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nekosmuseFic: Tessellation (9/?)
Fandom: XMFC (fusion with comic-canon and 1990s animated series)
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Back to chapter 8
The hotel--and despite the sign proclaiming it as such, Charles didn't think it deserving of the name--was the kind of motor court they built in the fifties, only since then it had been left to fall into disrepair. It was clean, he'd give it that much--the stink of bleach overwhelming even the stale scent of tobacco--but the walls were in need of paint and the linens hadn't been replaced in decades. He could no longer discern the carpet's original colour, but he suspected the patterns that covered its surface were made long after it was installed.
Charles looked around his room and wondered how exactly he had thought he could manage this.
It wasn't just the logistical problems--too little space to maneuver his chair, never mind a narrow bathroom door that was never meant to accommodate a man in a wheelchair--but also the thought of sleeping somewhere that wasn't his familiar, comfortable bed, with all the amenities he had grown used to over the years. Charles hadn't slept somewhere foreign since his honeymoon. The prospect of doing so now made his chest constrict painfully. Were he not already intimately familiar with the sensation of a panic attack, he might have thought he was having a heart attack.
"Breathe," he told himself firmly as he wheeled further into the room.
A double bed, mattress sagged in the middle, took up most of the room, though they had somehow managed to cram a desk, end table and chest of drawers into the remaining space. They were a matched set, knotted pine that carried as many stains as the carpet. Two feet into the room and Charles had to stop, his path blocked on all sides, save the way he'd come. There would be no reaching the bed, or the tiny bathroom--though from what he could see through the open door, he doubted it would matter much. There was little space between the toilet and pedestal sink, and in place of a tub, there was a standing-room only shower with dials well outside his reach.
Charles wondered briefly if Erik would mind relocating.
As if summoned, Erik appeared in the still open door.
"It's worse than mine," he said, stepping past Charles, an act that caused Erik's outer thigh to brush against the backside of Charles' knuckles. Perhaps there was something to be said for tight places, after all. "There's another motel ten miles up, but I can't imagine it'll be much better, not to mention this is a convenient location."
He tilted his head then, considering. Charles watched, dumbstruck, as Erik raised his hands, as though preparing to conduct an imaginary symphony. The desk migrated to the far corner, providing a base for what was to become a pyramid of furniture, the dresser and end table stacked neatly on top. When he had finished, the room was considerably more spacious, with more than enough room for Charles to get to the bed.
"How did you manage that?" Charles asked, gesturing to the wood. Erik tutted, but he was smiling, obviously pleased by Charles' enthusiasm.
"Nails, Charles." He glanced briefly at Charles' chair and then turned a narrow eye to the bathroom door. "We may need to pay damages," he said.
Charles' confusion must have shown on his face, because Erik laughed, then lifted a hand, crooked his fingers, and the entire wall into the bathroom shuddered. Charles watched, transfixed, as Erik worked a line of nails, popping them one by one until the stud came undone. He did the same with another stud, and another, and another, until the wall came free, dust and plaster shaking loose and covering the room in white. Through the dust, Charles watched Erik float the wall by its remaining nails and screws. He leaned it in front of the furniture pile, the entire back right corner of the room now impromptu storage. There was now a clean line from the door to the bed and from the bed to the bathroom.
"Yes, I can see how that was helpful," Charles said, coughing sharply, choking on the fall out. He made a point of dusting plaster from his hair.
"We'll have them send in the maid while we're at dinner, get the place cleaned out," Erik said, and Charles knew without asking that Erik expected him to hand-wave the innkeepers into compliance.
On the plus side, the toilet was now easily accessible through the once-wall, now-hole. It was probably a good thing Charles' propriety had led him to insist on his own room.
"You realize this is going to cost a minor fortune? And no, I'm certainly not going to telepathy them into footing the bill themselves," Charles said. Erik offered a near scathing look, though it was tinged around the edges with exasperated affection.
"How little you think of me, Charles," he said, and Charles wanted to correct him, to tell him that, no, he actually thought a good deal of him--certainly more than he ever thought he would--but before he could comment, Erik continued. "Perhaps you're not aware, but the Brotherhood's liquid assets are, at last estimate, somewhere in the neighbourhood of three hundred and eight million. I'm sure we can cover the damages."
Erik wasn't boasting--Magneto might have, but Erik was merely stating fact. His words were accompanied by a sudden hardening of the shields he had set around his thoughts. Charles knew without looking that the vast majority of that wealth had been amassed under questionable methods. The Brotherhood might have a legitimate, corporate front, but there were few who didn't know that that front was mostly for show.
"My apologies," Charles said with a mock bow that earned him a smile. "We'll stop at the office on the way to dinner. And, Erik, thank you."
Erik's eyes lit up, and Charles wondered when he'd started allowing Erik to so thoroughly influence his actions. It was possible Hank's worries were well-founded, that Erik was a bad influence. It was almost a shame Charles couldn't bring himself to mind.
~*~
The bar Holman had mentioned sat adjacent to the motel, a rough-looking road house with more motorcycles outside than cars. The innkeepers--who were more than happy to wave off the damages in Charles' room in exchange for Erik's money--had insisted the place served the best steaks this side of Texas, so they'd gone in, looking for food and a quiet place to wait. They got the food, but not the quiet, the place exceedingly loud, despite the sun having only just set.
