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nekosmuseFic: Tessellation (11/?)
Fandom: XMFC (fusion with comic-canon and 1990s animated series)
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Back to chapter 10
"Don't you dare," Erik said when it looked like Charles might balk. "Don't you dare let your pacifism blind you to this. This is a threat, Charles--a very real, very immediate threat."
It was bound to happen sooner or later, Erik knew, the differences in their ideologies--and there were many--coming to a head. For a moment it looked as though Charles might argue--he sat, back ramrod straight, hands curled around his armrests, fingers white with tension. His features wavered on indecision. He bit his lower lip, glanced out the window after Wolverine, and then turned his attention back to Erik.
"No, you're right. This is serious," he said, and Erik was overwhelmed by relief--because he honestly didn't think he could fight against Stryker and Charles at the same time; certainly he didn't want to fight against Charles ever.
"Then we need to go," Erik said, reaching for his wallet and pulling out a wad of cash, enough to pay for their meals twice over.
"I need a few minutes," Charles said, sounding embarrassed, though Erik could have told him it was unnecessary.
"I have to a make a phone call anyway. I'll meet you outside," Erik said, nodding to the diner's payphone. Charles' smile was tinged with gratitude as he pushed himself away from the table. He grabbed the bag he carried pretty much everywhere they went before wheeling towards the restrooms. Erik retrieved the file Wolverine had left behind, and then headed outside.
He called Mystique, despite the time difference, the information too important to leave until his return. She accepted the charges as soon as she realized it was him--and Erik spared a brief, amused thought to having had to make a collect call.
"Are you kidding me?" Mystique said once the line connected. "Where the hell have you been? And if you say with Xavier, I'm going to kill you."
"We don't have time for this right now," Erik said, feeling displaced for the first time since arriving on Charles' doorstep. In two and a half days he'd somehow forgotten what it meant to be Magneto; what it meant to command the Brotherhood. "I found Wolverine, and Charles..."
"Charles?" There were days--and today was one of them--when Erik seriously wanted to throttle Mystique.
"Yes, Charles. Charles took a look around inside his head and discovered something Stryker's working on. It's a weapon--a device that gives control of a mutant's powers to the device's user."
Mystique had fallen silent and Erik could tell she was thoroughly terrified. He didn't blame her; the thought sent chills down his spine.
"Drop everything you're working on. Recruit as many people into this as you need. As soon as I get into New York, I'm on the next plane out. When I get back, I want to know everything there is to know about this device, how it works, and how we're going to stop it." It was easy to slip back into the role of command now that he had such an important task to focus on. He could almost sense Mystique squaring her shoulders, standing to attention.
"And the Wolverine?" she asked. Erik scowled. If he never saw the man again it would be too soon.
"An exhausted lead, and no longer a threat," Erik said. Unless of course he decided to take exception to Charles' treatment of him, but they'd worry about that another day--beside, Charles would be perfectly safe inside Genosha's capital compound. "Can I count on you to get this done?"
"Yes, sir," Mystique said, and then she was gone and if Erik knew her as well as he thought he did she was already setting the wheels in motion. Stryker was as good as dead.
Erik hung up the phone just as Charles emerged from the restroom. Erik nodded in his direction, tilting his head towards the Land Rover. Charles wheeled his way across the parking lot.
They met at the passenger's side door. "Is everything all right?" Charles asked. Erik nodded, waited for Charles to climb into the truck before stowing his chair--a task that was beginning to feel intimately familiar. Once it was secure, Erik climbed into the driver's side and they were off.
The drive back to Westchester felt like it should have been made in tense silence. Instead Erik listened as Charles detailed the rest of what he'd pulled from Wolverine's mind--and that Charles could do that, pull apart a man's mind, rendering him incapacitated by memory alone, was a frightening concept, especially to someone like Erik; it was probably a very good thing he had already given Charles his absolute trust, because that was the sort of thing that might make a man doubt.
It was obvious Wolverine knew little of the project, save what he had overheard by simply being in the right place at the right time. Still, he knew enough to know that the project was in the late stages of development. If Charles was right, they had at best a few months before Stryker's collars were put into circulation. How long, Erik wondered, before the whole of mutantkind was rounded up and rendered defenseless, all in the name of public safety. Erik had lived through one holocaust; he wasn't about to endure a second.
Mid-afternoon they stopped outside Newburgh to refuel. The sky was beginning to grow overcast, dark grey clouds threatening rain. The warmth of the past few days had vanished with the change in the wind, so Erik dug his coat out of his bag.
"Did you bring a jacket?" he asked Charles, feeling strangely disappointed when Charles' nodded. Without leaving the front seat, Charles pulled a jacket from his bag and slipped it on. It was the same tweed Charles had worn the first time they'd met. Erik felt a warm surge of nostalgia settle in his stomach at the sight.
Feeling marginally warmer--though wishing for his cape, which was heavy wool and more comfortable than any article of clothing Erik had ever owned--Erik bought cellophane wrapped sandwiches that were as stale as they were suspect from the gas station and gave one to Charles. He climbed back into the truck. The second half of the drive was made in near silence, Charles dozing lightly as they emerged from tree-lined freeways, into the open expanses of civilization.
It was fast approaching evening when they finally made it back to Charles' estate. Charles still slept soundly in his seat, head listing against the glass of his closed window. Erik hated to wake him, he seemed so serene in that moment, so utterly fragile, but they didn't have time for pleasantries like sleep--and besides, Charles could always sleep on the plane.
"Hey," he said, shaking Charles lightly. A stray strand of hair had fallen into Charles' eyes. Erik brushed it aside, letting his fingers trail down Charles' cheek in a caress. God, how he wished they had just one more night.
