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nekosmuseFic: Tessellation (17/25ish)
Fandom: XMFC (fusion with comic-canon and 1990s animated series)
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: NC-17 overall, R this part.
Back to chapter 16
"I think I might owe Beast an apology," Mystique said as they navigated the halls, on their way to the Danger Room, where Cyclops was apparently running a training simulation.
"You thought he was trying to purposely delay the installation," Charles said. Mystique glanced in his direction. She was maintaining a clipped pace, and Charles struggled to keep up.
"I tend to trust that Shadowcat knows what she's doing. If he hadn't interfered, we probably would have killed you. I don't even want to think about what Erik would have done had that happened. Beast saved your life, which in turn saved ours."
Charles smiled, trying to look reassuring. From what he'd seen, it was unlikely Shadowcat's configuration would have killed him. He told Mystique as much, neglecting to mention that the experience wouldn't have been pleasant, and that he wasn't entirely certain he would have emerged with his mind intact. Mystique didn't need to know that.
"It was a ballsy thing he did, standing up to us like that," Mystique said, and there was admiration in both her tone and her thoughts. Hank would have been horrified to hear it.
"I think Hank would appreciate an apology," Charles said. It was the sort of thing Hank might see as an olive branch.
Whatever else Mystique might have had to say on the subject was lost, her thoughts shifting as they turned a corner; even without asking Charles knew they had arrived. He slowed his chair--arms sore from keeping up--and then followed Mystique into a glass-walled control room that overlooked a large, gymnasium-like space. Cyclops sat at the control panel.
"Good timing," he said, flicking several switches. "We're just finishing up." Into the microphone, he said, "Three point eight minutes, Alex. You're dead eight times over. We'll run it again in the morning."
Charles didn't need his telepathy to know the men were brothers, the man standing in the gymnasium--Alex, Scott had called him, though Mystique's mind named him Havok--a younger duplicate of Cyclops.
"Mr. Summers," Charles said, wheeling forward to offer a hand. Scott accepted it without hesitation.
"Please, it's Cyclops--Scott if you insist," he said. "Magneto called down to say you were coming."
Charles nodded and stared at the visor Scott wore, hiding his eyes. For inexplicable reasons, it made reading his mind easier. Scott's thoughts were the most innocuous Charles had ever heard. Mostly he was thinking about heading out for a beer after they were finished here.
"You're here about those components I traced. I think I might have something better," Scott said, standing and gesturing to the door. In the gymnasium below, Alex was putting away an assortment of weapons.
Scott led them out into the hall and across to a room that might have at one point been a storage room--now it looked like a workroom or incredibly messy office. A desk had been pushed into the corner, and on it were stacks of papers, as well as several bits of equipment--some Charles doubted even Hank would be able to identify.
More papers sat in piles on the floor, and there were an assortment of books--most engineering in nature, though a few Charles thought belonged exclusively to the field of mathematics.
"I don't understand half of it," Scott explained, "but I'm great at finding patterns. Take this, for instance," he said, handing over the sheets he'd brought to the meeting this morning--and had it really only been this morning? Time in this place seemed to blur together into infinite stretches that defied calculation.
Charles accepted the sheets, recognizing what Scott had seen almost immediately. He knew Cerebro's components intimately.
"This is similar to Cerebro's amplification circuitry, except its inverted. Cerebro's component amplifies my telepathy, whereas this would probably dampen it."
"Precisely," Scott said, moving on to a whole new stack of papers. "So I thought; if they're making one component in Peru, where are they making other components? I began tracing supply lines."
Charles, who had been listening to Scott's thoughts rather than his words, was already several sentences ahead in their conversation. He sat forward excitedly.
"And you've found some. Enough to give us a preliminary picture of how these things are designed."
Scott nodded. It was clear he was a very clever man--Charles liked him immediately.
"And I think, within a couple of days, I might have enough to build a prototype."
And that presented all sorts of interesting possibilities, though Charles was still too excited by what Scott had already found--because if the images in Scott's head were accurate, then Charles suspected he knew exactly how these things worked. He suspected, too, that there was a very distinct possibility they wouldn't work on a telepath--or rather, that a telepath could work around the dampening field. He wondered if Stryker had figured that out yet.