Still, they had a table to themselves, which was more than Erik had expected in a place like this. They sat near the back of the room, backs against the far wall and eyes on the door. Dinner had come and gone, and now they sat, Charles several drinks in, Erik still nursing his first beer, watching the door for any sign of their quarry.
From somewhere inside the bag Charles had brought, he pulled out a travel chess set and began setting it up on the table between them. Erik arched an eyebrow, but otherwise refrained from comment. They were already out of place here and he could see no reason to conform to the local standard--which wasn't, in Erik's opinion, particularly high.
"I hope you don't mind. I get so few occasions to play, and, well, our last game was interrupted," Charles said, voice raised to be heard over the din. Erik chuckled, remembering how their last game had ended. He gestured for Charles to continue his setup.
It was clear Charles was pleased by Erik's response, but Erik suspected he would have ended playing regardless of desire. Erik was quickly realizing Charles didn't take no for an answer, which was probably why they were sitting in this bar, waiting on Wolverine, when Erik distinctly remembered telling Charles that he wanted him well out of this until Erik had neutralized the threat. He hated how quickly the thought soured his mood.
"You're thinking rather furiously over there," Charles said when he was done setting up the board. He was quick to elaborate at Erik's sharp glance. "I'm not listening in, so I don't know what you're thinking, only that you are."
"I was actually wondering how we got here. I have a distinct recollection of telling you this morning that you weren't to come within a mile of Wolverine. I believe my exact words were that I wanted you well out of the line of fire. Care to explain why we're sitting here when I should have left you back at the hotel and came here on my own?"
As soon as he asked, he felt guilty, but he didn't take it back. It was the sort of thing that should have made Erik furious--Magneto would have killed Charles on the spot had he discovered Charles had been messing with his head--but instead Erik found himself only mildly annoyed and, if he was honest, somewhat hurt. He had thought Charles would respect the boundaries of their friendship.
Charles' face had paled, and he was staring across the table, wide-eyed, his mouth frozen open in the perfect impression of a gaping fish.
"You think I influenced you? I didn't, Erik. I swear to you, I didn't. I really thought you'd just changed your mind, or forgot, or... I don't know, decided you needed me at your side."
There was no lie that Erik could discern in Charles' voice, but it was the hurt look in Charles' eyes that settled it for him. His guilt increased tenfold, seizing in his throat until he thought he might choke on it. He told himself that it wasn't his fault; that suspicion came naturally to him--he was so very used to being betrayed--and that it was inevitable that he would come to question Charles' motives. Still, he hated that it was him who had put that hurt look on Charles' face, especially when things had been going so well between them.
"I'm sorry," he said, the apology stilted and awkward on his unpracticed tongue. "God, Charles, I..."
Charles' expression softened, and he leaned forward and placed his hand atop Erik's. "It's fine. Expected, really--you've hardly had cause to trust the people in your life--and I haven't exactly given you any reason to trust me." Erik thought of Hank and instantly understood where his fears originated--understood too that they were, in part, founded. "But I swear to you I won't ever, not with you."
Erik wasn't sure why he of all people warranted Charles' restraint, but he nodded, feeling a renewed surge of trust that was as foreign as it was comforting.
"Still, I am sorry," Erik said, realizing then that Charles' hand was still resting over his. He flipped his palm, offering Charles' hand a brief squeeze before he pulled his hand away to move his rook.
"It's forgiven, and forgotten," Charles said, countenance immediately brightening.
It was easy then to fall into their game, Erik soon as relaxed as he'd been on the drive up. It wasn't often that he found himself so at ease; certainly his life hadn't been conducive to such a thing. He found himself wondering what it might have been like to meet Charles back when he was young and rash and looking for answers. Would Charles have steered him down a different path? Or would they have butted heads and ended hated one another?
Back in the days when Erik would spend countless hours a day reading and re-reading Charles' work--back before he'd found other mutants, when Charles' work was the only link he had to knowing who he was, to knowing he wasn't alone--he'd fantasized often about meeting the man, about long conversations and all the wonderful places their visions might take them. Charles was nothing like the man he'd envisioned back then, but for the first time in his life, reality was better than fantasy.
"I've lost you again," Charles said. He was staring at Erik intently. Erik contemplated the board and made his move, hoping Charles would think him simply lost in strategy. Charles laughed. "You're not playing well enough for that, and yes, this time I am reading your mind."
There was enough cheek in Charles' tone that Erik forgave him for it. He cocked his head, considering, and then decided on honesty.
"I was just wondering what you were like as a young man," he said. Charles looked startled. "I read your manifesto, you know, not long after you'd written it. It was very inspirational."
"Really?" Charles sounded as incredulous as he did flattered.
"At the time, I didn't know other mutants existed. I thought I was..." a freak he wanted to say, an anomaly, or maybe even a monster--certainly that was what Schmidt had intended to create, "alone," he settled on. "It was like I was drowning in icy water, and then your manifesto came along and suddenly I'd broken the surface. Knowing you now, I'm sure you didn't mean for me to interpret your work as I did, but at the time, it gave me a sense of purpose I'd never had before." Save killing Schmidt, he didn't say, but Charles looked so honestly touched that Erik suspected he'd forgive the admission.