Charles came awake more slowly than Erik would have liked, but there was something endearing in knowing Charles trusted him enough to succumb to so deep a sleep. He blinked several times, staring at Erik in awkward confusion before he remembered where he was. Erik watched, amused, as he shook himself fully awake.
"Have we arrived?" he asked.
"Yes," Erik said. "But we can't stay long. You'll have to pack quickly I'm afraid."
The confusion in Charles' eyes seemed born entirely of sleep, so Erik didn't think to question it, not until Charles asked, "Pack?"
Erik frowned. "I suppose we can acquire anything you might need in Genosha, but I figured you'd want your own things," he said. He didn't wait for a reply, already moving out of the car to retrieve Charles' chair and bring it alongside the passenger side door.
Charles opened the door and made eye contact, face a picture of startled surprise.
"Genosha? Why am I going to Genosha?" he asked. Erik faltered.
It hadn't occurred to him that Charles might not want to come to Genosha. Surely with the information Charles gleamed from Wolverine he would want to be involved in this, and where better than Genosha, where Erik already had an entire army awaiting his command? Was he afraid himself limited without Cerebro?
"I know Cerebro's here, and would likely prove useful, but trust me, I have far more extensive resources in Genosha, and if we need to, we can build you a replica," Erik said, already making plans for the clearing out one of the training rooms to make room for a second Cerebro. It was even possible Charles might train Emma to use it, something that would prove very useful down the line.
Charles continued to stare at him, gobsmacked expression on his face. He shook his head slightly, eyes still wide as he climbed down into his chair. Once he was secure, he made eye contact with Erik, his entire being radiating resignation.
"Erik, I'm not coming to Genosha. I can't just hop on a plane without notice. I'm not sure if I can hop on a plane period," he said, and Erik didn't miss the brief flicker of panic that clouded his eyes.
Erik could do nothing but stare, the bottom of his stomach falling out as his chest constricted painfully. It had not occurred to him that this is where they would part ways. Damn Stryker for forcing his hand; for getting in the way of what was easily becoming the most significant relationship of Erik's life.
"Charles," Erik said, stepping forward, crouching until they were at eye level. "I can't do this without you. You know how important this is, but more than that, I want you there, at my side."
There was no clearer way he could say it, but Charles showed no signs of being swayed--if anything, he looked profoundly disappointed; that and slightly hurt, which confused Erik to no end. The expression lasted only a minute--gone so fast Erik could almost convince himself he'd imagined it--replaced by blank indifference. To see such a thing on Charles' face was as alarming as it was unnatural.
"I agree this is important, and I will coordinate with you from here, but as I've mentioned before, I have no interest in joining the Brotherhood. I'm sorry if you thought I had changed my mind."
It took Erik several seconds to figure out what Charles was talking about--and was that really what he thought Erik had meant? Erik shook his head, leaned into Charles' space and placed his hand on Charles' shoulder.
"I'm not asking you to join the Brotherhood," he said. Charles shot him a confused glance. "I'm asking you to stand at my side. And just in case I haven't made my intentions clear," and God, how Charles could have missed it, what with everything they had been through, "let me make them perfectly clear."
It was startling to see Charles' eyes widen from so close a vantage point. Erik was momentarily lost to their blue, distracted only by the sight of Charles' pink tongue, peaking out to absently lick at his lips. Lust surged in Erik at the sight, boiling his blood and hardening his cock. God, but he had wanted to do this for so long--from the moment they met, if he was honest with himself.
He offered a slight quirk of his lip when he got close enough to lose focus, Charles' eyes falling shut, his entire body melting under Erik's touch--one hand to his cheek, the one on Charles' shoulder sliding to the back of his neck. It was incredible, how slowly their lips slid together, the slide of moist nerves against moist nerves the most erotic thing Erik had ever experienced. Kissing Charles--finally, finally, his mind shouted--was something he didn't think he would ever grow tired of. Certainly it was something he would never get enough of. The entire world fell away--the Brotherhood, Wolverine, Stryker--Erik's universe narrowing to the single point of contact. Charles was warm against him, the soft press of his lips, along with the desire for more--oh, God, more--the only thing occupying Erik's mind.
Pulling away was almost painful, but it was either that or take Charles right here, and Erik was many things, but he was not a brute. Charles' eyes were still closed, but they slid open when Erik moved the hand on his cheek, thumb brushing against the ridge of Charles' cheekbone. He looked utterly wrecked. Pride surged in Erik's chest at the sight.
"Clear?" Erik asked. Charles blinked owlishly before answering.
"Um, yes, yes. Good. Good." He smiled, colour staining his cheeks in a way that Erik found entirely too endearing.
"I can't stay, Charles," and he couldn't, Stryker's threat too real, too immediate, "but think about it."
He wanted to say so much more than that, to beg Charles to come with him, but Charles needed to do this on his own terms--and if Erik was thinking clearly, he would have realized long ago that Charles would need more than a few minutes' notice.
"I..." It delighted Erik to see Charles so flustered. If Erik had known, he would have kissed him days ago. "Okay, yes. I... Can you just..."
"Can I just what?" Erik asked, smirking.
"Kiss me again," Charles said, smiling crookedly. Erik was happy to comply. He closed the distance between them and pressed a firm, though entirely too chaste kiss against Charles' lips. When he pulled back, Charles' smile had grown soft.
"Genosha, think about it," Erik said, loathe to leave, but he knew if he didn't get back to New York soon, he would miss all the flights into Genosha. He told himself that Charles would come, and even if he didn't, Erik would return--just as soon as Stryker was dealt with.
Withdrawing from Charles' space was still the most painful thing he had ever done. Charles watched him, uncertainty and regret warring with a look of utter contentment.
