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nekosmuseFic: Tessellation (6/?)
Fandom: XMFC (fusion with comic-canon and 1990s animated series)
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Back to chapter 5
Despite his intentions, Magneto ended up arriving late, not early, to the Xavier estate. The search of Striker's abandoned base had ended up taking longer than he'd anticipated--though the two crates worth of found documents were worth the delay. This was followed by a low pressure system that brought severe storms into their flight path, further delaying their trip into New York. By the time Magneto arrived outside Charles' door, he was more than an hour late.
Charles seemed unconcerned, greeting Magneto warmly despite the disapproving frown he shot Magneto's helmet. Still, he welcomed Magneto into his home as an old friend instead of a tentative acquaintance, accepting Magneto's apology with a wordless shrug. It was strange being shown such absolute trust so early into a relationship. Magneto wasn't sure how to interpret the gesture.
"How was your business?" Charles asked as soon as Magneto was through the front door. He seemed uncommonly nervous, yet still poised and confident.
"Disappointing," Magneto answered, though he didn't elaborate. He had no intention of broaching the subject yet--in part because he thought Charles would be more receptive as the evening wore on, but if he was honest with himself, it was also because he wanted time to enjoy Charles' company without it being overshadowed by work.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Charles said, and Magneto could tell that he genuinely was.
Magneto shrugged, dismissing the topic before it could get away from them. Charles seemed more than happy to let it drop, leading Magneto further into the house. The Xavier estate was everything Magneto imagined it would be--displays of wealth as prominent as they were understated, as though Charles' ancestors had wanted visitors to know the importance of their name, while simultaneously trying to draw attention away from their financial superiority. Charles led them through wide corridors and halls, where dark wood panelling stretched between sculpted plaster ceilings and polished marble floors. The house was well furnished, but curiously devoid of decorative artifacts.
"Have you eaten?" Charles asked, glancing over his shoulder. He had been wheeling himself steadily forward, but now he slowed, coming to a stop where two halls intersected.
"I haven't," Magneto said, realizing that it had been some time since he'd last eaten. His arrival in New York had been so rushed that he'd barely had enough time to appropriate a car to take him to Westchester, let alone worry about necessities like food.
"I had my housekeeper prepare a small supper, if you'd like." Charles sounded uncertain, and yet hopeful. Magneto watched, transfixed, as Charles took his lower lip between his teeth and chewed it awkwardly.
"Dinner would be good," Magneto said, watching Charles' features light up. Something in his chest lurched uncomfortably at the sight.
He was expecting Charles to lead him to a formal dining room--from what he'd seen of the house so far, it seemed likely the place had at least one such room--but instead Charles led him into a small, warmly lit kitchen, where a small wooden table sat low beneath the room's only window. It was set for two, the china plain and well used. The rich scent of tomato and cheese assaulted Magneto's senses and set his stomach rumbling.
"I hope this is all right," Charles said, perhaps sensing Magneto's surprise.
"It's fine," Magneto said, which seemed to be enough of an assurance to start Charles moving again. He wheeled himself about the kitchen, extremely comfortable in the small space, and it struck Magneto then that a man who undoubtedly ate most of his meals alone or with servants probably preferred eating in the kitchen to eating in a dining hall.
He watched Charles retrieve a bottle of wine from a rack beside the fridge, holding it up for Magneto's approval and then setting it on the table. Next he moved to the oven, sliding it open to retrieve a ceramic dish with gloved hands.
"Mrs. Forrester makes excellent cannelloni," he said. He set the dish on top of the oven and closed the door. "Though I'm afraid you'll have to serve," he continued with a self-depreciating chuckle. Magneto was momentarily struck by the domesticity of the situation. He couldn't remember the last time he had simply enjoyed a meal with another person. In the years since his mother's murder, he suspected he hadn't.
"I don't mind," Magneto said, retrieving their plates while Charles busied himself opening the wine.
It turned out Mrs. Forrester did make excellent cannelloni, but it was not the food--nor the wine, despite it being an excellent vintage--that kept Magneto's attention. Charles was on top of his game, chatting amicably on a number of subjects, always keeping one step ahead, delighting Magneto as often as he bewildered him. This was the self-assured man he had met at the Symposium, not the man who had called him in the middle of the night to invite him to play chess. Magneto took care to fill Charles' wine glass often.