It had been a while since he'd been so honest, since he'd opened himself so completely to another person. Part of him considered it amends for his earlier accusation, but part of him simply wanted Charles to know--to understand--the influence he'd had on Erik's life.
"I'm not sure you would have liked me back then. I was far more idealistic, and a good deal more arrogant, I'm afraid," Charles said. He seemed slightly embarrassed by the confession. Erik couldn't help himself.
"I wouldn't have thought that possible," he said with a smirk. Charles shot him an affronted look, but he was smiling too, seeming flushed and warmed by the openness of their conversation--though the three empty whiskey glasses on the table were probably helping.
"Do you know, I hardly ever used my telepathy back then. Actually, that's not true; I used it all the time, but I was far stricter in how I used it. It wasn't until a few years later, after I'd read a very fascinating essay, that I realized my telepathy was a part of me and that denying it would be denying my very nature. It was quite the enlightening experience," Charles said.
He was smiling again, wide and innocent, which Erik knew by now meant Charles was up to some mischief. He leaned back in his chair, took Charles' queen, and asked, "Oh?"
"I distinctly remember the essay was called A Mutant Call to Arms, though I can't for the life of me recall its author." Charles' grin was threatening to spill over into full out laughter. Erik would have scolded him for it were he not so completely blown away by Charles' confession.
He'd been so young when he'd written that essay. It was only a fluke that had allowed him to see it to publication; a wistful hope that it might attract mutants to his cause. And it had, but to know now that Charles Xavier had read it and found something in it worth keeping was enough to set Erik's heart racing. Without thinking he reached across the table and once again took Charles' hand. Charles offered him a warm smile at the gesture.
"Thought you'd like that," Charles said, moving his king out of check with his left hand, his right remaining firmly entwined with Erik's left.
They played that way for the better part of the night, Charles waving away anyone who thought to question it, Erik thrilling at the contact--he honestly couldn't remember when he'd last touched someone just for the sake of touching. When last call came with still no sign of Wolverine, Erik finally withdrew his hand, drained the last of his beer--the second of the night--and gave Charles a pointed look. He had no idea what he intended it to mean.
"I guess we have an early morning, then," Charles said, glancing at his watch. He pushed aside his latest whiskey--and God, could the man drink, Erik thought-- and maneuvered himself away from the table. A dry chuckle escaped his lips. "Another unfinished game," he said, though in truth it was their second of the night, and Charles had won the first.
Charles packed the chess set while Erik settled their tab. When they got back to Charles' room, they found it cleaned, the bed re-made with mismatched sheets and the extra furniture--and wall--cleared from the room.
"We'll need to leave here at seven," Erik said, knowing he should leave Charles to his own devices, head next door and get some sleep. Instead he found himself standing awkwardly in Charles' room, the door still open behind him.
He wasn't sure what he was waiting for--an invitation, maybe, or possibly acknowledgment from Charles that something had shifted in their relationship. Instead Charles looked as awkward as Erik. It took Erik a minute to realize he was eyeing the exposed bathroom wearily.
"Well, goodnight, Charles," Erik said, stepping back through the door.
"Goodnight, Erik," Charles returned, and Erik didn't miss the slight hint of regret in his tone. A worry for another day, after they'd finished what they'd come to do. Erik smiled, bright and honest, and tipped an imaginary hat in Charles' direction. It earned him a soft smile, Charles offering a gracious nod in turn.
Walking back to his room, Erik felt a good deal lighter than he had in years.
~*~
Mornings were rough. Awkward, too, especially waking in a strange place, practically trapped in the divot on the bed, with no one to call to for help--save Erik, who Charles could sense already moving next door, but there was no way in hell he was going to ask Erik to help him out of bed, no matter how carnivorous it might be.
He eventually managed it, with more cursing than he would ever admit. His upper body strength had improved dramatically in the last ten years, but he was still nowhere near as strong as he should have been. Too pampered a life, he realized, with not enough excuses--pride not withstanding--to do things for himself. He vowed to change that once he got home.
It was early, well before sunrise, but morning ablutions took longer for Charles than they did most people--God only knew why Erik was up already--so once he was out of bed and into his chair, he wheeled himself to the bathroom to get started. With the wall gone, it wasn't nearly so bad a chore as he'd anticipated, but he was still relegated to wetting a cloth and sponge-bathing, the shower stall clearly insurmountable.
The better part of an hour later, he sat in the middle of the room, clean, empty, shaved and dressed. A line of sweat beaded his forehead. His watch read shortly after six. He reached out tentatively with his mind, searching for Erik, meaning to ask if he wanted to get breakfast, but before he got the chance there was a knock on his door, Erik's mind pulsing warmly on the other side.
Come in, he said into Erik's mind, letting Erik worry about little things like locks and doorknobs.
The door swung open and Erik entered the room, carrying two Styrofoam cups in his hands. He handed one to Charles.
"It's terrible," he said, grimacing around a mouthful from his own cup. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a battered looking bran muffin, wrapped in cellophane. "These are worse."