"Think about it," Erik said one last time, before retrieving his things from the Land Rover and crossing the laneway to where his stolen sports car was still parked.
"Erik," Charles said when he got there. Erik turned to find Charles watching him with a bemused smile. His lips were swollen cherry red. Erik swallowed heavily, and then lifted an eyebrow. "Don't forget to return the car."
It was such a Charles thing to say that Erik couldn't help but laugh. He inclined his head, a silent promise, then climbed into the car and drove away, lips still moist with Charles' spit.
~*~
For several long minutes after Erik had left, Charles sat in the lane, staring after him. His lips were no longer kiss-swollen, but his heart still raced in his chest, his entire body taut with desire and something he hadn't felt in far, far too long--if ever, he thought.
The day had grown cold, and even in his jacket Charles was chilled. He turned to head into the house--Thompson could retrieve his things from the car and return it to the garage--when Hank appeared, bowling out the front door. His face was twisted into a snarl, his hackles raised. Charles had never seen him so angry.
"Where is he?" Hank asked, looking around for Erik.
"On his way back to New York," Charles answered, tilting his head. He was tired, and heart sore, but he had promised to allow Hank to yell at him as soon as he got back, and since he was still feeling marginally guilty for manipulating Hank's mind, he figured he owed him that much.
"Good," Hank said, deflating somewhat, but it was obvious he was still furious. Charles maneuvered around him and headed into the house. He needed a glass of scotch, possibly a warm fire before they had this conversation.
And Hank, good old Hank, who knew Charles so well, allowed him that. He followed a pace behind, letting Charles lead them into the study, where Hank set a fire blazing while Charles poured drinks.
"Thank you for this," Charles said once he was seated before the fire, the chill of the day leeching out of his bones.
"I'm not sure what I'm angrier about," Hank said. He had set his untouched drink down on Charles' chess set--newly set; Erik must have done so before coming to find him the other night. "That you took off, God knows where, with Magneto of all people, or that you used your telepathy to manipulate me into letting you." Hank shook his head. Charles realized then that he owed this man more than just an apology.
It was almost a shame he wasn't sorry--not about the leaving, anyway.
"I'm sorry I manipulated you. That wasn't the way to go about doing this. I should have heard your objections. It wouldn't have changed my decision--I always would have gone--but I at least owed you the right to object." It was the best he could offer, and he knew Hank well enough to know that he would be forgiven. Hank was as solitary as he was and they both valued their friendship tremendously.
Hank's eyes had grown watery, soft in a way that made him seem far, far younger than he was--in that moment he looked the very picture of the young graduate student who had first come to Charles, looking for answers to what he had called a condition. Charles had been the first to accept him with open arms, and without judgement.
"I just don't understand what it is you see in that man," he said.
And how did Charles answer that? How could he possibly sum up all the things he saw in Erik--all the things he wanted from Erik, never mind that most of those things were still illegal in the state of New York.
"I'm sorry, Hank, but it's really none of your business." And it wasn't, Charles told himself firmly. As much as he valued Hank's friendship, his companionship, and even his assistance, Charles' love-life had never been Hank's business.
In hindsight, it was probably the worst thing Charles could have said, because Hank knew him better than most, so he instantly put the pieces together. His eyes grew comically wide and his mouth fell open, pointed teeth glinting in the firelight.
"You're dating Magneto?" he said, rising from his chair to loom over Charles. Incredulity shone in his eyes and his features were stuck between horror and revulsion. Charles squared his shoulders, intending to contradict Hank's assumption, but as soon as he thought it, the memory of Erik's kiss, slow, lingering and full of intention, resurfaced in Charles' thoughts. He blushed instead.
"As I said, the nature of Erik and my relationship is none of your business," Charles settled on saying.
Hank was gaping now, clearly distressed. Charles sighed, not particularly wanting to have this discussion. He wanted to bathe; to sleep in his own bed, so that he could wake up rested and make a decision about whether or not he was capable of getting on a plane--driving across state was one thing, but flying halfway around the world was something else entirely, and Charles wasn't sure if he was ready for that yet.
But Hank wasn't done; Charles could hear the countless protests that cycled through his thoughts. Waiting for Hank to settle on one, Charles drained his scotch and then reached across to the chess set to claim Hank's.
"Charles," Hank said, speaking softly now. "This is Magneto we're talking about. He's killed people, Charles."
Of course Charles knew that--it was impossible not to know that--and maybe he'd decided not to focus on that--didn't want to focus on that--but Erik had done a lot of good, too, and besides, were Charles the sort of person to believe in retribution, then he would have to admit that every single person who had died by Erik's hand deserved death.
That argument wouldn't fly with Hank--two weeks ago it wouldn't have flown with Charles--so Charles kept his mouth shut, knowing there was no way he could win this argument; knowing too that in all likelihood his burgeoning relationship with Erik might very well cost him his oldest--and these days only--friend. The weight of that settled heavily in his chest.
"Does that not bother you?" Hank pressed.
Yes, Charles wanted to say, but the truth was it bothered him less than he'd expected it would.
"People can change," he settled on saying and that, at least, was true.
Hank's features drooped at that, his entire being deflating. He looked to where he'd left his scotch, noticing then that Charles had claimed it--had drained it within seconds of it reaching his hand. He shook his head, but even Charles' drinking--something that Charles knew Hank despised--could not distract him from his turmoil.
"You barely know him," he said, another truth, and yet, spending time in Erik's presence, he felt like he had known the man his entire life; like they were two bookends of the same soul.
Another thing he couldn't very well tell Hank. Charles settled on shrugging and saying, "If we shied away from the people we barely knew we would all be eternally alone."
