable of convincing Striker to destroy his own work and then take up tap-dancing as a full time career. Damn the man for his naivety.
~*~
Charles sat, hands folded neatly across his lap, chair parked beneath the wide oak that framed the border between the gravel walk surrounding the house and the wide expanse of lawn that ran to the lake. It was unseasonably warm for the time of year, but he remained cloaked in an over-sized sweater and loose-knit blanket. Warm afternoon sun had left his neck damp with sweat. Wheeling across the gravel was a strain he sought daily.
And here he was again, three days home from New York and already falling into old habits. He had felt so certain the trip would prove a turning point, but then he'd slept and upon waking had found himself reluctant to move towards any sort of change.
When he was younger, change couldn't happen fast enough. He'd left for university years before his peers, and was a year into his undergraduate studies when he began researching graduate schools. His time at Oxford was spent in a mad rush to get his PhD done and over with, so that he could move on to the next stage of his life. He was always rushing towards the next corner, always moving a little too fast, still trying to escape the ghosts of his childhood, certain he could outrun them as an adult.
Strange now that he had his own ghost, he had stopped running.
"Well you're not going to accomplish anything sitting here," he told himself.
It was a mark of his sedentary lifestyle that he was winded by the time he got back inside. He rode the lift down to Hank's laboratory and found Hank bent over a microscope--where he always was when Charles went looking for him. Charles cleared his throat. Hank glanced up, startled.
"Charles. Apologies, did you need something. I had thought you intended to read this afternoon." Hank's thoughts were a tangle of guilt and embarrassment. Charles waved off his concern.
"I did, but I've changed my mind. I thought I'd go into town instead, perhaps stop in at the pub and have a drink."
Hank's eyes grew wide and he straightened abruptly, tidying his papers, his whole countenance flustered.
"Of course, of course we can. I'll only be a minute. I was working on..." Charles did not need to hear Hank's thoughts to know that he was loath to leave in the middle of an experiment. It was a measure of their friendship, not to mention Hank's concern for Charles' welfare that he was willing to alter his plans, accompany Charles when it was painfully obvious he wanted to remain.
"You needn't trouble yourself, Hank. I can ask Mr. Thompson to drive me into town. I'm sure he would jump at the chance to visit his daughter."
Hank looked over sharply at that, hesitation creeping into his thoughts. He stood, papers forgotten in his hands as he blinked owlishly in Charles' direction.
"The groundskeeper?" he asked.
"Yes. He was just telling me the other day that he only finds the time for weekly visits. His daughter has a newborn, you see, and he is a fiercely proud grandfather. I can't count the number of times he has taken me aside to show me polaroids of the boy. I rather think he would relish the chance for an impromptu visit."
It was not that he didn't want Hank's company--he would have been perfectly happy having Hank accompany him into town--but he needed to do this himself, on his own, without the crutch of having someone at his side.
Hank still seemed hesitant, but Charles had already blanketed his worry. He glanced at the papers in his hands, seeming surprised to find he still held them, and then placed them back on the workbench.
"If you're certain," he said. Charles nodded.
It took little work to convince Mr. Thompson to take a trip into town. A simple nudge against the worry that his daughter would be too busy to receive him had made him eager to go. He seemed delighted, too, that his Professor Xavier was leaving the house, and chatted amicably the entire trip. Charles had Thompson drop him off outside Harry's Hideaway, a place he hadn't set foot in since shortly after his and Moria's wedding. Seeing the place, unchanged after all these long years, sparked a wave of nostalgia so strong that Charles thought he might choke on it. Instead he waved Thompson goodbye and wheeled himself up to the front door.
There were steps--of course there were steps, how could he have forgotten--just inside the door, leading down into bar, but Charles was able to roll down them, his chair precariously balanced as he did. Getting up would prove more difficult, but Thompson was close enough that Charles could nudge his mind into coming looking for Charles when the time came. He'd worry about that later.
It was early in the day, the sun not yet set, but already there were a scattering of patrons, some sitting in a ring around the bar, others in booths around the outskirts of the room. A pair of couples, too young to be here legally, played pool on the table in the back. Charles felt his chest constrict, his breathing going shallow as he surveyed the room. For as infrequently as they had come here, the place held too many memories.
He chose a table near the bar, pushing aside one of the chairs to make room for his own. And now he wished he had accepted Hank's offer. In his youth, he simply would have mingled with the crowd, floating from one person to the next, drink in hand, wide smile and terrible pickup lines thrown at men and women alike. He was struck by how long ago that seemed now, when this morning it had only seemed like yesterday.