Charles pressed his lip into a thin line, but accepted the muffin--the bran might prove useful. "Should we get an early start?" he asked. Erik nodded.
It was still nearing their originally intended departure time when they finished checking out and settling how best to pay for damages. The sun was peaking over the horizon when Charles hauled himself up into the Land Rover. With no one else awake, Erik used his powers to stow Charles' chair.
"Hold this," he said when he was finished, passing Charles his helmet through the open window and then circling around to the driver's side.
"Do you think it necessary?" Charles asked once Erik was inside, recoiling from the helmet, even though, up close, it seemed nothing more than a hunk of cold, lifeless metal.
"I think I have no idea who or what this Wolverine is, and more importantly, what he can do. Better safe than sorry," Erik answered, starting the car.
Charles frowned, but accepted the explanation. He held the helmet gingerly, thankful at least that Erik had chosen to forgo the cape--he could just imagine how that would have gone over in a camp full of lumberjacks. If Erik was aware of Charles' discomfort, he ignored it. Wordlessly, he pulled them out onto the freeway, pointed the car towards the camp, and set off. Charles tilted his head back and let the cool autumn air finish what his abandoned coffee had started. He wasn't used to so little sleep. His body ached from a night in a strange bed.
"When we get there, you are to stay in the car. I meant what I said, you can piggy back in my head if you need to, but you're not getting close to this guy," Erik said when they turned off the main road, following the dirt logging track back into the forest.
Charles wanted to argue, to insist on being allowed to help with the search, but he knew from their previous trip that traversing the grounds would be impossible without Erik's help, and he wasn't about to manipulate Erik into doing his bidding--especially not after last night.
"Fine, but if you run into trouble I am stepping in," Charles said. He could already sense Wolverine, his mind as crisp as the morning. If it came down to it, Charles could easily slip past Wolverine's barriers and knock the man down before he realized what was happening.
"I'll be fine," Erik said with a grin, the one that showed all his teeth. This was Erik boasting.
Charles chuckled, feeling that same warm contentedness that he was beginning to associate exclusively with Erik.
The camp was no longer deserted. People milled about the site, processing yesterday's haul, the skeletons of giant maples and oaks, felled without a second thought. Erik parked far enough back to ensure they were out of harm's way, while Charles pushed against any curious eye that glanced in their direction.
"Any idea on where to start looking?" Erik asked. Charles closed his eyes and concentrated.
It was startling to discover just how close Wolverine was, even though Charles had been expecting it. He pointed across the camp, to where a group of about twenty men were loading a flat-bed truck--and how they had got the thing into the bush was a mystery Charles didn't think he'd ever solve.
"He should be over there," he said. Erik nodded, and then was out of the truck, coming around to Charles' window. He motioned for the helmet. "Remind me exactly how I'm supposed to piggyback in your head when you're wearing this?" Charles asked.
Erik hesitated. He looked to the helmet, then back out to where Wolverine and the other men were still loading the truck. It was only about a thousand feet, well within Charles' range, but Charles could tell Erik was uncomfortable going into battle without the helmet.
It doesn't have to be a battle, Charles conveyed. Erik shook his head, but he relaxed and let his hands drop back to his sides.
"Go on then, get inside," he said, gesturing to his head. Charles smiled and slid neatly, effortlessly into place.
Seeing the world from someone else's eyes was a thrill Charles didn't think he'd ever tire of. This was something he had done before, but not in a very long time. Instead of being in complete control, he was merely a passenger, Erik in charge of where they went and how they got there. Charles could only sit back and enjoy the ride. Still, it was almost irresistible, the desire to seize full control, to take over Erik completely. Charles had to clench his hands into fists and press them against his unfeeling thighs to keep from doing exactly that.
"I'm going to circle around the far trailer, come at them from behind. Less likely to draw attention that way," Erik said--or possibly thought, Charles really couldn't tell as he had already started moving towards the trailers.
It was a measure of how thrilling it was to travel in Erik's head--to feel the ground beneath Erik's feet, to feel the fierce beating of Erik's heart, and to sense the pulsing throb of Erik's power--that Charles didn't notice his visitor until the driver's side door clicked open. Charles started and then turned, seeing double for a minute as he tried to extract himself from Erik's head--circling the trailer now, the men loading the trucks temporarily obscured. When his vision cleared, he found himself face to face with a set of what he thought were knives--until he focused clearly, and then he realized they actually extended from a man's knuckles.
Oh, this must be Wolverine, Charles thought dumbly. He reached out a tiny thread, meaning only to subdue Wolverine into lowering his defenses, but in addition to being met with resistance--easily broken--he found that his attempts at persuasion merely slid off Wolverine's mind.
For a moment he sat, fairly stunned, as he tried, again and again, to take control of Wolverine's mind, all without success. It struck him at about the same time as Wolverine lunged forward, coming fully into the car, steel claws brushing against Charles' jugular.
Erik's file said Wolverine had spontaneous regeneration, and that meant his mind regenerated, and that meant he was impervious to mind control. Wonderful.
"I don't know who you are, bub, but you're gonna tell me who sent you, or we're gonna have a problem," Wolverine said at the same time that Charles thought, loudly, and with some degree of panic, Erik, Erik, Erik!