Something shifted in Hank's expression and he brought his hands to his mouth, sliding his face down until his head was cradled in his palms. After a moment, he glanced back up, meeting Charles' gaze.
"You're in love with him, aren't you?" he said.
Hearing it out loud was startling--especially since Charles hadn't yet considered that possibility. Was he in love with Erik? It wasn't something he wasn't ready to think about. Not yet. He needed time to process, the last two days a blur. Sitting now, safely ensconced in his study, Charles realized exactly what it was he had done.
The reality of it was terrifying--oh, God, had he really left his house, travelled halfway across the state, and then spent the night in a motel of all places. The tightness in his chest that had manifested upon Erik's leaving tightened now, stealing his breath. Charles clutched at his chest, his breath coming in shuddering gasps. Hank was at his side in seconds, worry written across his face, his tone urgent as he called Charles' name. Charles wanted to tell him not to worry, that it would pass, that it was only a panic attack, but he had passed over into hyperventilating, the edges of his vision growing grey.
He knew enough to know that he would not succumb to unconsciousness, but he was still unaware of the next few minutes. When next he came back to himself, he was laid out in the spare room that sat adjacent to the study--an easier bed for Charles to get to when late nights kept him at his desk. Hank was standing near the closed door while Ms. Carter, his resident nurse, calmly checked his pulse.
"How long?" Charles asked, not particularly wanting the answer.
"Ten minutes, no more," Ms. Carter answered. She tucked his arm back against his side. "I expect you to rest tonight, because it's also clear you've been neglecting your physio, and that means tomorrow we'll be doing two sets."
Charles shuddered, Ms. Carter a sadist when it came to physio. It was almost a shame she was the only nurse he'd been able to find who was actually willing to live in a remote, dusty old mansion with a paraplegic agoraphobe and a blue-furred mutant who constantly quoted Victorian literature at her.
"This is my fault," Hank announced into the silence, sounding guilt-stricken. Charles opened his mouth to reassure him, but before he could Ms. Carter's features softened and she moved away from the bedside to grip Hank's arm.
"It was no one's fault," she said.
"Thank you, Linda," Hank said, ducking his head when the hand on his arm lingered. Charles felt his attention sharpen and he reached out with his telepathy, touching their minds to confirm what he was seeing. The unexpectedness of it made him smile.
Naturally he ruined it by struggling to sit; an action that instantly diverted Ms. Carter's attention. She arrived at his side and, ignoring Hank's protests, helped Charles into a seated position. Charles smiled at her, grateful, though not for the help--seeing them, hearing them, had settled all of his doubts. He made his decision.
"I know the timing is awful," Charles said, "but we need to make arrangements to travel to Genosha, all three of us, immediately."
The blank looks he got in return were better than the vocal objections he was expecting, so Charles smiled widely and tried to look more confident than he actually felt.
~*~
After New York, Genosha was too warm. Erik stared out the long arch of windows that circled the back half of his office, the picture perfect scene the most depressing thing he thought he'd ever seen.
He'd been like this since his arrival--since he boarded a plane in New York if he was honest with himself. He missed Charles. He'd been back not quite thirty-six hours and already he missed Charles. How the hell was he expected to function like this? Too late he realized that he should have discounted Charles' objections and brought him to Genosha anyway--even if it had meant kidnapping the man.
It didn't help that they were stalled on intel collection. No one could locate Stryker or the location of his new facility--and they had tried. All of Erik's leads had dried up. All of Mystique's investigations had fizzled, most before they'd even started. They were running in circles, trying and failing to find anything that might pinpoint where Stryker was and what, exactly, he was doing. Erik had never been so frustrated in his life.
He hadn't spoken to Charles. He wanted to--wanted to call, or stray into a shared dream where he could follow that kiss to its natural conclusion. It didn't happen. Most of his days were spent wearing the helmet--and oh, how he was coming to hate the thing--and his nights were spent tossing and turning in a room shielded from telepaths--and damn Emma for not being trustworthy, because otherwise Erik wouldn't feel the need to shield himself from telepaths.
Exhausted in ways he couldn't remember ever being, Erik eased the helmet off his head--his office another room safeguarded from those who might seek to usurp his leadership--and turned to stare at the telephone. He had five minutes--ample time to call Charles--but it was approaching one o'clock in the morning in New York and the last thing he wanted to do was wake Charles from his much needed sleep--God knew one of them ought to be sleeping, and it certainly wasn't Erik.
A knock on the door startled him from the thought. Erik's heart lodged in his throat at the sound, but it wasn't Charles--why he had thought it might be Erik didn't know--the door swinging open without his leave, Mystique slipping into the room.
"Anything?" Erik asked.
"Another dead end," Mystique replied. She closed the door firmly behind her, cocking her head as she considered him.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
Erik was tempted to lie--wanted to lie--but this was Mystique and she knew him better than anyone, and more importantly, she was the closest thing he had to a friend in this place. Erik crossed over to his desk and sank heavily into his chair.
"Not particularly," he said.
Mystique took his cue and claimed one of the chairs that faced his desk.
"This isn't just about Stryker, is it?" she asked. Erik didn't need to answer--it was there, written in his face, and when Mystique drew a shaky breath, he knew she had found it.
"You've gone and fallen in love. You complete idiot," she said, but she was smiling, seeming well pleased by the turn of events.
Erik didn't bother denying it; there was no point. If he hadn't known it when he left, he knew it now, two days without Charles making it painfully obvious.
Mystique's expression turned to one of sympathy. She leaned forward in her chair, reached across the desk and patted his hand. "He'll come," she said. "He'll come."
Erik hoped she was right.