"It's fascinating in terms of evolutionary progression, knowing that it's the male who carries the mutant X gene. Males, of course, are better suited to wide-spread genetic distribution, because they can impregnate a number of females simultaneously, whereas females can only carry one genetic sample per pregnancy," Charles said. "It implies the mutant X gene should move faster through the population than it would if it passed on the maternal side."
And of course Charles saw the supremacy of Homo superior spreading through sex rather than securing its place through war.
"So you're suggesting we should begin rounding up human females, perhaps institute a breeding program in order to increase the mutant population?" Magneto asked. Charles paled.
"Oh, dear God, no. Why would you even think..."
Magneto smirked, thrilled to see the wine was finally doing its job.
"Oh, you're having me on. You horrible, horrible man," Charles said, but he was smiling as he said it, seeming well pleased by the turn of events.
Magneto tipped his head, but the smile never left his face, even as he leaned back in his chair and took another sip of his wine.
"You have to confess, it is an argument in favour of coexistence. We're looking at three, maybe four generations before Homo superior replaces Homo sapiens. If, before that happens, Homo sapiens were to disappear entirely, I very much doubt that Homo superior would have the necessary genetic diversity for continued survival. The propagation of our species depends on the health and well being of theirs."
It was an argument Magneto had heard before, one he usually countered with quotes from Charles' other works. The man, it seemed, was a walking contradiction. It fascinated Magneto in a way he knew it probably shouldn't--certainly in a way he knew could prove quite dangerous.
He really couldn't help himself.
"So you're saying we should make love, not war," he said, not bothering to keep the innuendo from his tone. Across the table, Charles flushed, a shy smile appearing on his face that he took care to hide behind his wine glass.
By the time they had finished dinner--and the wine--and had cleared the dishes, Magneto was feeling comfortably intoxicated. It wasn't just the alcohol. There was something decidedly inebriating about Charles' company. Magneto couldn't remember a time when he'd allowed himself the luxury of relaxing, of letting his guard down. Tonight he found himself doing both.
Charles led them back down to the juncture in the hall, this time taking the right branch, which brought them to an over-sized study. The lamps were lit and a chessboard already set--all the scene was missing was a roaring fire, though the room did possess a fireplace, so Magneto supposed if they wanted one it would be short work.
"Normally I'd," Charles waggled his fingers, "but since there's a piece of anti-telepathy technology blocking me you'll have to simply tell me your drink of preference," he said. It was the first time he'd openly acknowledged the fact that Magneto was still wearing his helmet.
Magneto could have apologized--he could have offered to remove the offending device, but he had spent too much time in the company of telepaths; he knew what they were capable of, and it was hard to trust people who could manipulate a man's most basic thoughts. Instead, he simply answered Charles' question.
"A dry martini, please," he said.
Charles nodded and then wheeled himself over to a low bureau which turned out to be the bar. He took his time mixing Magneto's drink and then poured himself a scotch over ice. Magneto crossed the room to accept his drink, giving Charles a free hand to get himself to the chessboard.
"It's been some time since I last played," Charles said, choosing white. "I tried teaching Hank, but it can be hard to occupy his attention with things other than science."
Magneto had wondered where Charles' assistant was, but he wasn't sure if McCoy even lived in the house, so he didn't ask. Instead he claimed the chair opposite Charles and moved his pawn to e5.
"I'm sure you'll be fine," he said.
And he was; more than fine. Magneto couldn't remember the last time he'd played against such a skilled opponent. Charles kept him constantly guessing, employing strategies that Magneto saw only three moves later. The wine and whiskey had obviously done nothing to tether his genius. An hour later, Magneto watched in dazed confusion as Charles calmly stole his queen and put him in check.
"There is something I've been meaning to ask you," Magneto said, moving his king to safety.
"Oh," Charles said, glancing up. The soft light of the room amplified the blue of his eyes. Magneto momentarily forgot what they were talking about.