On to chapter 10
Fandom: XMFC (fusion with comic-canon and 1990s animated series)
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Back to chapter 8
The hotel--and despite the sign proclaiming it as such, Charles didn't think it deserving of the name--was the kind of motor court they built in the fifties, only since then it had been left to fall into disrepair. It was clean, he'd give it that much--the stink of bleach overwhelming even the stale scent of tobacco--but the walls were in need of paint and the linens hadn't been replaced in decades. He could no longer discern the carpet's original colour, but he suspected the patterns that covered its surface were made long after it was installed.
Charles looked around his room and wondered how exactly he had thought he could manage this.
It wasn't just the logistical problems--too little space to maneuver his chair, never mind a narrow bathroom door that was never meant to accommodate a man in a wheelchair--but also the thought of sleeping somewhere that wasn't his familiar, comfortable bed, with all the amenities he had grown used to over the years. Charles hadn't slept somewhere foreign since his honeymoon. The prospect of doing so now made his chest constrict painfully. Were he not already intimately familiar with the sensation of a panic attack, he might have thought he was having a heart attack.
"Breathe," he told himself firmly as he wheeled further into the room.
A double bed, mattress sagged in the middle, took up most of the room, though they had somehow managed to cram a desk, end table and chest of drawers into the remaining space. They were a matched set, knotted pine that carried as many stains as the carpet. Two feet into the room and Charles had to stop, his path blocked on all sides, save the way he'd come. There would be no reaching the bed, or the tiny bathroom--though from what he could see through the open door, he doubted it would matter much. There was little space between the toilet and pedestal sink, and in place of a tub, there was a standing-room only shower with dials well outside his reach.
Charles wondered briefly if Erik would mind relocating.
As if summoned, Erik appeared in the still open door.
"It's worse than mine," he said, stepping past Charles, an act that caused Erik's outer thigh to brush against the backside of Charles' knuckles. Perhaps there was something to be said for tight places, after all. "There's another motel ten miles up, but I can't imagine it'll be much better, not to mention this is a convenient location."
He tilted his head then, considering. Charles watched, dumbstruck, as Erik raised his hands, as though preparing to conduct an imaginary symphony. The desk migrated to the far corner, providing a base for what was to become a pyramid of furniture, the dresser and end table stacked neatly on top. When he had finished, the room was considerably more spacious, with more than enough room for Charles to get to the bed.
"How did you manage that?" Charles asked, gesturing to the wood. Erik tutted, but he was smiling, obviously pleased by Charles' enthusiasm.
"Nails, Charles." He glanced briefly at Charles' chair and then turned a narrow eye to the bathroom door. "We may need to pay damages," he said.
Charles' confusion must have shown on his face, because Erik laughed, then lifted a hand, crooked his fingers, and the entire wall into the bathroom shuddered. Charles watched, transfixed, as Erik worked a line of nails, popping them one by one until the stud came undone. He did the same with another stud, and another, and another, until the wall came free, dust and plaster shaking loose and covering the room in white. Through the dust, Charles watched Erik float the wall by its remaining nails and screws. He leaned it in front of the furniture pile, the entire back right corner of the room now impromptu storage. There was now a clean line from the door to the bed and from the bed to the bathroom.
"Yes, I can see how that was helpful," Charles said, coughing sharply, choking on the fall out. He made a point of dusting plaster from his hair.
"We'll have them send in the maid while we're at dinner, get the place cleaned out," Erik said, and Charles knew without asking that Erik expected him to hand-wave the innkeepers into compliance.
On the plus side, the toilet was now easily accessible through the once-wall, now-hole. It was probably a good thing Charles' propriety had led him to insist on his own room.
"You realize this is going to cost a minor fortune? And no, I'm certainly not going to telepathy them into footing the bill themselves," Charles said. Erik offered a near scathing look, though it was tinged around the edges with exasperated affection.
"How little you think of me, Charles," he said, and Charles wanted to correct him, to tell him that, no, he actually thought a good deal of him--certainly more than he ever thought he would--but before he could comment, Erik continued. "Perhaps you're not aware, but the Brotherhood's liquid assets are, at last estimate, somewhere in the neighbourhood of three hundred and eight million. I'm sure we can cover the damages."
Erik wasn't boasting--Magneto might have, but Erik was merely stating fact. His words were accompanied by a sudden hardening of the shields he had set around his thoughts. Charles knew without looking that the vast majority of that wealth had been amassed under questionable methods. The Brotherhood might have a legitimate, corporate front, but there were few who didn't know that that front was mostly for show.
"My apologies," Charles said with a mock bow that earned him a smile. "We'll stop at the office on the way to dinner. And, Erik, thank you."
Erik's eyes lit up, and Charles wondered when he'd started allowing Erik to so thoroughly influence his actions. It was possible Hank's worries were well-founded, that Erik was a bad influence. It was almost a shame Charles couldn't bring himself to mind.
~*~
The bar Holman had mentioned sat adjacent to the motel, a rough-looking road house with more motorcycles outside than cars. The innkeepers--who were more than happy to wave off the damages in Charles' room in exchange for Erik's money--had insisted the place served the best steaks this side of Texas, so they'd gone in, looking for food and a quiet place to wait. They got the food, but not the quiet, the place exceedingly loud, despite the sun having only just set.