On to chapter 12
Fandom: XMFC (fusion with comic-canon and 1990s animated series)
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Back to chapter 10
"Don't you dare," Erik said when it looked like Charles might balk. "Don't you dare let your pacifism blind you to this. This is a threat, Charles--a very real, very immediate threat."
It was bound to happen sooner or later, Erik knew, the differences in their ideologies--and there were many--coming to a head. For a moment it looked as though Charles might argue--he sat, back ramrod straight, hands curled around his armrests, fingers white with tension. His features wavered on indecision. He bit his lower lip, glanced out the window after Wolverine, and then turned his attention back to Erik.
"No, you're right. This is serious," he said, and Erik was overwhelmed by relief--because he honestly didn't think he could fight against Stryker and Charles at the same time; certainly he didn't want to fight against Charles ever.
"Then we need to go," Erik said, reaching for his wallet and pulling out a wad of cash, enough to pay for their meals twice over.
"I need a few minutes," Charles said, sounding embarrassed, though Erik could have told him it was unnecessary.
"I have to a make a phone call anyway. I'll meet you outside," Erik said, nodding to the diner's payphone. Charles' smile was tinged with gratitude as he pushed himself away from the table. He grabbed the bag he carried pretty much everywhere they went before wheeling towards the restrooms. Erik retrieved the file Wolverine had left behind, and then headed outside.
He called Mystique, despite the time difference, the information too important to leave until his return. She accepted the charges as soon as she realized it was him--and Erik spared a brief, amused thought to having had to make a collect call.
"Are you kidding me?" Mystique said once the line connected. "Where the hell have you been? And if you say with Xavier, I'm going to kill you."
"We don't have time for this right now," Erik said, feeling displaced for the first time since arriving on Charles' doorstep. In two and a half days he'd somehow forgotten what it meant to be Magneto; what it meant to command the Brotherhood. "I found Wolverine, and Charles..."
"Charles?" There were days--and today was one of them--when Erik seriously wanted to throttle Mystique.
"Yes, Charles. Charles took a look around inside his head and discovered something Stryker's working on. It's a weapon--a device that gives control of a mutant's powers to the device's user."
Mystique had fallen silent and Erik could tell she was thoroughly terrified. He didn't blame her; the thought sent chills down his spine.
"Drop everything you're working on. Recruit as many people into this as you need. As soon as I get into New York, I'm on the next plane out. When I get back, I want to know everything there is to know about this device, how it works, and how we're going to stop it." It was easy to slip back into the role of command now that he had such an important task to focus on. He could almost sense Mystique squaring her shoulders, standing to attention.
"And the Wolverine?" she asked. Erik scowled. If he never saw the man again it would be too soon.
"An exhausted lead, and no longer a threat," Erik said. Unless of course he decided to take exception to Charles' treatment of him, but they'd worry about that another day--beside, Charles would be perfectly safe inside Genosha's capital compound. "Can I count on you to get this done?"
"Yes, sir," Mystique said, and then she was gone and if Erik knew her as well as he thought he did she was already setting the wheels in motion. Stryker was as good as dead.
Erik hung up the phone just as Charles emerged from the restroom. Erik nodded in his direction, tilting his head towards the Land Rover. Charles wheeled his way across the parking lot.
They met at the passenger's side door. "Is everything all right?" Charles asked. Erik nodded, waited for Charles to climb into the truck before stowing his chair--a task that was beginning to feel intimately familiar. Once it was secure, Erik climbed into the driver's side and they were off.
The drive back to Westchester felt like it should have been made in tense silence. Instead Erik listened as Charles detailed the rest of what he'd pulled from Wolverine's mind--and that Charles could do that, pull apart a man's mind, rendering him incapacitated by memory alone, was a frightening concept, especially to someone like Erik; it was probably a very good thing he had already given Charles his absolute trust, because that was the sort of thing that might make a man doubt.
It was obvious Wolverine knew little of the project, save what he had overheard by simply being in the right place at the right time. Still, he knew enough to know that the project was in the late stages of development. If Charles was right, they had at best a few months before Stryker's collars were put into circulation. How long, Erik wondered, before the whole of mutantkind was rounded up and rendered defenseless, all in the name of public safety. Erik had lived through one holocaust; he wasn't about to endure a second.
Mid-afternoon they stopped outside Newburgh to refuel. The sky was beginning to grow overcast, dark grey clouds threatening rain. The warmth of the past few days had vanished with the change in the wind, so Erik dug his coat out of his bag.
"Did you bring a jacket?" he asked Charles, feeling strangely disappointed when Charles' nodded. Without leaving the front seat, Charles pulled a jacket from his bag and slipped it on. It was the same tweed Charles had worn the first time they'd met. Erik felt a warm surge of nostalgia settle in his stomach at the sight.
Feeling marginally warmer--though wishing for his cape, which was heavy wool and more comfortable than any article of clothing Erik had ever owned--Erik bought cellophane wrapped sandwiches that were as stale as they were suspect from the gas station and gave one to Charles. He climbed back into the truck. The second half of the drive was made in near silence, Charles dozing lightly as they emerged from tree-lined freeways, into the open expanses of civilization.
It was fast approaching evening when they finally made it back to Charles' estate. Charles still slept soundly in his seat, head listing against the glass of his closed window. Erik hated to wake him, he seemed so serene in that moment, so utterly fragile, but they didn't have time for pleasantries like sleep--and besides, Charles could always sleep on the plane.
"Hey," he said, shaking Charles lightly. A stray strand of hair had fallen into Charles' eyes. Erik brushed it aside, letting his fingers trail down Charles' cheek in a caress. God, how he wished they had just one more night.