"That business I had earlier," he said once he'd remembered. Charles arched an eyebrow, the game losing his attention. "We were looking for a mutant. Someone they call the Wolverine. He was being held in one of William Striker's facilities."
At the mention of Striker's name, Charles' expression grew dark. There wasn't a mutant alive who didn't know who the man was, or the threat he represented.
"We went in for the purpose of extraction." It was one of the many things the Brotherhood did, and one of the few things he knew Charles couldn't find fault with. "But when we got there we found the place cleared. There was evidence of a struggle. We're not sure if Wolverine managed to escape, or if Striker's moved him to a new location."
"What is Striker doing with him?" Charles asked. He spat Striker's name like it was a curse. Magneto thrilled to hear the venom in Charles' voice. They had so much more in common than Charles realized. It gave Magneto renewed hope.
"Turning him into a weapon, to use against us," Magneto said. He watched as Charles contemplated the news while simultaneously putting Magneto's king back into check.
"I'm not sure what this has to do with me," Charles said, glancing up from the board.
Magneto frowned at the chessboard. Charles would have him in checkmate in three moves.
"I was hoping I could convince you to help us find him. With Cerebro you could..." It was as far as he got before the look on Charles' face stopped him. A brief flash of despair, so vivid it stole Magneto's breath, was soon replaced by cold indifference, Charles' eyes shuttering, his jaw becoming a hard line of disappointment.
"Oh," he said, and Magneto suspected he'd intended his tone to be impassive. Instead he sounded utterly defeated. Magneto's heart clenched at the sound. "I had thought you... But of course that wasn't it; how foolish of me to think otherwise."
He drained the remainder of his whiskey in one gulp, setting his glass down amidst tumbled chess pieces, their game forgotten.
"I seem to have wasted both of our time. My apologies. Thank you for the game. I'm assuming you can find your own way out," Charles said, pushing away from the table. Without another word, he wheeled himself from the room, Magneto left to stare at his retreating form, not quite certain what had transpired.
For a long minute he sat, staring at the door, occasionally glancing back down at the chessboard, then back up at the door. He expected Charles to return, to explain his abrupt departure, despite knowing it unlikely. He prided himself on being able to read people, but the truth was he was incapable of navigating the more complicated aspects of human relationships--the penalty for having spent his formative years in the hands of a madman--or so Raven felt compelled to constantly remind him.
"Oh," he said when it finally struck him. It should have earlier, possibly the moment Mystique had conceived the idea. He could have left then, should have left then; it was doubtful Charles wanted to see him ever again--and there went his hopes for a future with Charles fighting by his side, along with his hopes of finding the Wolverine in any sort of timely fashion. And that, Magneto realized, was exactly what had gotten him into this mess. It was impossible to separate his cause from anything else in his life, which was why his cause was the only thing in his life. He didn't leave, though, instead rising from his chair and tidying their drinks before going in search of Charles.
~*~
He was not disappointed. He told himself this firmly, repeatedly, as he wheeled himself as far from the study as he could possibly get. He should find Mr. Thompson, ensure that Erik--Magneto, Charles reminded himself--got out of the house without incident. Instead he found himself outside, heading down the gravel pathway toward the oak that on some days was his sole companion.
When did this become his life?
The worst part, he thought, was the humiliation of it all. Clearly he should have known--should have suspected at least, Magneto's reputation well known even to a hermit like Charles. He had hoped, however, that Erik had felt the same kinship towards him that he'd felt towards Erik.
"Stupid, stupid," Charles said beneath his breath.
It had grown late during their chess match. The grounds were silent and serene, the night far-reaching. Charles shivered, realizing that he'd neglected to bring a coat, the warmth of food and alcohol and good conversation artificially filling him. In their absence, he felt the cold acutely. He wanted for a pair of gloves. The chill numbed the beginning rumblings of anger, until Charles was left with only the familiar emptiness of despondency.
Oh how he wished he could nurse that anger.
In the weeks and months following Moria's death, Charles, overwrought with grief and guilt and uncertainty, still reeling from the loss of his legs, had often wished for death; wished to trade places with the woman he had tried so hard to love. He no longer wished for death--there was so much good he was capable of, so much he could contribute to the world--but there were days when he was so overcome by loneliness, his self-imposed isolation taking its toll, that he thought he might have been better off having died in that crash. Later, he'd reprimand himself for the thought, but in the here and now it seemed the thought had never left him, that it would linger about his head for eternity.