Still, they had a table to themselves, which was more than Erik had expected in a place like this. They sat near the back of the room, backs against the far wall and eyes on the door. Dinner had come and gone, and now they sat, Charles several drinks in, Erik still nursing his first beer, watching the door for any sign of their quarry.
From somewhere inside the bag Charles had brought, he pulled out a travel chess set and began setting it up on the table between them. Erik arched an eyebrow, but otherwise refrained from comment. They were already out of place here and he could see no reason to conform to the local standard--which wasn't, in Erik's opinion, particularly high.
"I hope you don't mind. I get so few occasions to play, and, well, our last game was interrupted," Charles said, voice raised to be heard over the din. Erik chuckled, remembering how their last game had ended. He gestured for Charles to continue his setup.
It was clear Charles was pleased by Erik's response, but Erik suspected he would have ended playing regardless of desire. Erik was quickly realizing Charles didn't take no for an answer, which was probably why they were sitting in this bar, waiting on Wolverine, when Erik distinctly remembered telling Charles that he wanted him well out of this until Erik had neutralized the threat. He hated how quickly the thought soured his mood.
"You're thinking rather furiously over there," Charles said when he was done setting up the board. He was quick to elaborate at Erik's sharp glance. "I'm not listening in, so I don't know what you're thinking, only that you are."
"I was actually wondering how we got here. I have a distinct recollection of telling you this morning that you weren't to come within a mile of Wolverine. I believe my exact words were that I wanted you well out of the line of fire. Care to explain why we're sitting here when I should have left you back at the hotel and came here on my own?"
As soon as he asked, he felt guilty, but he didn't take it back. It was the sort of thing that should have made Erik furious--Magneto would have killed Charles on the spot had he discovered Charles had been messing with his head--but instead Erik found himself only mildly annoyed and, if he was honest, somewhat hurt. He had thought Charles would respect the boundaries of their friendship.
Charles' face had paled, and he was staring across the table, wide-eyed, his mouth frozen open in the perfect impression of a gaping fish.
"You think I influenced you? I didn't, Erik. I swear to you, I didn't. I really thought you'd just changed your mind, or forgot, or... I don't know, decided you needed me at your side."
There was no lie that Erik could discern in Charles' voice, but it was the hurt look in Charles' eyes that settled it for him. His guilt increased tenfold, seizing in his throat until he thought he might choke on it. He told himself that it wasn't his fault; that suspicion came naturally to him--he was so very used to being betrayed--and that it was inevitable that he would come to question Charles' motives. Still, he hated that it was him who had put that hurt look on Charles' face, especially when things had been going so well between them.
"I'm sorry," he said, the apology stilted and awkward on his unpracticed tongue. "God, Charles, I..."
Charles' expression softened, and he leaned forward and placed his hand atop Erik's. "It's fine. Expected, really--you've hardly had cause to trust the people in your life--and I haven't exactly given you any reason to trust me." Erik thought of Hank and instantly understood where his fears originated--understood too that they were, in part, founded. "But I swear to you I won't ever, not with you."
Erik wasn't sure why he of all people warranted Charles' restraint, but he nodded, feeling a renewed surge of trust that was as foreign as it was comforting.
"Still, I am sorry," Erik said, realizing then that Charles' hand was still resting over his. He flipped his palm, offering Charles' hand a brief squeeze before he pulled his hand away to move his rook.
"It's forgiven, and forgotten," Charles said, countenance immediately brightening.
It was easy then to fall into their game, Erik soon as relaxed as he'd been on the drive up. It wasn't often that he found himself so at ease; certainly his life hadn't been conducive to such a thing. He found himself wondering what it might have been like to meet Charles back when he was young and rash and looking for answers. Would Charles have steered him down a different path? Or would they have butted heads and ended hated one another?
Back in the days when Erik would spend countless hours a day reading and re-reading Charles' work--back before he'd found other mutants, when Charles' work was the only link he had to knowing who he was, to knowing he wasn't alone--he'd fantasized often about meeting the man, about long conversations and all the wonderful places their visions might take them. Charles was nothing like the man he'd envisioned back then, but for the first time in his life, reality was better than fantasy.
"I've lost you again," Charles said. He was staring at Erik intently. Erik contemplated the board and made his move, hoping Charles would think him simply lost in strategy. Charles laughed. "You're not playing well enough for that, and yes, this time I am reading your mind."
There was enough cheek in Charles' tone that Erik forgave him for it. He cocked his head, considering, and then decided on honesty.
"I was just wondering what you were like as a young man," he said. Charles looked startled. "I read your manifesto, you know, not long after you'd written it. It was very inspirational."
"Really?" Charles sounded as incredulous as he did flattered.
"At the time, I didn't know other mutants existed. I thought I was..." a freak he wanted to say, an anomaly, or maybe even a monster--certainly that was what Schmidt had intended to create, "alone," he settled on. "It was like I was drowning in icy water, and then your manifesto came along and suddenly I'd broken the surface. Knowing you now, I'm sure you didn't mean for me to interpret your work as I did, but at the time, it gave me a sense of purpose I'd never had before." Save killing Schmidt, he didn't say, but Charles looked so honestly touched that Erik suspected he'd forgive the admission.