Mystique, who was lounging by the door, looking bored--though her thoughts betrayed just how alert she was, and how much of their conversation she had absorbed--straightened suddenly. She ducked her head out the door and glanced down the hall.
"Problem?" Scott asked. Charles answered for her.
"Emma Frost is looking for you. Go ahead," he said, "I'm sure I can find my way back."
Mystique nodded her thanks, tipped her head in Scott's direction, and then said, "I guess I'll see you at dinner," before slipping out the door.
Charles waited until she was gone to turn his attention back to Scott. "I'll need to see everything--and I mean everything--you've uncovered so far."
Scott leaned back in his chair, his thoughts lamenting that beer he probably wouldn't get around to. Still, he was smiling when he reached over to the shelf at his side and retrieved a spiral notebook.
"You'll want to see this," he said, handing it over.
Charles could have spent days going over Scott's notes. While this wasn't his field of expertise, the process was familiar--this was the same scientific investigation that accompanied every field of science, including genetics. Within hours Charles was seriously missing his labs back in Westchester.
He read everything Scott gave him, and then made several notes in a clean spiral notebook that Scott managed to retrieve at Charles' request. More notes covered a small chalkboard that stood propped on the window ledge, and Charles added to these, until between the two of them they had a half complete idea of what the collars looked like--and how they worked.
"We're still missing whatever it is that transfers the wearer's powers to a third party--that's important--and there are probably mechanisms that prevent a wearer from simply removing the collar on their own," Scott said. He lifted the chalkboard and sat it on the desk.
Charles blinked when he realized sunlight wasn't streaming in the now uncovered window. Night had descended without him realizing it.
"What time is it?" he asked, realizing then that he'd forgotten his watch in his rush to meet Erik at the Cerebro installation.
Scott glanced at his. "Eight," he said. Scott's thoughts showed that he was just as surprised as Charles.
"I'm sorry to do this, but I'm afraid I have to go. Thank you for everything. I'm going to take this," Charles held up his new spiral notebook. "If you find anything else, please let me know."
Scott nodded, but he was still staring at the chalkboard, mind catching on the hint of a pattern, though not yet seeing what that pattern was. Charles left him to it and wheeled out into the hall.
Getting back to the main hall was easy, but his trip here from Cerebro--and in his mind he was calling it Cerebro the second--had passed so quickly that Charles wasn't sure he could duplicate it if he tried. He wanted to go back to his and Erik's rooms--to clean up and perhaps trade out his sweater for a jacket--but finding the lifts that would take him there was somewhat beyond his abilities. Charles cursed the building's architects, even as he fought off the approach of a panic attack.
It was strange, to feel his breathing shallow. Since his arrival in the compound, he had felt entirely at ease--as comfortable here as he was in Westchester--but now that he was on his own and turned around, a familiar pressure of uncertainty was building in his chest. Charles exhaled steadily and cast his mind out for a familiar thought.
Strangely enough, he found Emma Frost.
She was no longer with Mystique, but walking alone, mind bent on running some figures for a stock split she wanted to initiate. Emma, it appeared, was the Brotherhood's business face--and from what Charles could tell, she was exceptionally good at her job.
Charles Xavier. You're lost, she said, sounding amused. From the feel of it, she was at least three halls over. Waves of calm accompanied her words, Charles immediately grateful.
I am. And running late, Charles replied, giving her a sense of what he was looking for and where he currently was--though given how much every hall he encountered looked the same, he doubted it helped.
Still, speaking with another telepath was an experience Charles would never grow tired of; it was utterly delightful, and instantly improved his mood, his threatened panic attack dissolving completely.
Here, Emma said, and just like that Charles had a map of the entire compound in his head. A second later, a map of the city appeared as well, Charles' head swelling with newfound knowledge.
My dear, I can't thank you enough, Charles said, kicking himself now, because he had been going the wrong way.
Buy me lunch tomorrow and we'll call it even, Emma said, and Charles could tell that she was just as delighted to have met another telepath. He could tell, too, in the tentativeness of the question, that Emma Frost had few friends, but saw Charles as a potential one.