He had no idea how long he sat, the cold biting at his nose, bringing his skin to gooseflesh, but eventually the crunch of gravel behind him drew his attention. He shook his head, clearing the haze of wine from his vision, and turned, expecting to find Hank--or at the very least Mr. Thompson--coming to collect him. Instead he found himself face to face with Erik.
Night cast long shadows across Erik's face, making him impossible to read--and oh how he hated that helmet--so Charles sat perfectly still, maintaining his silence, waiting until Erik reached his side.
"Are you expecting me to apologize?" Charles said when the silence between them had grown tense.
"What?" Erik asked, sounding genuinely confused. Charles glanced down at his hands, then back up, surprised to find Erik suddenly so close. He had stepped forward until he was standing mere inches from Charles' chair, forcing Charles to tilt his head back to meet his eye. "Of course you don't owe me an apology, Charles. I suspect I owe you one, but I think I should first clarify something," he said.
Charles couldn't find his voice to respond, so he said nothing.
"I think you should know that I only discovered Wolverine was missing yesterday, a full twenty-four hours after I agreed to meet with you."
Charles wondered if the confession was meant to change anything. It occurred to him then that they had started off entirely on the wrong foot; Erik shielded by his helmet, Charles by his arrogance. What was he hoping to accomplish by forging a friendship--or whatever this was--with this man?
"Go ahead, see for yourself," Erik continued, reaching shaky hands to his head. Charles could only watch, dumbstruck, shocked to his very core, as Erik slid the helmet from his head.
He did not dive into Erik's mind immediately, however much he wanted to, but rather approached Erik's thoughts cautiously, timid in his telepathy in a way he had never been. Erik stood before him, clearly terrified, clearly uncertain, but stoic and resolved all the same. Rarely had Charles been witness to such bravery.
The first brush against Erik's thoughts was like stepping into a tangle of thorns, barbed wire set against an invading army. Charles picked a careful path between spikes of razor-sharp steel, wading into the standing calm of Erik's surface thoughts. Beyond, swirling chaos navigated a tightly woven maze of memories and experience, an impeding barrier to Erik's subconscious.
Charles cast these parts a wary glance, but remained within the relatively safe confines of Erik's surface thoughts.
Two things became immediately clear. The first was that Erik spoke the truth; he had accepted Charles' invitation with the best of intentions, and although those intentions were coloured by his desire for Charles to join his cause, he had genuinely wanted to spend an evening in Charles' company.
The second was that Erik returned the fledgling feelings of friendship and camaraderie that stirred in Charles' breast. For Erik the feeling was a new sensation, one that brought as much confusion and irritation as it did joy.
"Oh, Erik," Charles said, smiling. Were he not still inside Erik's head, he would have missed the subtle shift in Erik's expression. Still floating on the surface of Erik's thoughts as he was, he caught the slight relaxing of Erik's jaw even as he felt Erik's relief. It surged only briefly and then was gone, replaced by exasperated fondness and a brief flare of attraction.
"I apologize for overstepping," Erik said, stepping back abruptly, thoughts tinged with embarrassment. Without delving deeper, Charles couldn't tell if he was embarrassed for the direction of his thoughts or the apology.
"And I for thinking the worst," Charles replied.
Erik nodded briskly, the moment stretching out between them until Charles decided on a leap of faith.
"It's late and I'm tired, but if you wanted I could arrange a spare room for you for the night, and then in the morning I could show you Cerebro, try to find this Wolverine for you."
The surprise that flashed through Erik's mind was so sharp, so raw, that Charles knew he had made the right choice. Had Erik been manipulating him, he would have seen this outcome. That he had already dismissed the possibility of Charles' help told Charles all he needed to know.
Erik cleared his throat before answering, but even then all that came out was a hoarse, "Thank you."
Charles smiled and nodded up the path, waiting briefly for Erik to collect himself, helmet still tucked beneath his arm, before leading the way inside.