It had been a while since he'd been so honest, since he'd opened himself so completely to another person. Part of him considered it amends for his earlier accusation, but part of him simply wanted Charles to know--to understand--the influence he'd had on Erik's life.
"I'm not sure you would have liked me back then. I was far more idealistic, and a good deal more arrogant, I'm afraid," Charles said. He seemed slightly embarrassed by the confession. Erik couldn't help himself.
"I wouldn't have thought that possible," he said with a smirk. Charles shot him an affronted look, but he was smiling too, seeming flushed and warmed by the openness of their conversation--though the three empty whiskey glasses on the table were probably helping.
"Do you know, I hardly ever used my telepathy back then. Actually, that's not true; I used it all the time, but I was far stricter in how I used it. It wasn't until a few years later, after I'd read a very fascinating essay, that I realized my telepathy was a part of me and that denying it would be denying my very nature. It was quite the enlightening experience," Charles said.
He was smiling again, wide and innocent, which Erik knew by now meant Charles was up to some mischief. He leaned back in his chair, took Charles' queen, and asked, "Oh?"
"I distinctly remember the essay was called A Mutant Call to Arms, though I can't for the life of me recall its author." Charles' grin was threatening to spill over into full out laughter. Erik would have scolded him for it were he not so completely blown away by Charles' confession.
He'd been so young when he'd written that essay. It was only a fluke that had allowed him to see it to publication; a wistful hope that it might attract mutants to his cause. And it had, but to know now that Charles Xavier had read it and found something in it worth keeping was enough to set Erik's heart racing. Without thinking he reached across the table and once again took Charles' hand. Charles offered him a warm smile at the gesture.
"Thought you'd like that," Charles said, moving his king out of check with his left hand, his right remaining firmly entwined with Erik's left.
They played that way for the better part of the night, Charles waving away anyone who thought to question it, Erik thrilling at the contact--he honestly couldn't remember when he'd last touched someone just for the sake of touching. When last call came with still no sign of Wolverine, Erik finally withdrew his hand, drained the last of his beer--the second of the night--and gave Charles a pointed look. He had no idea what he intended it to mean.
"I guess we have an early morning, then," Charles said, glancing at his watch. He pushed aside his latest whiskey--and God, could the man drink, Erik thought-- and maneuvered himself away from the table. A dry chuckle escaped his lips. "Another unfinished game," he said, though in truth it was their second of the night, and Charles had won the first.
Charles packed the chess set while Erik settled their tab. When they got back to Charles' room, they found it cleaned, the bed re-made with mismatched sheets and the extra furniture--and wall--cleared from the room.
"We'll need to leave here at seven," Erik said, knowing he should leave Charles to his own devices, head next door and get some sleep. Instead he found himself standing awkwardly in Charles' room, the door still open behind him.
He wasn't sure what he was waiting for--an invitation, maybe, or possibly acknowledgment from Charles that something had shifted in their relationship. Instead Charles looked as awkward as Erik. It took Erik a minute to realize he was eyeing the exposed bathroom wearily.
"Well, goodnight, Charles," Erik said, stepping back through the door.
"Goodnight, Erik," Charles returned, and Erik didn't miss the slight hint of regret in his tone. A worry for another day, after they'd finished what they'd come to do. Erik smiled, bright and honest, and tipped an imaginary hat in Charles' direction. It earned him a soft smile, Charles offering a gracious nod in turn.
Walking back to his room, Erik felt a good deal lighter than he had in years.
~*~
Mornings were rough. Awkward, too, especially waking in a strange place, practically trapped in the divot on the bed, with no one to call to for help--save Erik, who Charles could sense already moving next door, but there was no way in hell he was going to ask Erik to help him out of bed, no matter how carnivorous it might be.
He eventually managed it, with more cursing than he would ever admit. His upper body strength had improved dramatically in the last ten years, but he was still nowhere near as strong as he should have been. Too pampered a life, he realized, with not enough excuses--pride not withstanding--to do things for himself. He vowed to change that once he got home.
It was early, well before sunrise, but morning ablutions took longer for Charles than they did most people--God only knew why Erik was up already--so once he was out of bed and into his chair, he wheeled himself to the bathroom to get started. With the wall gone, it wasn't nearly so bad a chore as he'd anticipated, but he was still relegated to wetting a cloth and sponge-bathing, the shower stall clearly insurmountable.
The better part of an hour later, he sat in the middle of the room, clean, empty, shaved and dressed. A line of sweat beaded his forehead. His watch read shortly after six. He reached out tentatively with his mind, searching for Erik, meaning to ask if he wanted to get breakfast, but before he got the chance there was a knock on his door, Erik's mind pulsing warmly on the other side.
Come in, he said into Erik's mind, letting Erik worry about little things like locks and doorknobs.
The door swung open and Erik entered the room, carrying two Styrofoam cups in his hands. He handed one to Charles.
"It's terrible," he said, grimacing around a mouthful from his own cup. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a battered looking bran muffin, wrapped in cellophane. "These are worse."