Not sure what else to do, Charles floated a thought to a passing waitress. She turned abruptly, mid stride, and approached his table. He ordered a beer, because it seemed like the thing to order, narrowing his eyes as she walked away, trying to decide if the sway of her hips was seductive or merely awkward. By the time she had returned, he had settled on awkward. The beer she brought was too warm to fully appreciate, but Charles drank it all the same.
And then another, and another. Four beers in he was feeling a little less self-conscious and a lot more at ease in the surroundings--not to mention the alcohol had created a fuzzy barrier between his mind and a room full of tipsy thoughts. It was happy hour, now, or so his waitress had proclaimed, ringing a small bell above the bar's register. Business had steadily picked up, and now the place was filled to half capacity. Charles had engaged in three separate conversations, none of them particularly interesting, none of them holding his attention for long, but they still counted as conversations, so Charles was feeling particularly chuffed. Enough so that when his waitress returned with his fifth drink--this time a neat scotch--he maneuvered himself away from the table and out into the crowd.
On his second circuit of the room, he caught the eye of a woman sitting on her own, her friend having abandoned her in favour of flirting with one of the bartenders. He wheeled up next to her, having to crane his neck to meet her eye, perched as she was on her bar stool.
"I'd offer to buy you a drink," he said, "but since the one in your hand is fresh, I'm afraid I'll have to simply settle for saying hello. Not as glamorous as guessing your cocktail, but hopefully I gain some points for earnestness."
As soon as the words left his mouth he cringed. He was woefully out of practice on more than just blocking thoughts. Still, it couldn't have been that bad, because the girl smiled, held up her drink, and then pointed back to his table. This was easier than he remembered--certainly easier than he'd expected, the slight twinge of senseless guilt that flared in his stomach notwithstanding. He pushed the thought aside, banishing Moria to a corner of his mind and headed steadily back to his, thankfully, still empty table.
The girl--and he realized now that they were away from the dark glittering of the bar that he had at least a dozen or so years on her--slid into one of the unoccupied chairs and offered her hand.
"I'm Gabrielle," she said, still smiling.
"Charles," Charles answered, feeling oddly giddy. The sensation lasted little more than a minute, chased away by an errant thought--not his own.
He had encountered pity before--numerous times--but never quite like this. In the split second their hands touched, he had forgotten himself, had let his mind brush against Gabrielle's. The thought blared with as much clarity as if she'd shouted the thing. She was more than willing to go home with him, to fall into bed with him, to have sex with him, but only because she had a heart of gold and suspected he spent most of his nights alone. That she was right didn't matter. What mattered was the desire for charity, when Charles was only looking for desire.
"So," Gabrielle said, "were you in the war?" And that... that just made everything worse. Charles laughed, an ugly, bitter sound.
"No, nothing like that. A car accident, unfortunately. And I'm sorry, I'm terribly sorry, but I've just realized my ride is waiting for me." There were days when Charles cursed his telepathy, but this was not one of them. Were he an ordinary man, he would have taken Gabrielle home, taken her to bed, and never known her true motivations. At least now he would be spared the humiliation.
He'd already sent out the stray thought and knew Thompson was making his goodbyes, would be there to pick Charles up within the half hour. Gabrielle looked startled, hurt even, but a slight nudge sent her back to her friend--who had struck out with the bartender and was now nursing her drink alone.
Half an hour was too long to wait in the humidity of this place, the scent of human sweat growing with the fading light. Charles eyed the stairs warily and then resigned himself to asking for help. He found a burly looking man standing in the shadows not far from the door, but when Charles tried to touch his mind he was met with resistance. It was nothing he couldn't have countered, but the mere fact that someone could keep him out, however temporarily, was exciting enough that Charles withdrew, respecting the man's wishes.
"I beg your pardon," he said aloud instead. The man glanced down at Charles' chair, then over to the steps. He grunted something that sounded like affirmation and then stubbed out his cigar on the wall behind him.
"Oh," Charles said, startled when the man simply lifted him, chair and all, and carried him up the stairs and through the door. As soon as the man had settled him on the ground, Charles turned to get a good look at the man, intent on asking after his mutation--because it was clear the man was a mutant--but it was apparent the man was uninterested in conversation, already pushing through the door, heading back into the bar.
Charles let him go, breathing deep the cool chill of the night air. The temperature had dropped during his time inside. His breath left icy tendrils in its wake.