On to chapter 7
Fandom: XMFC (fusion with comic-canon and 1990s animated series)
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Back to chapter 5
Despite his intentions, Magneto ended up arriving late, not early, to the Xavier estate. The search of Striker's abandoned base had ended up taking longer than he'd anticipated--though the two crates worth of found documents were worth the delay. This was followed by a low pressure system that brought severe storms into their flight path, further delaying their trip into New York. By the time Magneto arrived outside Charles' door, he was more than an hour late.
Charles seemed unconcerned, greeting Magneto warmly despite the disapproving frown he shot Magneto's helmet. Still, he welcomed Magneto into his home as an old friend instead of a tentative acquaintance, accepting Magneto's apology with a wordless shrug. It was strange being shown such absolute trust so early into a relationship. Magneto wasn't sure how to interpret the gesture.
"How was your business?" Charles asked as soon as Magneto was through the front door. He seemed uncommonly nervous, yet still poised and confident.
"Disappointing," Magneto answered, though he didn't elaborate. He had no intention of broaching the subject yet--in part because he thought Charles would be more receptive as the evening wore on, but if he was honest with himself, it was also because he wanted time to enjoy Charles' company without it being overshadowed by work.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Charles said, and Magneto could tell that he genuinely was.
Magneto shrugged, dismissing the topic before it could get away from them. Charles seemed more than happy to let it drop, leading Magneto further into the house. The Xavier estate was everything Magneto imagined it would be--displays of wealth as prominent as they were understated, as though Charles' ancestors had wanted visitors to know the importance of their name, while simultaneously trying to draw attention away from their financial superiority. Charles led them through wide corridors and halls, where dark wood panelling stretched between sculpted plaster ceilings and polished marble floors. The house was well furnished, but curiously devoid of decorative artifacts.
"Have you eaten?" Charles asked, glancing over his shoulder. He had been wheeling himself steadily forward, but now he slowed, coming to a stop where two halls intersected.
"I haven't," Magneto said, realizing that it had been some time since he'd last eaten. His arrival in New York had been so rushed that he'd barely had enough time to appropriate a car to take him to Westchester, let alone worry about necessities like food.
"I had my housekeeper prepare a small supper, if you'd like." Charles sounded uncertain, and yet hopeful. Magneto watched, transfixed, as Charles took his lower lip between his teeth and chewed it awkwardly.
"Dinner would be good," Magneto said, watching Charles' features light up. Something in his chest lurched uncomfortably at the sight.
He was expecting Charles to lead him to a formal dining room--from what he'd seen of the house so far, it seemed likely the place had at least one such room--but instead Charles led him into a small, warmly lit kitchen, where a small wooden table sat low beneath the room's only window. It was set for two, the china plain and well used. The rich scent of tomato and cheese assaulted Magneto's senses and set his stomach rumbling.
"I hope this is all right," Charles said, perhaps sensing Magneto's surprise.
"It's fine," Magneto said, which seemed to be enough of an assurance to start Charles moving again. He wheeled himself about the kitchen, extremely comfortable in the small space, and it struck Magneto then that a man who undoubtedly ate most of his meals alone or with servants probably preferred eating in the kitchen to eating in a dining hall.
He watched Charles retrieve a bottle of wine from a rack beside the fridge, holding it up for Magneto's approval and then setting it on the table. Next he moved to the oven, sliding it open to retrieve a ceramic dish with gloved hands.
"Mrs. Forrester makes excellent cannelloni," he said. He set the dish on top of the oven and closed the door. "Though I'm afraid you'll have to serve," he continued with a self-depreciating chuckle. Magneto was momentarily struck by the domesticity of the situation. He couldn't remember the last time he had simply enjoyed a meal with another person. In the years since his mother's murder, he suspected he hadn't.
"I don't mind," Magneto said, retrieving their plates while Charles busied himself opening the wine.
It turned out Mrs. Forrester did make excellent cannelloni, but it was not the food--nor the wine, despite it being an excellent vintage--that kept Magneto's attention. Charles was on top of his game, chatting amicably on a number of subjects, always keeping one step ahead, delighting Magneto as often as he bewildered him. This was the self-assured man he had met at the Symposium, not the man who had called him in the middle of the night to invite him to play chess. Magneto took care to fill Charles' wine glass often.