Of course, Charles said. Tomorrow?
Emma floated her acceptance into his mind, arranging a time and place with the press of a single thought. By the time she vanished, Charles was smiling, feeling that same sense of home that he associated with Westchester, and Erik, and now Genosha.
It took next to no time to return to his rooms now that he knew where he was going. To his disappointment, Erik was nowhere to be found, so Charles quickly saw to his needs, changed his shirt and then left, intending to stop at Cerebro the second to gather Hank--the man had an even worse sense of time than Charles did.
It was no surprise, then, when he found Hank, still busy at work.
"I thought you might forget," Charles said, wheeling into the room. Hank glanced up from his work, startled.
"Am I late?" he asked, his thoughts still focused on the processes he'd been running, dinner the last thing on his mind.
"Not yet," Charles said. "But you will be."
"No, he won't," came a voice from the doorway, and Charles turned just in time to watch Linda step into the room. She wore a floor-length black evening dress, her dark hair in ringlets around her shoulders.
Charles turned back to Hank and found him staring at Linda; eyes blown wide, his cheeks flushed a deep violet. The sight brought a smile to Charles' face.
"In that case, since we're all here, perhaps we should attempt to find the formal dining hall together," Charles said. He gestured for Hank to precede him out the door, Hank only moving because Linda had extended a hand.
"I'm glad you decided to do this," Linda said when he got to her side. Her thoughts reflected her pleasure at their reconciliation. She had been worrying, for both their sakes. Charles thought seriously about giving her a raise. She probably deserved it.
It was easy to find the formal dining hall now that he had Emma's map in his head. As they approached the room, he let his thoughts drift ahead, pleasantly surprised when he alighted on the familiar warmth of Erik's mind--he had worried Erik would be wearing the helmet. Charles reached out to touch Erik's thoughts hesitantly, a surge of affection and longing hitting him when Erik realized he was there. No longer needing Emma's map, Charles let Erik's mind guide them like a beacon.
When they finally arrived, Mystique and her companion--Destiny, her mind provided--were already there. Destiny's mind was a chaotic place and Charles recoiled from it the second he brushed against it. Charles had never met a precognitive. He couldn't imagine how difficult it would be to live with such knowledge. The dark vortex of her thoughts frightened him, but they terrified her. Sympathy welled in Charles' breast.
"Sorry we're late," he said, coming fully into the room, which he could see now was actually a dining hall--he had thought Erik exaggerating. A long, rectangular table occupied the centre of the space, its wood a dark, polished oak. Matching chairs sat evenly spaced along either side, with a slightly largely chair at its head. Their seat cushions were upholstered in rich red velvet.
The room, much to Charles' amusement, reminded him of what he imagined a Victorian gentleman's club might have looked like. The walls were paneled in the same oak as the table. Set in the corner were two towering wing-back chairs, a small table--perfect for a chess set, Charles' mind provided--set between them. Behind the table's head was a liquor cabinet, and on the far wall sat a sideboard, its surface occupied by a single bell. Directly opposite the table's foot--which held no chair--was a set of extra-wide French doors, stood open to reveal another room and inside what appeared to be a billiards table.
"Quite all right," Erik said, coming to Charles' side. He bent smoothly and pressed a soft kiss to the edge of Charles' mouth, his thoughts hinting at his desire for more. Charles smiled when they parted, unable to tear his gaze from Erik's face. Erik seemed to be having the same problem, and for a moment they merely stared at one another.
Charles glanced away first, scolding himself in the process--it had only been six hours; surely he could go six hours without seeing Erik. He let his attention drift over Erik's right shoulder. Standing shoulder to shoulder, Mystique and Destiny seemed hesitant, uncertain what was expected of them. They were obviously here because Erik--or perhaps Magneto--had invited them, but they were unused to socializing with the Brotherhood's guests--and to be fair, the Brotherhood very rarely had guests. Charles shared the thought with Erik, who rolled his eyes and then glanced over his shoulder to scowl at the pair of them.
He turned his attention to Hank and Linda.