And this was not how he imagined his evening ending. He glanced down the road, hoping to spot Thompson's car, but it remained stubbornly empty. With a frustrated sigh, Charles rolled forward, gaze catching the glint of a payphone out of the corner of his eye. He stopped and blinked at it stupidly.
Unbidden, his hand came up to his breast pocket, fingers tracing the outline of the card he still carried. He pulled it out, glanced down at the stylized M and then back up at the payphone.
~*~
He always woke too early the morning of a mission. It was an old habit, held over from before he had minions to do his bidding. There was no reason to be up at this ungodly hour, but Magneto had long since given up trying to retrain his body.
He sat, alone in his office, steaming cup of coffee on the table before him. It would be hours before Mystique joined him; hours more before they were set to leave. Magneto scowled and then took a sip of his coffee, willing time forward.
The telephone on his desk rang.
It was a startling sound, especially given how infrequently the damned thing actually rang. Magneto let his hand hover over the receiver, hesitating until it rang a second time. A smile crept across his features.
"There are only three people in the world who have this number, and two of those people are in the same building. That means you, Charles Xavier, have changed your mind."
The line crackled with static, the connection poor, but Magneto was too pleased to feel annoyance. The last thing he was expecting was a woman's voice to fill the line.
"This is the operator. Will you accept a collect call from a Charles Xavier, in North Salem, New York?"
For a moment Magneto didn't know what to say. That Charles would call him collect, of all things, hadn't crossed his mind. Would their every interaction leave him feeling flummoxed? Magneto was beginning to suspect this was all part of Xavier's nefarious plan to drive him insane. Perhaps this was part of some bid to oust Magneto from the Brotherhood, for Charles to secure the reins of power for himself.
"I'll accept the charges," Magneto answered reluctantly. Damn Xavier for unsettling him so.
"Um, hello?" Charles' voice echoed over the line. Try as he might to cling to it, Magneto's annoyance vanished.
"You called me collect, Charles," Magneto said, startling to realize that he had used Xavier's given name. He had vowed not to fall into that trap a second time.
"My apologies, but I'm at a payphone, and I didn't have enough change."
Magneto wanted to ask why Xavier was calling from a payphone and not one of the many telephones he was certain filled Xavier's estate. He refrained, saying instead, "But you have changed your mind."
The long pause that followed told Magneto that he'd gotten it wrong again. He was starting to think he was destined to spend the remainder of his life floundering in Xavier's wake. It grated as much as it thrilled.
"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. Oh, of course you would think that, but no, that wasn't why... Actually, I'm not really certain why I'm calling, except, perhaps..." Xavier trailed off, the line falling silent once again.
"Perhaps?" Magneto pressed. Xavier cleared his throat.
"I was wondering if you happened to play chess?" he asked.
On to chapter 5
Fandom: XMFC (fusion with comic-canon and 1990s animated series)
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Back to chapter 3
The briefing room was filled to capacity. Shutting down Striker's latest project was going to require tremendous manpower. Casting a brief glance around the room, it was clear Mystique had recruited the best.
They'd only been back a few days, but Mystique, never one to sit idle, had immediately taken control of the project she'd been forced to abandon during their trip to New York. She was giving her day-before-the-mission speech now, making sure everyone knew their roles. Mystique wasn't one to leave things to chance, and with Striker's latest weapon deemed an extreme threat, she was being extra vigilant.
Magneto had always enjoyed watching her work, whether on the field or standing at the head of a room. She wore command like she was born for it. The men and women in the room listened with rapt attention. Even those who hadn't followed her into battle knew her by reputation. They might have feared and respected Magneto, but they admired and respected Mystique. It was one of the reasons they made such a good team.
Today, though, Mystique couldn't hold Magneto's attention. He was only vaguely aware of the hard, confident cadence of her words. Instead he found his attention drifting out the window, his gaze lighting on azure water where it lapped at pristine white sand. It was not the first time the view had captivated. It was so different from the greys and browns of his youth that, living here, Magneto often wondered if he had strayed into a dream.
It occurred to him then that the leaves would be changing in New York right now. The trees had held the first flush of colour when Magneto was there. By now the forests of upstate New York would be awash in brilliant reds and oranges. It was something he missed, living on this island; the changing of seasons that had once marked the passing of his childhood.
"I want you off this mission."
Magneto started when Mystique appeared at his side. He hadn't noticed her approach. He turned, furious that she would dare tell him his place. He was not hers to command. A snide remark died on his tongue when he realized the room was empty. She had dismissed the other mutants and he had missed it.