"It's fascinating in terms of evolutionary progression, knowing that it's the male who carries the mutant X gene. Males, of course, are better suited to wide-spread genetic distribution, because they can impregnate a number of females simultaneously, whereas females can only carry one genetic sample per pregnancy," Charles said. "It implies the mutant X gene should move faster through the population than it would if it passed on the maternal side."
And of course Charles saw the supremacy of Homo superior spreading through sex rather than securing its place through war.
"So you're suggesting we should begin rounding up human females, perhaps institute a breeding program in order to increase the mutant population?" Magneto asked. Charles paled.
"Oh, dear God, no. Why would you even think..."
Magneto smirked, thrilled to see the wine was finally doing its job.
"Oh, you're having me on. You horrible, horrible man," Charles said, but he was smiling as he said it, seeming well pleased by the turn of events.
Magneto tipped his head, but the smile never left his face, even as he leaned back in his chair and took another sip of his wine.
"You have to confess, it is an argument in favour of coexistence. We're looking at three, maybe four generations before Homo superior replaces Homo sapiens. If, before that happens, Homo sapiens were to disappear entirely, I very much doubt that Homo superior would have the necessary genetic diversity for continued survival. The propagation of our species depends on the health and well being of theirs."
It was an argument Magneto had heard before, one he usually countered with quotes from Charles' other works. The man, it seemed, was a walking contradiction. It fascinated Magneto in a way he knew it probably shouldn't--certainly in a way he knew could prove quite dangerous.
He really couldn't help himself.
"So you're saying we should make love, not war," he said, not bothering to keep the innuendo from his tone. Across the table, Charles flushed, a shy smile appearing on his face that he took care to hide behind his wine glass.
By the time they had finished dinner--and the wine--and had cleared the dishes, Magneto was feeling comfortably intoxicated. It wasn't just the alcohol. There was something decidedly inebriating about Charles' company. Magneto couldn't remember a time when he'd allowed himself the luxury of relaxing, of letting his guard down. Tonight he found himself doing both.
Charles led them back down to the juncture in the hall, this time taking the right branch, which brought them to an over-sized study. The lamps were lit and a chessboard already set--all the scene was missing was a roaring fire, though the room did possess a fireplace, so Magneto supposed if they wanted one it would be short work.
"Normally I'd," Charles waggled his fingers, "but since there's a piece of anti-telepathy technology blocking me you'll have to simply tell me your drink of preference," he said. It was the first time he'd openly acknowledged the fact that Magneto was still wearing his helmet.
Magneto could have apologized--he could have offered to remove the offending device, but he had spent too much time in the company of telepaths; he knew what they were capable of, and it was hard to trust people who could manipulate a man's most basic thoughts. Instead, he simply answered Charles' question.
"A dry martini, please," he said.
Charles nodded and then wheeled himself over to a low bureau which turned out to be the bar. He took his time mixing Magneto's drink and then poured himself a scotch over ice. Magneto crossed the room to accept his drink, giving Charles a free hand to get himself to the chessboard.
"It's been some time since I last played," Charles said, choosing white. "I tried teaching Hank, but it can be hard to occupy his attention with things other than science."
Magneto had wondered where Charles' assistant was, but he wasn't sure if McCoy even lived in the house, so he didn't ask. Instead he claimed the chair opposite Charles and moved his pawn to e5.
"I'm sure you'll be fine," he said.
And he was; more than fine. Magneto couldn't remember the last time he'd played against such a skilled opponent. Charles kept him constantly guessing, employing strategies that Magneto saw only three moves later. The wine and whiskey had obviously done nothing to tether his genius. An hour later, Magneto watched in dazed confusion as Charles calmly stole his queen and put him in check.
"There is something I've been meaning to ask you," Magneto said, moving his king to safety.
"Oh," Charles said, glancing up. The soft light of the room amplified the blue of his eyes. Magneto momentarily forgot what they were talking about.