"I'm glad you could make it," he said, extending a hand to Linda. She accepted it politely. "May I introduce my second in command, Mystique, and her companion for this evening, Destiny." He turned to Destiny and Mystique. "And this is Hank McCoy and Linda Carter, Charles' friends and companions."
Introductions made, Erik gestured everyone to the table, pausing only long enough to ring the bell that sat atop the sideboard. A door Charles hadn't noticed--because it blended seamlessly into the wall--swung open and a group of mutants appeared, carrying a wide variety of serving trays. Charles, who sat at Erik's right, raised an appraising eyebrow in Erik's direction. Erik merely shrugged, but the beginnings of a smirk tugged at his lip. Charles had wanted a dinner and it was clear Erik had provided.
~*~
As much as he hated to admit it, Erik was having a good time. Technically, he always had a good time when he was around Charles--and this, he suspected, was part of what he loved about Charles, because Erik had spent too much of his life ignoring the more pleasant aspects of life, and Charles had changed that. Things like good food and good company and good sex and good conversation he had filed under unnecessary distractions. He was only just now beginning to see their value.
"Please, only stodgy old men play chess," Mystique was saying, drawing a chuckle from Destiny--though that was hardly unexpected; the pair had been attached at the hip the entire dinner.
How the conversation had turned to chess, Erik didn't know--he'd spent the last ten minutes staring at the red of Charles' lips and wondering how much longer they were expected to linger before he could take Charles back to their rooms. They had been talking about the latest Blackbird upgrade before that--one of the few topics of conversation Hank had contributed to--and before that it had been the recent U.S. Presidential election--Mystique had asked Linda if she was at all related to this Jimmy person. She was not.
Erik set his drink down on the table--only recently cleared of their supper--intent on responding to Mystique's slur, but Charles beat him to it.
"Let me guess," he said, drawing his fingers to his temple. "You're a charades sort of girl." This sent Destiny off into another peel of laughter--and so far only Charles had matched her for drinks, not that the damned man seemed in the least drunk.
"I also play billiards," Mystique said, gesturing over her shoulder through the French doors that separated the dining hall from the games' room. Erik hated that they had a games' room, but Emma had been right when she suggested it; it did improve moral.
"Oh, that sounds like a challenge," Charles said, and Erik choked on his next mouthful of martini. For the first time since they'd met, Charles was in over his head.
Mystique stood then, head held high, even as she wobbled slightly. She hadn't had as much to drink as Destiny, but her body metabolized the alcohol faster, which meant she both got drunk and sobered up a lot faster.
"You, sir, are about to get your ass kicked," she said. Destiny cheered. She glanced to the others at the table, her expression conspiratorial.
"She is," she said, the white of her eyes seeming almost translucent in that moment.
"I nominate Destiny as my cheerleader," Mystique said, already crossing to the French doors. Erik watched in horror as Charles turn to look in his direction, expression expectant. There was something about the dopey grin he wore that tugged at Erik's heart.
"I love you dearly, Charles, but do I look stupid?" he asked. Charles cocked his head, expression softening considerably even as his eyes widened with shock. Erik replayed what he'd just said. "I said that out loud, didn't I?"
"You did," Charles said, smiling warmly. Erik sent him a pleading thought; a request to ignore the slip until they had a moment to themselves. Charles acceded with a small nod of his head.
"My point is, she's going to mop the floor with you, my friend," Erik said.
Charles laughed at that, so Erik offered him a sympathetic smiled--one that said: it's too late now, you've gotten yourself into this mess you need to get yourself out. Charles gave a mocking bow, complete with hand flourish.
"I'll be my own cheerleader," he announced.
Which is precisely when Erik remembered the table's other occupants; because until now, Linda and Hank had been strangely quiet, all polite conversation--save Hank's excited input where the Blackbird was concerned--while Erik's minions--and given their current escapades, they were both deserving of the title--had been loud, obnoxious and drunk.
At least Erik wasn't the only one having a good time.
Linda had stood gracefully--and she was rather graceful, for a human. She patted Hank's hand and then circled around the table to Charles' side.
"I would be more than happy to stand in as your cheerleader, Charles," she said. Charles beamed at her.
"You have my eternal gratitude, Ms. Carter," he said, offering an arm.