Charles pressed his lip into a thin line, but accepted the muffin--the bran might prove useful. "Should we get an early start?" he asked. Erik nodded.
It was still nearing their originally intended departure time when they finished checking out and settling how best to pay for damages. The sun was peaking over the horizon when Charles hauled himself up into the Land Rover. With no one else awake, Erik used his powers to stow Charles' chair.
"Hold this," he said when he was finished, passing Charles his helmet through the open window and then circling around to the driver's side.
"Do you think it necessary?" Charles asked once Erik was inside, recoiling from the helmet, even though, up close, it seemed nothing more than a hunk of cold, lifeless metal.
"I think I have no idea who or what this Wolverine is, and more importantly, what he can do. Better safe than sorry," Erik answered, starting the car.
Charles frowned, but accepted the explanation. He held the helmet gingerly, thankful at least that Erik had chosen to forgo the cape--he could just imagine how that would have gone over in a camp full of lumberjacks. If Erik was aware of Charles' discomfort, he ignored it. Wordlessly, he pulled them out onto the freeway, pointed the car towards the camp, and set off. Charles tilted his head back and let the cool autumn air finish what his abandoned coffee had started. He wasn't used to so little sleep. His body ached from a night in a strange bed.
"When we get there, you are to stay in the car. I meant what I said, you can piggy back in my head if you need to, but you're not getting close to this guy," Erik said when they turned off the main road, following the dirt logging track back into the forest.
Charles wanted to argue, to insist on being allowed to help with the search, but he knew from their previous trip that traversing the grounds would be impossible without Erik's help, and he wasn't about to manipulate Erik into doing his bidding--especially not after last night.
"Fine, but if you run into trouble I am stepping in," Charles said. He could already sense Wolverine, his mind as crisp as the morning. If it came down to it, Charles could easily slip past Wolverine's barriers and knock the man down before he realized what was happening.
"I'll be fine," Erik said with a grin, the one that showed all his teeth. This was Erik boasting.
Charles chuckled, feeling that same warm contentedness that he was beginning to associate exclusively with Erik.
The camp was no longer deserted. People milled about the site, processing yesterday's haul, the skeletons of giant maples and oaks, felled without a second thought. Erik parked far enough back to ensure they were out of harm's way, while Charles pushed against any curious eye that glanced in their direction.
"Any idea on where to start looking?" Erik asked. Charles closed his eyes and concentrated.
It was startling to discover just how close Wolverine was, even though Charles had been expecting it. He pointed across the camp, to where a group of about twenty men were loading a flat-bed truck--and how they had got the thing into the bush was a mystery Charles didn't think he'd ever solve.
"He should be over there," he said. Erik nodded, and then was out of the truck, coming around to Charles' window. He motioned for the helmet. "Remind me exactly how I'm supposed to piggyback in your head when you're wearing this?" Charles asked.
Erik hesitated. He looked to the helmet, then back out to where Wolverine and the other men were still loading the truck. It was only about a thousand feet, well within Charles' range, but Charles could tell Erik was uncomfortable going into battle without the helmet.
It doesn't have to be a battle, Charles conveyed. Erik shook his head, but he relaxed and let his hands drop back to his sides.
"Go on then, get inside," he said, gesturing to his head. Charles smiled and slid neatly, effortlessly into place.
Seeing the world from someone else's eyes was a thrill Charles didn't think he'd ever tire of. This was something he had done before, but not in a very long time. Instead of being in complete control, he was merely a passenger, Erik in charge of where they went and how they got there. Charles could only sit back and enjoy the ride. Still, it was almost irresistible, the desire to seize full control, to take over Erik completely. Charles had to clench his hands into fists and press them against his unfeeling thighs to keep from doing exactly that.
"I'm going to circle around the far trailer, come at them from behind. Less likely to draw attention that way," Erik said--or possibly thought, Charles really couldn't tell as he had already started moving towards the trailers.
It was a measure of how thrilling it was to travel in Erik's head--to feel the ground beneath Erik's feet, to feel the fierce beating of Erik's heart, and to sense the pulsing throb of Erik's power--that Charles didn't notice his visitor until the driver's side door clicked open. Charles started and then turned, seeing double for a minute as he tried to extract himself from Erik's head--circling the trailer now, the men loading the trucks temporarily obscured. When his vision cleared, he found himself face to face with a set of what he thought were knives--until he focused clearly, and then he realized they actually extended from a man's knuckles.
Oh, this must be Wolverine, Charles thought dumbly. He reached out a tiny thread, meaning only to subdue Wolverine into lowering his defenses, but in addition to being met with resistance--easily broken--he found that his attempts at persuasion merely slid off Wolverine's mind.
For a moment he sat, fairly stunned, as he tried, again and again, to take control of Wolverine's mind, all without success. It struck him at about the same time as Wolverine lunged forward, coming fully into the car, steel claws brushing against Charles' jugular.
Erik's file said Wolverine had spontaneous regeneration, and that meant his mind regenerated, and that meant he was impervious to mind control. Wonderful.
"I don't know who you are, bub, but you're gonna tell me who sent you, or we're gonna have a problem," Wolverine said at the same time that Charles thought, loudly, and with some degree of panic, Erik, Erik, Erik!
On to chapter 10