"Erik." It was Raven who stared up at him now, something he thought might be sympathy reflected in her gaze. "In the ten years we've known each other, I've never seen you like this. You're moping, completely lost in thought," she said.
Magneto opened his mouth to argue, to disagree, but Raven pressed forward, denying him the chance.
"If we're going to go after this Wolverine creature, I need everyone--and I mean everyone--on their game. I don't think I need to tell you that you've been distracted since we got back."
And what could he possibly say to that? It was true, however much he might not want to admit it. Xavier was one man, and hardly the first to refuse membership in the Brotherhood, but for some reason Magneto couldn't shake his disappointment.
"I'm fine," he finally said, shaking himself. It was well past time he put Xavier from his mind. "Besides, if those medical reports you collected are accurate, then Striker's infused this guy's skeletal structure with adamantium, and that means you're going to need someone capable of manipulating metal."
The shift from Raven to Mystique was subtle, but Magneto didn't miss it. She drew herself up, spine straightening, eyes narrowing even as her expression hardened.
"I think we can manage him."
Magneto doubted that. From all reports they had read, Wolverine was the pinnacle of the Weapons X program, a weapon programmed for the exclusive purpose of killing other mutants. He had to be stopped, and if they could find a way to restrain him, to undo his programming, then he would make an excellent addition to the Brotherhood's fighting forces.
"Start your prep work, and don't worry about me. And that's an order, Mystique," Magneto said. This was just another recruiting mission, and if they happened to destroy Striker's latest research lab in the process, all the better. It was nothing Magneto couldn't handle.
The ironic part, he thought as Mystique stalked from the room, was that Charles Xavier probably could have recruited this Wolverine without ever leaving the comfort of his home. He probably wouldn't have broken a sweat. Hell, he was probably capable of convincing Striker to destroy his own work and then take up tap-dancing as a full time career. Damn the man for his naivety.
~*~
Charles sat, hands folded neatly across his lap, chair parked beneath the wide oak that framed the border between the gravel walk surrounding the house and the wide expanse of lawn that ran to the lake. It was unseasonably warm for the time of year, but he remained cloaked in an over-sized sweater and loose-knit blanket. Warm afternoon sun had left his neck damp with sweat. Wheeling across the gravel was a strain he sought daily.
And here he was again, three days home from New York and already falling into old habits. He had felt so certain the trip would prove a turning point, but then he'd slept and upon waking had found himself reluctant to move towards any sort of change.
When he was younger, change couldn't happen fast enough. He'd left for university years before his peers, and was a year into his undergraduate studies when he began researching graduate schools. His time at Oxford was spent in a mad rush to get his PhD done and over with, so that he could move on to the next stage of his life. He was always rushing towards the next corner, always moving a little too fast, still trying to escape the ghosts of his childhood, certain he could outrun them as an adult.
Strange now that he had his own ghost, he had stopped running.
"Well you're not going to accomplish anything sitting here," he told himself.
It was a mark of his sedentary lifestyle that he was winded by the time he got back inside. He rode the lift down to Hank's laboratory and found Hank bent over a microscope--where he always was when Charles went looking for him. Charles cleared his throat. Hank glanced up, startled.
"Charles. Apologies, did you need something. I had thought you intended to read this afternoon." Hank's thoughts were a tangle of guilt and embarrassment. Charles waved off his concern.
"I did, but I've changed my mind. I thought I'd go into town instead, perhaps stop in at the pub and have a drink."
Hank's eyes grew wide and he straightened abruptly, tidying his papers, his whole countenance flustered.
"Of course, of course we can. I'll only be a minute. I was working on..." Charles did not need to hear Hank's thoughts to know that he was loath to leave in the middle of an experiment. It was a measure of their friendship, not to mention Hank's concern for Charles' welfare that he was willing to alter his plans, accompany Charles when it was painfully obvious he wanted to remain.
"You needn't trouble yourself, Hank. I can ask Mr. Thompson to drive me into town. I'm sure he would jump at the chance to visit his daughter."
Hank looked over sharply at that, hesitation creeping into his thoughts. He stood, papers forgotten in his hands as he blinked owlishly in Charles' direction.
"The groundskeeper?" he asked.
"Yes. He was just telling me the other day that he only finds the time for weekly visits. His daughter has a newborn, you see, and he is a fiercely proud grandfather. I can't count the number of times he has taken me aside to show me polaroids of the boy. I rather think he would relish the chance for an impromptu visit."