She had to bend down to accept it, but she did it without making the gesture seem offensive, allowing Charles to lead her towards the games' room. Erik watched them go, mildly surprised when Charles turned up in his head.
Play nice with Hank, and I'll need another drink in a minute or two, he said. Erik choked back a yes, dear and instead sent Charles an image of exactly what other uses they could find for said billiards table. It was hardly the first time his thoughts had turned in that direction. Spending any significant amount of time in Charles' presence tended to excite such interest.
Erik felt delightfully vindicated when Charles choked on his next mouthful of whiskey. He felt rather than saw Charles' glare.
Under normal circumstances, Erik would have followed the others into the room; would have watched the game as it played out, reveling in the sight of Charles leaning forward in his chair, fingers caressing the pool cue, but Linda's abrupt departure--especially given how silent she'd been all night--suggested that her leaving had been orchestrated. Erik took another sip of his drink and then turned his head to find Hank watching him.
"I'm assuming you had something you wanted to say to me, outside of Charles' hearing."
Hank stood and moved around the table, coming to stand next to liquor cabinet. He leaned against it and calmly met Erik's eye.
"Does Charles know how many men you've killed?" he asked.
And ah, of course this was where this was going--it was probably the only reason Hank had agreed to come tonight.
"Charles knows everything about me, I would imagine," Erik said, and that probably wasn't true, because Charles hadn't run screaming yet and that tended to be what people who knew him exceptionally well did. It was what Magda had done.
It was not, however, enough to put Hank off. He leaned forward.
"Out of curiosity, how many men have you killed?" he asked. He was faking casual indifference--rather badly Erik thought.
Erik's first instinct was to tell Hank it was none of his business; to throw him out of the room, Charles' ire be damned, but that, he suspected, was Magneto talking, so instead he calmly leaned back into his chair, took a sip of his martini and decided upon telling Hank the truth.
After all, what did he have to lose?
"Let's see," Erik said, voice eerily calm. "I killed my first two men when I was nine. An accident, of course; my mother had just been murdered and I'd lost control of my powers--I crushed their Nazi skulls beneath their helmets, if you must know."
Hank's expression fell. He stared at Erik in abject horror. Erik mentally tallied a point in his favour. A quick glance through the French doors showed Charles bent over the table, Linda leaning against the back of his chair to keep it from tipping over.
"I killed a lot of men after that, though never of my own free will," Erik continued, turning his attention back to Hank. "Doktor Schmidt would regularly bring in subjects and have me kill them in all sorts of interesting ways, but I suspect you mean how many men have I killed knowingly, and of my own free will."
When Hank didn't answer, Erik pressed on. He felt a little like he imagined Charles must have felt, that first night when he had given his speech. There was no emotion in Erik's tone--only the certainty of what was past; what was long buried.
He set his arm on the table and rolled up his sleeve.
"I killed the man who gave me this," he said, pulling aside the fabric to reveal the line of numbers tattooed on his arm. "I killed the soldier who spat on my mother as they led us into Auschwitz. I killed the solider that beat my mother with the butt of his gun when she refused to let us be separated. I killed the man Doktor Schmidt had flog me when I didn't respond fast enough to his demands."
Here Erik paused, not because the story meant anything to him anymore--he was no longer that boy--but because he knew he couldn't say it without sounding remote and in those moments he worried that Schmidt had done what he'd set out to do; that he had made Erik nothing more than a machine; a monster whose sole purpose was killing.
He pressed on.
"I killed the two soldiers Doktor Schmidt had rape me when I was eleven. I killed the solider who threw me into a pile of rotting corpses when I was thirteen." And that had been worse; far, far worse. "I killed the Nazi who called me Juden like it was a disease. I killed the young officer--though he was a middle aged man when he died--who liked to tie a rope around my neck and drag me through the yard, because Doktor Schmidt determined the fresh air and exercise would be good for me. I killed the officer's three friends, who used to watch and laugh and hurl taunts in my direction.
"I killed the man who struck the woman I loved, simply because she refused his advances--she thanked me by fleeing from me in terror, if you're curious. I killed twelve high ranking Nazi officers, all of whom had some hand in tracking, arresting and incarcerating my family. And then I killed Klaus Schmidt. After that, I stopped keeping count."