Charles came awake more slowly than Erik would have liked, but there was something endearing in knowing Charles trusted him enough to succumb to so deep a sleep. He blinked several times, staring at Erik in awkward confusion before he remembered where he was. Erik watched, amused, as he shook himself fully awake.
"Have we arrived?" he asked.
"Yes," Erik said. "But we can't stay long. You'll have to pack quickly I'm afraid."
The confusion in Charles' eyes seemed born entirely of sleep, so Erik didn't think to question it, not until Charles asked, "Pack?"
Erik frowned. "I suppose we can acquire anything you might need in Genosha, but I figured you'd want your own things," he said. He didn't wait for a reply, already moving out of the car to retrieve Charles' chair and bring it alongside the passenger side door.
Charles opened the door and made eye contact, face a picture of startled surprise.
"Genosha? Why am I going to Genosha?" he asked. Erik faltered.
It hadn't occurred to him that Charles might not want to come to Genosha. Surely with the information Charles gleamed from Wolverine he would want to be involved in this, and where better than Genosha, where Erik already had an entire army awaiting his command? Was he afraid himself limited without Cerebro?
"I know Cerebro's here, and would likely prove useful, but trust me, I have far more extensive resources in Genosha, and if we need to, we can build you a replica," Erik said, already making plans for the clearing out one of the training rooms to make room for a second Cerebro. It was even possible Charles might train Emma to use it, something that would prove very useful down the line.
Charles continued to stare at him, gobsmacked expression on his face. He shook his head slightly, eyes still wide as he climbed down into his chair. Once he was secure, he made eye contact with Erik, his entire being radiating resignation.
"Erik, I'm not coming to Genosha. I can't just hop on a plane without notice. I'm not sure if I can hop on a plane period," he said, and Erik didn't miss the brief flicker of panic that clouded his eyes.
Erik could do nothing but stare, the bottom of his stomach falling out as his chest constricted painfully. It had not occurred to him that this is where they would part ways. Damn Stryker for forcing his hand; for getting in the way of what was easily becoming the most significant relationship of Erik's life.
"Charles," Erik said, stepping forward, crouching until they were at eye level. "I can't do this without you. You know how important this is, but more than that, I want you there, at my side."
There was no clearer way he could say it, but Charles showed no signs of being swayed--if anything, he looked profoundly disappointed; that and slightly hurt, which confused Erik to no end. The expression lasted only a minute--gone so fast Erik could almost convince himself he'd imagined it--replaced by blank indifference. To see such a thing on Charles' face was as alarming as it was unnatural.
"I agree this is important, and I will coordinate with you from here, but as I've mentioned before, I have no interest in joining the Brotherhood. I'm sorry if you thought I had changed my mind."
It took Erik several seconds to figure out what Charles was talking about--and was that really what he thought Erik had meant? Erik shook his head, leaned into Charles' space and placed his hand on Charles' shoulder.
"I'm not asking you to join the Brotherhood," he said. Charles shot him a confused glance. "I'm asking you to stand at my side. And just in case I haven't made my intentions clear," and God, how Charles could have missed it, what with everything they had been through, "let me make them perfectly clear."
It was startling to see Charles' eyes widen from so close a vantage point. Erik was momentarily lost to their blue, distracted only by the sight of Charles' pink tongue, peaking out to absently lick at his lips. Lust surged in Erik at the sight, boiling his blood and hardening his cock. God, but he had wanted to do this for so long--from the moment they met, if he was honest with himself.
He offered a slight quirk of his lip when he got close enough to lose focus, Charles' eyes falling shut, his entire body melting under Erik's touch--one hand to his cheek, the one on Charles' shoulder sliding to the back of his neck. It was incredible, how slowly their lips slid together, the slide of moist nerves against moist nerves the most erotic thing Erik had ever experienced. Kissing Charles--finally, finally, his mind shouted--was something he didn't think he would ever grow tired of. Certainly it was something he would never get enough of. The entire world fell away--the Brotherhood, Wolverine, Stryker--Erik's universe narrowing to the single point of contact. Charles was warm against him, the soft press of his lips, along with the desire for more--oh, God, more--the only thing occupying Erik's mind.
Pulling away was almost painful, but it was either that or take Charles right here, and Erik was many things, but he was not a brute. Charles' eyes were still closed, but they slid open when Erik moved the hand on his cheek, thumb brushing against the ridge of Charles' cheekbone. He looked utterly wrecked. Pride surged in Erik's chest at the sight.
"Clear?" Erik asked. Charles blinked owlishly before answering.
"Um, yes, yes. Good. Good." He smiled, colour staining his cheeks in a way that Erik found entirely too endearing.
"I can't stay, Charles," and he couldn't, Stryker's threat too real, too immediate, "but think about it."
He wanted to say so much more than that, to beg Charles to come with him, but Charles needed to do this on his own terms--and if Erik was thinking clearly, he would have realized long ago that Charles would need more than a few minutes' notice.
"I..." It delighted Erik to see Charles so flustered. If Erik had known, he would have kissed him days ago. "Okay, yes. I... Can you just..."
"Can I just what?" Erik asked, smirking.
"Kiss me again," Charles said, smiling crookedly. Erik was happy to comply. He closed the distance between them and pressed a firm, though entirely too chaste kiss against Charles' lips. When he pulled back, Charles' smile had grown soft.
"Genosha, think about it," Erik said, loathe to leave, but he knew if he didn't get back to New York soon, he would miss all the flights into Genosha. He told himself that Charles would come, and even if he didn't, Erik would return--just as soon as Stryker was dealt with.
Withdrawing from Charles' space was still the most painful thing he had ever done. Charles watched him, uncertainty and regret warring with a look of utter contentment.