It was not that he didn't want Hank's company--he would have been perfectly happy having Hank accompany him into town--but he needed to do this himself, on his own, without the crutch of having someone at his side.
Hank still seemed hesitant, but Charles had already blanketed his worry. He glanced at the papers in his hands, seeming surprised to find he still held them, and then placed them back on the workbench.
"If you're certain," he said. Charles nodded.
It took little work to convince Mr. Thompson to take a trip into town. A simple nudge against the worry that his daughter would be too busy to receive him had made him eager to go. He seemed delighted, too, that his Professor Xavier was leaving the house, and chatted amicably the entire trip. Charles had Thompson drop him off outside Harry's Hideaway, a place he hadn't set foot in since shortly after his and Moria's wedding. Seeing the place, unchanged after all these long years, sparked a wave of nostalgia so strong that Charles thought he might choke on it. Instead he waved Thompson goodbye and wheeled himself up to the front door.
There were steps--of course there were steps, how could he have forgotten--just inside the door, leading down into bar, but Charles was able to roll down them, his chair precariously balanced as he did. Getting up would prove more difficult, but Thompson was close enough that Charles could nudge his mind into coming looking for Charles when the time came. He'd worry about that later.
It was early in the day, the sun not yet set, but already there were a scattering of patrons, some sitting in a ring around the bar, others in booths around the outskirts of the room. A pair of couples, too young to be here legally, played pool on the table in the back. Charles felt his chest constrict, his breathing going shallow as he surveyed the room. For as infrequently as they had come here, the place held too many memories.
He chose a table near the bar, pushing aside one of the chairs to make room for his own. And now he wished he had accepted Hank's offer. In his youth, he simply would have mingled with the crowd, floating from one person to the next, drink in hand, wide smile and terrible pickup lines thrown at men and women alike. He was struck by how long ago that seemed now, when this morning it had only seemed like yesterday.
Not sure what else to do, Charles floated a thought to a passing waitress. She turned abruptly, mid stride, and approached his table. He ordered a beer, because it seemed like the thing to order, narrowing his eyes as she walked away, trying to decide if the sway of her hips was seductive or merely awkward. By the time she had returned, he had settled on awkward. The beer she brought was too warm to fully appreciate, but Charles drank it all the same.
And then another, and another. Four beers in he was feeling a little less self-conscious and a lot more at ease in the surroundings--not to mention the alcohol had created a fuzzy barrier between his mind and a room full of tipsy thoughts. It was happy hour, now, or so his waitress had proclaimed, ringing a small bell above the bar's register. Business had steadily picked up, and now the place was filled to half capacity. Charles had engaged in three separate conversations, none of them particularly interesting, none of them holding his attention for long, but they still counted as conversations, so Charles was feeling particularly chuffed. Enough so that when his waitress returned with his fifth drink--this time a neat scotch--he maneuvered himself away from the table and out into the crowd.
On his second circuit of the room, he caught the eye of a woman sitting on her own, her friend having abandoned her in favour of flirting with one of the bartenders. He wheeled up next to her, having to crane his neck to meet her eye, perched as she was on her bar stool.
"I'd offer to buy you a drink," he said, "but since the one in your hand is fresh, I'm afraid I'll have to simply settle for saying hello. Not as glamorous as guessing your cocktail, but hopefully I gain some points for earnestness."
As soon as the words left his mouth he cringed. He was woefully out of practice on more than just blocking thoughts. Still, it couldn't have been that bad, because the girl smiled, held up her drink, and then pointed back to his table. This was easier than he remembered--certainly easier than he'd expected, the slight twinge of senseless guilt that flared in his stomach notwithstanding. He pushed the thought aside, banishing Moria to a corner of his mind and headed steadily back to his, thankfully, still empty table.
The girl--and he realized now that they were away from the dark glittering of the bar that he had at least a dozen or so years on her--slid into one of the unoccupied chairs and offered her hand.
"I'm Gabrielle," she said, still smiling.
"Charles," Charles answered, feeling oddly giddy. The sensation lasted little more than a minute, chased away by an errant thought--not his own.
He had encountered pity before--numerous times--but never quite like this. In the split second their hands touched, he had forgotten himself, had let his mind brush against Gabrielle's. The thought blared with as much clarity as if she'd shouted the thing. She was more than willing to go home with him, to fall into bed with him, to have sex with him, but only because she had a heart of gold and suspected he spent most of his nights alone. That she was right didn't matter. What mattered was the desire for charity, when Charles was only looking for desire.