By the time he had finished, Hank looked a little green--an amazing feat given his physiology. Erik slowly rolled down his sleeve and refastened his cuff-link. He turned his head to look through the French doors. Mystique was crowing, and Charles' brow was furrowed in concentration. Mystique was kicking his ass.
Erik stood then and crossed to the liquor cabinet, waving Hank aside--who moved surprisingly quickly, head bent to avoid Erik's gaze. Erik fixed himself another martini, and then pulled down a fresh glass for Charles. He uncapped a new bottle of whiskey--the last one drained.
"Is that too many for you?" he asked, still sounding far, far too detached. Hank wore an expression Erik knew well--half pity, half revulsion. "Does Charles come with a body count limit?"
Hank looked up sharply at that. In two strides he was in Erik's space and for a moment Erik thought Hank meant to throttle him. Instead, he reached across Erik's chest to stop the hand currently pouring Charles' next drink. Erik used his power to grasp Hank by his watch and move his hand away. His expression turned hard as he turned to meet Hank's gaze.
"At least water it down," Hank said.
Erik narrowed his eyes, suddenly confused. "He's not a child, you know."
Hank's expression was hard to classified, but if Erik had to, he'd say that for the first time since their meeting Hank was looking at him as an equal. It was enough to stay Erik's hand, the newly open bottle setting down on the cabinet, Charles' glass remaining empty.
"You said you loved him. Earlier," Hank clarified. "You said you loved him, and if you do--if you honestly care about him, then I can forgive you a good many things, including your past, but I can't forgive this. If you enable this; I will tear you apart, no matter how much Charles hates me for it."
Erik drew back, uncertain. This was not something he had expected. He watched, still and silent, as Hank crossed back to the table, sitting heavily. He leaned back into his chair and tipped his head. Erik spared a single glance through the French doors--and found the match still well underway--and then came to claim the seat opposite Hank's.
"What the hell do you mean; enable this?"
Hank looked up, startled--perhaps not expecting Erik to want this conversation. He exhaled, looking momentarily defeated. He glanced briefly into the other room, and then met Erik's eye.
"It's not the paralysis, you know."
"Excuse me?" Erik said, suddenly angry.
"His drinking. It's not the paralysis." Hank had leaned forward across the table and was staring directly at Erik, unflinching. Erik raged.
"I don't see how it's any of your business," he said.
"He's my friend, but more importantly, and as much as I hate to admit it, it's your business." Erik glared, jaw clenching, but he could find nothing to say to that. "Do you know what happens to someone who drinks as much and as often as he does?" Hank asked. He didn't bother waiting for Erik to reply. "Slowly his organs will begin shutting down--cirrhosis will probably hit first, maybe pancreatitis. It'll probably kill him; a slow, painful, lingering death, well before his time. Is that what you want for him?"
Erik found he couldn't answer. His entire body trembled with fury; though it was hard to tell who that fury was directed at. Hank took his silence as permission to keep talking. Erik wished he had Charles' power to freeze people at will--he wished he had the willpower to rise from his chair and end the conversation.
"I was sixteen when I met Charles. He was twenty-three and already a professor. A remarkable man--I was lucky he agreed to take me under his wing. I'm not sure I'd be alive today if he hadn't. A few years later I was doing my graduate work under his tutelage. I was dating this brilliant girl, I think you might know her; Angel Salvatore?"
Erik recoiled in shock. Tempest was not someone he would have imagined Beast knowing. She had left Genosha years ago.
"Charles was dating this pretty little bird named Moira, cheating on her more often than not. He was drinking then, and he's drinking now, and he's going to drink himself to an early grave. You'll forgive me for not wanting that for him."
There were so many things Erik could have said to that--so many things he wanted to say--but at that moment a loud cheer rose up from the other room, Erik turning his head in time to see Mystique giving Destiny a high-five. Charles looked resigned, but he mustered a smile and offered Mystique his hand, extending congratulations like the gentleman Erik knew him to be. They re-entered the dining hall, led by the victorious Mystique.