"Think about it," Erik said one last time, before retrieving his things from the Land Rover and crossing the laneway to where his stolen sports car was still parked.
"Erik," Charles said when he got there. Erik turned to find Charles watching him with a bemused smile. His lips were swollen cherry red. Erik swallowed heavily, and then lifted an eyebrow. "Don't forget to return the car."
It was such a Charles thing to say that Erik couldn't help but laugh. He inclined his head, a silent promise, then climbed into the car and drove away, lips still moist with Charles' spit.
~*~
For several long minutes after Erik had left, Charles sat in the lane, staring after him. His lips were no longer kiss-swollen, but his heart still raced in his chest, his entire body taut with desire and something he hadn't felt in far, far too long--if ever, he thought.
The day had grown cold, and even in his jacket Charles was chilled. He turned to head into the house--Thompson could retrieve his things from the car and return it to the garage--when Hank appeared, bowling out the front door. His face was twisted into a snarl, his hackles raised. Charles had never seen him so angry.
"Where is he?" Hank asked, looking around for Erik.
"On his way back to New York," Charles answered, tilting his head. He was tired, and heart sore, but he had promised to allow Hank to yell at him as soon as he got back, and since he was still feeling marginally guilty for manipulating Hank's mind, he figured he owed him that much.
"Good," Hank said, deflating somewhat, but it was obvious he was still furious. Charles maneuvered around him and headed into the house. He needed a glass of scotch, possibly a warm fire before they had this conversation.
And Hank, good old Hank, who knew Charles so well, allowed him that. He followed a pace behind, letting Charles lead them into the study, where Hank set a fire blazing while Charles poured drinks.
"Thank you for this," Charles said once he was seated before the fire, the chill of the day leeching out of his bones.
"I'm not sure what I'm angrier about," Hank said. He had set his untouched drink down on Charles' chess set--newly set; Erik must have done so before coming to find him the other night. "That you took off, God knows where, with Magneto of all people, or that you used your telepathy to manipulate me into letting you." Hank shook his head. Charles realized then that he owed this man more than just an apology.
It was almost a shame he wasn't sorry--not about the leaving, anyway.
"I'm sorry I manipulated you. That wasn't the way to go about doing this. I should have heard your objections. It wouldn't have changed my decision--I always would have gone--but I at least owed you the right to object." It was the best he could offer, and he knew Hank well enough to know that he would be forgiven. Hank was as solitary as he was and they both valued their friendship tremendously.
Hank's eyes had grown watery, soft in a way that made him seem far, far younger than he was--in that moment he looked the very picture of the young graduate student who had first come to Charles, looking for answers to what he had called a condition. Charles had been the first to accept him with open arms, and without judgement.
"I just don't understand what it is you see in that man," he said.
And how did Charles answer that? How could he possibly sum up all the things he saw in Erik--all the things he wanted from Erik, never mind that most of those things were still illegal in the state of New York.
"I'm sorry, Hank, but it's really none of your business." And it wasn't, Charles told himself firmly. As much as he valued Hank's friendship, his companionship, and even his assistance, Charles' love-life had never been Hank's business.
In hindsight, it was probably the worst thing Charles could have said, because Hank knew him better than most, so he instantly put the pieces together. His eyes grew comically wide and his mouth fell open, pointed teeth glinting in the firelight.
"You're dating Magneto?" he said, rising from his chair to loom over Charles. Incredulity shone in his eyes and his features were stuck between horror and revulsion. Charles squared his shoulders, intending to contradict Hank's assumption, but as soon as he thought it, the memory of Erik's kiss, slow, lingering and full of intention, resurfaced in Charles' thoughts. He blushed instead.
"As I said, the nature of Erik and my relationship is none of your business," Charles settled on saying.
Hank was gaping now, clearly distressed. Charles sighed, not particularly wanting to have this discussion. He wanted to bathe; to sleep in his own bed, so that he could wake up rested and make a decision about whether or not he was capable of getting on a plane--driving across state was one thing, but flying halfway around the world was something else entirely, and Charles wasn't sure if he was ready for that yet.
But Hank wasn't done; Charles could hear the countless protests that cycled through his thoughts. Waiting for Hank to settle on one, Charles drained his scotch and then reached across to the chess set to claim Hank's.
"Charles," Hank said, speaking softly now. "This is Magneto we're talking about. He's killed people, Charles."
Of course Charles knew that--it was impossible not to know that--and maybe he'd decided not to focus on that--didn't want to focus on that--but Erik had done a lot of good, too, and besides, were Charles the sort of person to believe in retribution, then he would have to admit that every single person who had died by Erik's hand deserved death.
That argument wouldn't fly with Hank--two weeks ago it wouldn't have flown with Charles--so Charles kept his mouth shut, knowing there was no way he could win this argument; knowing too that in all likelihood his burgeoning relationship with Erik might very well cost him his oldest--and these days only--friend. The weight of that settled heavily in his chest.
"Does that not bother you?" Hank pressed.
Yes, Charles wanted to say, but the truth was it bothered him less than he'd expected it would.
"People can change," he settled on saying and that, at least, was true.
Hank's features drooped at that, his entire being deflating. He looked to where he'd left his scotch, noticing then that Charles had claimed it--had drained it within seconds of it reaching his hand. He shook his head, but even Charles' drinking--something that Charles knew Hank despised--could not distract him from his turmoil.
"You barely know him," he said, another truth, and yet, spending time in Erik's presence, he felt like he had known the man his entire life; like they were two bookends of the same soul.
Another thing he couldn't very well tell Hank. Charles settled on shrugging and saying, "If we shied away from the people we barely knew we would all be eternally alone."