"That business I had earlier," he said once he'd remembered. Charles arched an eyebrow, the game losing his attention. "We were looking for a mutant. Someone they call the Wolverine. He was being held in one of William Striker's facilities."
At the mention of Striker's name, Charles' expression grew dark. There wasn't a mutant alive who didn't know who the man was, or the threat he represented.
"We went in for the purpose of extraction." It was one of the many things the Brotherhood did, and one of the few things he knew Charles couldn't find fault with. "But when we got there we found the place cleared. There was evidence of a struggle. We're not sure if Wolverine managed to escape, or if Striker's moved him to a new location."
"What is Striker doing with him?" Charles asked. He spat Striker's name like it was a curse. Magneto thrilled to hear the venom in Charles' voice. They had so much more in common than Charles realized. It gave Magneto renewed hope.
"Turning him into a weapon, to use against us," Magneto said. He watched as Charles contemplated the news while simultaneously putting Magneto's king back into check.
"I'm not sure what this has to do with me," Charles said, glancing up from the board.
Magneto frowned at the chessboard. Charles would have him in checkmate in three moves.
"I was hoping I could convince you to help us find him. With Cerebro you could..." It was as far as he got before the look on Charles' face stopped him. A brief flash of despair, so vivid it stole Magneto's breath, was soon replaced by cold indifference, Charles' eyes shuttering, his jaw becoming a hard line of disappointment.
"Oh," he said, and Magneto suspected he'd intended his tone to be impassive. Instead he sounded utterly defeated. Magneto's heart clenched at the sound. "I had thought you... But of course that wasn't it; how foolish of me to think otherwise."
He drained the remainder of his whiskey in one gulp, setting his glass down amidst tumbled chess pieces, their game forgotten.
"I seem to have wasted both of our time. My apologies. Thank you for the game. I'm assuming you can find your own way out," Charles said, pushing away from the table. Without another word, he wheeled himself from the room, Magneto left to stare at his retreating form, not quite certain what had transpired.
For a long minute he sat, staring at the door, occasionally glancing back down at the chessboard, then back up at the door. He expected Charles to return, to explain his abrupt departure, despite knowing it unlikely. He prided himself on being able to read people, but the truth was he was incapable of navigating the more complicated aspects of human relationships--the penalty for having spent his formative years in the hands of a madman--or so Raven felt compelled to constantly remind him.
"Oh," he said when it finally struck him. It should have earlier, possibly the moment Mystique had conceived the idea. He could have left then, should have left then; it was doubtful Charles wanted to see him ever again--and there went his hopes for a future with Charles fighting by his side, along with his hopes of finding the Wolverine in any sort of timely fashion. And that, Magneto realized, was exactly what had gotten him into this mess. It was impossible to separate his cause from anything else in his life, which was why his cause was the only thing in his life. He didn't leave, though, instead rising from his chair and tidying their drinks before going in search of Charles.
~*~
He was not disappointed. He told himself this firmly, repeatedly, as he wheeled himself as far from the study as he could possibly get. He should find Mr. Thompson, ensure that Erik--Magneto, Charles reminded himself--got out of the house without incident. Instead he found himself outside, heading down the gravel pathway toward the oak that on some days was his sole companion.
When did this become his life?
The worst part, he thought, was the humiliation of it all. Clearly he should have known--should have suspected at least, Magneto's reputation well known even to a hermit like Charles. He had hoped, however, that Erik had felt the same kinship towards him that he'd felt towards Erik.
"Stupid, stupid," Charles said beneath his breath.
It had grown late during their chess match. The grounds were silent and serene, the night far-reaching. Charles shivered, realizing that he'd neglected to bring a coat, the warmth of food and alcohol and good conversation artificially filling him. In their absence, he felt the cold acutely. He wanted for a pair of gloves. The chill numbed the beginning rumblings of anger, until Charles was left with only the familiar emptiness of despondency.
Oh how he wished he could nurse that anger.
In the weeks and months following Moria's death, Charles, overwrought with grief and guilt and uncertainty, still reeling from the loss of his legs, had often wished for death; wished to trade places with the woman he had tried so hard to love. He no longer wished for death--there was so much good he was capable of, so much he could contribute to the world--but there were days when he was so overcome by loneliness, his self-imposed isolation taking its toll, that he thought he might have been better off having died in that crash. Later, he'd reprimand himself for the thought, but in the here and now it seemed the thought had never left him, that it would linger about his head for eternity.