As soon as Charles caught his eye, he knew something was wrong. His hand came up to his temple, but Erik shook his head and Charles lowered his hand, looking more hurt than Erik could bear to see. He stood from his place at the table and crossed to Charles' side.
"I told you she was going to kick your ass," he said, letting a hand fall on Charles' shoulder. He squeezed briefly.
What happened? Charles said into his mind.
"Not now," Erik answered. He turned to Mystique, ignoring the frown that had settled over Charles' face. "Congratulations, I hope you weren't too hard on him."
"Seriously? You're mad because I beat your boyfriend at pool?" Mystique stood with hands on hips and Erik could tell she was seconds away from chewing him out, so he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, and then turned his attention to the room at large.
"Thank you, everyone, for coming. I believe we should be ready to do a live test of Cerebro tomorrow afternoon," he glanced at Hank, receiving a nod, "so I'd suggest we all get a little sleep."
Mystique seemed disappointed, but Destiny actually groaned--though she did immediately begin making a circuit of the room, exchanging pleasant goodbyes with each of its occupants. "Your babies are going to look like kittens," she told Linda, to which Erik could only shake his head. He turned his attention back to Charles.
"Shall we?"
In lieu of answering, Charles began making his own circuit of the room. He shook Mystique's hand and promised a rematch. He held up a hand at whatever Destiny might have said, begging her silence. He smiled sweetly at Linda, took her hand and pressed a chaste kiss to her knuckles. He gave Hank an appraising look, but settled on clasping the man's hand and thanking him for agreeing to come.
"I suppose I can tolerate him," Hank said, gesturing to Erik. Charles beamed.
"Thank you, Hank," he said. Erik exchange a brief glance with Hank over the top of Charles' head, uncertain exactly what he had done to warrant Hank's sudden approval. He suspected it might have something to do with the still empty glass, abandoned atop the liquor cabinet.
On to chapter 18
Fandom: XMFC (fusion with comic-canon and 1990s animated series)
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: NC-17 overall, R this part.
Back to chapter 16
"I think I might owe Beast an apology," Mystique said as they navigated the halls, on their way to the Danger Room, where Cyclops was apparently running a training simulation.
"You thought he was trying to purposely delay the installation," Charles said. Mystique glanced in his direction. She was maintaining a clipped pace, and Charles struggled to keep up.
"I tend to trust that Shadowcat knows what she's doing. If he hadn't interfered, we probably would have killed you. I don't even want to think about what Erik would have done had that happened. Beast saved your life, which in turn saved ours."
Charles smiled, trying to look reassuring. From what he'd seen, it was unlikely Shadowcat's configuration would have killed him. He told Mystique as much, neglecting to mention that the experience wouldn't have been pleasant, and that he wasn't entirely certain he would have emerged with his mind intact. Mystique didn't need to know that.
"It was a ballsy thing he did, standing up to us like that," Mystique said, and there was admiration in both her tone and her thoughts. Hank would have been horrified to hear it.
"I think Hank would appreciate an apology," Charles said. It was the sort of thing Hank might see as an olive branch.
Whatever else Mystique might have had to say on the subject was lost, her thoughts shifting as they turned a corner; even without asking Charles knew they had arrived. He slowed his chair--arms sore from keeping up--and then followed Mystique into a glass-walled control room that overlooked a large, gymnasium-like space. Cyclops sat at the control panel.
"Good timing," he said, flicking several switches. "We're just finishing up." Into the microphone, he said, "Three point eight minutes, Alex. You're dead eight times over. We'll run it again in the morning."
Charles didn't need his telepathy to know the men were brothers, the man standing in the gymnasium--Alex, Scott had called him, though Mystique's mind named him Havok--a younger duplicate of Cyclops.
"Mr. Summers," Charles said, wheeling forward to offer a hand. Scott accepted it without hesitation.
"Please, it's Cyclops--Scott if you insist," he said. "Magneto called down to say you were coming."
Charles nodded and stared at the visor Scott wore, hiding his eyes. For inexplicable reasons, it made reading his mind easier. Scott's thoughts were the most innocuous Charles had ever heard. Mostly he was thinking about heading out for a beer after they were finished here.