Something shifted in Hank's expression and he brought his hands to his mouth, sliding his face down until his head was cradled in his palms. After a moment, he glanced back up, meeting Charles' gaze.
"You're in love with him, aren't you?" he said.
Hearing it out loud was startling--especially since Charles hadn't yet considered that possibility. Was he in love with Erik? It wasn't something he wasn't ready to think about. Not yet. He needed time to process, the last two days a blur. Sitting now, safely ensconced in his study, Charles realized exactly what it was he had done.
The reality of it was terrifying--oh, God, had he really left his house, travelled halfway across the state, and then spent the night in a motel of all places. The tightness in his chest that had manifested upon Erik's leaving tightened now, stealing his breath. Charles clutched at his chest, his breath coming in shuddering gasps. Hank was at his side in seconds, worry written across his face, his tone urgent as he called Charles' name. Charles wanted to tell him not to worry, that it would pass, that it was only a panic attack, but he had passed over into hyperventilating, the edges of his vision growing grey.
He knew enough to know that he would not succumb to unconsciousness, but he was still unaware of the next few minutes. When next he came back to himself, he was laid out in the spare room that sat adjacent to the study--an easier bed for Charles to get to when late nights kept him at his desk. Hank was standing near the closed door while Ms. Carter, his resident nurse, calmly checked his pulse.
"How long?" Charles asked, not particularly wanting the answer.
"Ten minutes, no more," Ms. Carter answered. She tucked his arm back against his side. "I expect you to rest tonight, because it's also clear you've been neglecting your physio, and that means tomorrow we'll be doing two sets."
Charles shuddered, Ms. Carter a sadist when it came to physio. It was almost a shame she was the only nurse he'd been able to find who was actually willing to live in a remote, dusty old mansion with a paraplegic agoraphobe and a blue-furred mutant who constantly quoted Victorian literature at her.
"This is my fault," Hank announced into the silence, sounding guilt-stricken. Charles opened his mouth to reassure him, but before he could Ms. Carter's features softened and she moved away from the bedside to grip Hank's arm.
"It was no one's fault," she said.
"Thank you, Linda," Hank said, ducking his head when the hand on his arm lingered. Charles felt his attention sharpen and he reached out with his telepathy, touching their minds to confirm what he was seeing. The unexpectedness of it made him smile.
Naturally he ruined it by struggling to sit; an action that instantly diverted Ms. Carter's attention. She arrived at his side and, ignoring Hank's protests, helped Charles into a seated position. Charles smiled at her, grateful, though not for the help--seeing them, hearing them, had settled all of his doubts. He made his decision.
"I know the timing is awful," Charles said, "but we need to make arrangements to travel to Genosha, all three of us, immediately."
The blank looks he got in return were better than the vocal objections he was expecting, so Charles smiled widely and tried to look more confident than he actually felt.
~*~
After New York, Genosha was too warm. Erik stared out the long arch of windows that circled the back half of his office, the picture perfect scene the most depressing thing he thought he'd ever seen.
He'd been like this since his arrival--since he boarded a plane in New York if he was honest with himself. He missed Charles. He'd been back not quite thirty-six hours and already he missed Charles. How the hell was he expected to function like this? Too late he realized that he should have discounted Charles' objections and brought him to Genosha anyway--even if it had meant kidnapping the man.
It didn't help that they were stalled on intel collection. No one could locate Stryker or the location of his new facility--and they had tried. All of Erik's leads had dried up. All of Mystique's investigations had fizzled, most before they'd even started. They were running in circles, trying and failing to find anything that might pinpoint where Stryker was and what, exactly, he was doing. Erik had never been so frustrated in his life.
He hadn't spoken to Charles. He wanted to--wanted to call, or stray into a shared dream where he could follow that kiss to its natural conclusion. It didn't happen. Most of his days were spent wearing the helmet--and oh, how he was coming to hate the thing--and his nights were spent tossing and turning in a room shielded from telepaths--and damn Emma for not being trustworthy, because otherwise Erik wouldn't feel the need to shield himself from telepaths.
Exhausted in ways he couldn't remember ever being, Erik eased the helmet off his head--his office another room safeguarded from those who might seek to usurp his leadership--and turned to stare at the telephone. He had five minutes--ample time to call Charles--but it was approaching one o'clock in the morning in New York and the last thing he wanted to do was wake Charles from his much needed sleep--God knew one of them ought to be sleeping, and it certainly wasn't Erik.
A knock on the door startled him from the thought. Erik's heart lodged in his throat at the sound, but it wasn't Charles--why he had thought it might be Erik didn't know--the door swinging open without his leave, Mystique slipping into the room.
"Anything?" Erik asked.
"Another dead end," Mystique replied. She closed the door firmly behind her, cocking her head as she considered him.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
Erik was tempted to lie--wanted to lie--but this was Mystique and she knew him better than anyone, and more importantly, she was the closest thing he had to a friend in this place. Erik crossed over to his desk and sank heavily into his chair.
"Not particularly," he said.
Mystique took his cue and claimed one of the chairs that faced his desk.
"This isn't just about Stryker, is it?" she asked. Erik didn't need to answer--it was there, written in his face, and when Mystique drew a shaky breath, he knew she had found it.
"You've gone and fallen in love. You complete idiot," she said, but she was smiling, seeming well pleased by the turn of events.
Erik didn't bother denying it; there was no point. If he hadn't known it when he left, he knew it now, two days without Charles making it painfully obvious.
Mystique's expression turned to one of sympathy. She leaned forward in her chair, reached across the desk and patted his hand. "He'll come," she said. "He'll come."
Erik hoped she was right.
On to chapter 12