"So," Gabrielle said, "were you in the war?" And that... that just made everything worse. Charles laughed, an ugly, bitter sound.
"No, nothing like that. A car accident, unfortunately. And I'm sorry, I'm terribly sorry, but I've just realized my ride is waiting for me." There were days when Charles cursed his telepathy, but this was not one of them. Were he an ordinary man, he would have taken Gabrielle home, taken her to bed, and never known her true motivations. At least now he would be spared the humiliation.
He'd already sent out the stray thought and knew Thompson was making his goodbyes, would be there to pick Charles up within the half hour. Gabrielle looked startled, hurt even, but a slight nudge sent her back to her friend--who had struck out with the bartender and was now nursing her drink alone.
Half an hour was too long to wait in the humidity of this place, the scent of human sweat growing with the fading light. Charles eyed the stairs warily and then resigned himself to asking for help. He found a burly looking man standing in the shadows not far from the door, but when Charles tried to touch his mind he was met with resistance. It was nothing he couldn't have countered, but the mere fact that someone could keep him out, however temporarily, was exciting enough that Charles withdrew, respecting the man's wishes.
"I beg your pardon," he said aloud instead. The man glanced down at Charles' chair, then over to the steps. He grunted something that sounded like affirmation and then stubbed out his cigar on the wall behind him.
"Oh," Charles said, startled when the man simply lifted him, chair and all, and carried him up the stairs and through the door. As soon as the man had settled him on the ground, Charles turned to get a good look at the man, intent on asking after his mutation--because it was clear the man was a mutant--but it was apparent the man was uninterested in conversation, already pushing through the door, heading back into the bar.
Charles let him go, breathing deep the cool chill of the night air. The temperature had dropped during his time inside. His breath left icy tendrils in its wake.
And this was not how he imagined his evening ending. He glanced down the road, hoping to spot Thompson's car, but it remained stubbornly empty. With a frustrated sigh, Charles rolled forward, gaze catching the glint of a payphone out of the corner of his eye. He stopped and blinked at it stupidly.
Unbidden, his hand came up to his breast pocket, fingers tracing the outline of the card he still carried. He pulled it out, glanced down at the stylized M and then back up at the payphone.
~*~
He always woke too early the morning of a mission. It was an old habit, held over from before he had minions to do his bidding. There was no reason to be up at this ungodly hour, but Magneto had long since given up trying to retrain his body.
He sat, alone in his office, steaming cup of coffee on the table before him. It would be hours before Mystique joined him; hours more before they were set to leave. Magneto scowled and then took a sip of his coffee, willing time forward.
The telephone on his desk rang.
It was a startling sound, especially given how infrequently the damned thing actually rang. Magneto let his hand hover over the receiver, hesitating until it rang a second time. A smile crept across his features.
"There are only three people in the world who have this number, and two of those people are in the same building. That means you, Charles Xavier, have changed your mind."
The line crackled with static, the connection poor, but Magneto was too pleased to feel annoyance. The last thing he was expecting was a woman's voice to fill the line.
"This is the operator. Will you accept a collect call from a Charles Xavier, in North Salem, New York?"
For a moment Magneto didn't know what to say. That Charles would call him collect, of all things, hadn't crossed his mind. Would their every interaction leave him feeling flummoxed? Magneto was beginning to suspect this was all part of Xavier's nefarious plan to drive him insane. Perhaps this was part of some bid to oust Magneto from the Brotherhood, for Charles to secure the reins of power for himself.
"I'll accept the charges," Magneto answered reluctantly. Damn Xavier for unsettling him so.
"Um, hello?" Charles' voice echoed over the line. Try as he might to cling to it, Magneto's annoyance vanished.
"You called me collect, Charles," Magneto said, startling to realize that he had used Xavier's given name. He had vowed not to fall into that trap a second time.
"My apologies, but I'm at a payphone, and I didn't have enough change."
Magneto wanted to ask why Xavier was calling from a payphone and not one of the many telephones he was certain filled Xavier's estate. He refrained, saying instead, "But you have changed your mind."
The long pause that followed told Magneto that he'd gotten it wrong again. He was starting to think he was destined to spend the remainder of his life floundering in Xavier's wake. It grated as much as it thrilled.
"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. Oh, of course you would think that, but no, that wasn't why... Actually, I'm not really certain why I'm calling, except, perhaps..." Xavier trailed off, the line falling silent once again.
"Perhaps?" Magneto pressed. Xavier cleared his throat.
"I was wondering if you happened to play chess?" he asked.
On to chapter 5