He had no idea how long he sat, the cold biting at his nose, bringing his skin to gooseflesh, but eventually the crunch of gravel behind him drew his attention. He shook his head, clearing the haze of wine from his vision, and turned, expecting to find Hank--or at the very least Mr. Thompson--coming to collect him. Instead he found himself face to face with Erik.
Night cast long shadows across Erik's face, making him impossible to read--and oh how he hated that helmet--so Charles sat perfectly still, maintaining his silence, waiting until Erik reached his side.
"Are you expecting me to apologize?" Charles said when the silence between them had grown tense.
"What?" Erik asked, sounding genuinely confused. Charles glanced down at his hands, then back up, surprised to find Erik suddenly so close. He had stepped forward until he was standing mere inches from Charles' chair, forcing Charles to tilt his head back to meet his eye. "Of course you don't owe me an apology, Charles. I suspect I owe you one, but I think I should first clarify something," he said.
Charles couldn't find his voice to respond, so he said nothing.
"I think you should know that I only discovered Wolverine was missing yesterday, a full twenty-four hours after I agreed to meet with you."
Charles wondered if the confession was meant to change anything. It occurred to him then that they had started off entirely on the wrong foot; Erik shielded by his helmet, Charles by his arrogance. What was he hoping to accomplish by forging a friendship--or whatever this was--with this man?
"Go ahead, see for yourself," Erik continued, reaching shaky hands to his head. Charles could only watch, dumbstruck, shocked to his very core, as Erik slid the helmet from his head.
He did not dive into Erik's mind immediately, however much he wanted to, but rather approached Erik's thoughts cautiously, timid in his telepathy in a way he had never been. Erik stood before him, clearly terrified, clearly uncertain, but stoic and resolved all the same. Rarely had Charles been witness to such bravery.
The first brush against Erik's thoughts was like stepping into a tangle of thorns, barbed wire set against an invading army. Charles picked a careful path between spikes of razor-sharp steel, wading into the standing calm of Erik's surface thoughts. Beyond, swirling chaos navigated a tightly woven maze of memories and experience, an impeding barrier to Erik's subconscious.
Charles cast these parts a wary glance, but remained within the relatively safe confines of Erik's surface thoughts.
Two things became immediately clear. The first was that Erik spoke the truth; he had accepted Charles' invitation with the best of intentions, and although those intentions were coloured by his desire for Charles to join his cause, he had genuinely wanted to spend an evening in Charles' company.
The second was that Erik returned the fledgling feelings of friendship and camaraderie that stirred in Charles' breast. For Erik the feeling was a new sensation, one that brought as much confusion and irritation as it did joy.
"Oh, Erik," Charles said, smiling. Were he not still inside Erik's head, he would have missed the subtle shift in Erik's expression. Still floating on the surface of Erik's thoughts as he was, he caught the slight relaxing of Erik's jaw even as he felt Erik's relief. It surged only briefly and then was gone, replaced by exasperated fondness and a brief flare of attraction.
"I apologize for overstepping," Erik said, stepping back abruptly, thoughts tinged with embarrassment. Without delving deeper, Charles couldn't tell if he was embarrassed for the direction of his thoughts or the apology.
"And I for thinking the worst," Charles replied.
Erik nodded briskly, the moment stretching out between them until Charles decided on a leap of faith.
"It's late and I'm tired, but if you wanted I could arrange a spare room for you for the night, and then in the morning I could show you Cerebro, try to find this Wolverine for you."
The surprise that flashed through Erik's mind was so sharp, so raw, that Charles knew he had made the right choice. Had Erik been manipulating him, he would have seen this outcome. That he had already dismissed the possibility of Charles' help told Charles all he needed to know.
Erik cleared his throat before answering, but even then all that came out was a hoarse, "Thank you."
Charles smiled and nodded up the path, waiting briefly for Erik to collect himself, helmet still tucked beneath his arm, before leading the way inside.
On to chapter 7