"You're here about those components I traced. I think I might have something better," Scott said, standing and gesturing to the door. In the gymnasium below, Alex was putting away an assortment of weapons.
Scott led them out into the hall and across to a room that might have at one point been a storage room--now it looked like a workroom or incredibly messy office. A desk had been pushed into the corner, and on it were stacks of papers, as well as several bits of equipment--some Charles doubted even Hank would be able to identify.
More papers sat in piles on the floor, and there were an assortment of books--most engineering in nature, though a few Charles thought belonged exclusively to the field of mathematics.
"I don't understand half of it," Scott explained, "but I'm great at finding patterns. Take this, for instance," he said, handing over the sheets he'd brought to the meeting this morning--and had it really only been this morning? Time in this place seemed to blur together into infinite stretches that defied calculation.
Charles accepted the sheets, recognizing what Scott had seen almost immediately. He knew Cerebro's components intimately.
"This is similar to Cerebro's amplification circuitry, except its inverted. Cerebro's component amplifies my telepathy, whereas this would probably dampen it."
"Precisely," Scott said, moving on to a whole new stack of papers. "So I thought; if they're making one component in Peru, where are they making other components? I began tracing supply lines."
Charles, who had been listening to Scott's thoughts rather than his words, was already several sentences ahead in their conversation. He sat forward excitedly.
"And you've found some. Enough to give us a preliminary picture of how these things are designed."
Scott nodded. It was clear he was a very clever man--Charles liked him immediately.
"And I think, within a couple of days, I might have enough to build a prototype."
And that presented all sorts of interesting possibilities, though Charles was still too excited by what Scott had already found--because if the images in Scott's head were accurate, then Charles suspected he knew exactly how these things worked. He suspected, too, that there was a very distinct possibility they wouldn't work on a telepath--or rather, that a telepath could work around the dampening field. He wondered if Stryker had figured that out yet.
Mystique, who was lounging by the door, looking bored--though her thoughts betrayed just how alert she was, and how much of their conversation she had absorbed--straightened suddenly. She ducked her head out the door and glanced down the hall.
"Problem?" Scott asked. Charles answered for her.
"Emma Frost is looking for you. Go ahead," he said, "I'm sure I can find my way back."
Mystique nodded her thanks, tipped her head in Scott's direction, and then said, "I guess I'll see you at dinner," before slipping out the door.
Charles waited until she was gone to turn his attention back to Scott. "I'll need to see everything--and I mean everything--you've uncovered so far."
Scott leaned back in his chair, his thoughts lamenting that beer he probably wouldn't get around to. Still, he was smiling when he reached over to the shelf at his side and retrieved a spiral notebook.
"You'll want to see this," he said, handing it over.
Charles could have spent days going over Scott's notes. While this wasn't his field of expertise, the process was familiar--this was the same scientific investigation that accompanied every field of science, including genetics. Within hours Charles was seriously missing his labs back in Westchester.
He read everything Scott gave him, and then made several notes in a clean spiral notebook that Scott managed to retrieve at Charles' request. More notes covered a small chalkboard that stood propped on the window ledge, and Charles added to these, until between the two of them they had a half complete idea of what the collars looked like--and how they worked.
"We're still missing whatever it is that transfers the wearer's powers to a third party--that's important--and there are probably mechanisms that prevent a wearer from simply removing the collar on their own," Scott said. He lifted the chalkboard and sat it on the desk.
Charles blinked when he realized sunlight wasn't streaming in the now uncovered window. Night had descended without him realizing it.
"What time is it?" he asked, realizing then that he'd forgotten his watch in his rush to meet Erik at the Cerebro installation.
Scott glanced at his. "Eight," he said. Scott's thoughts showed that he was just as surprised as Charles.
"I'm sorry to do this, but I'm afraid I have to go. Thank you for everything. I'm going to take this," Charles held up his new spiral notebook. "If you find anything else, please let me know."
Scott nodded, but he was still staring at the chalkboard, mind catching on the hint of a pattern, though not yet seeing what that pattern was. Charles left him to it and wheeled out into the hall.
Getting back to the main hall was easy, but his trip here from Cerebro--and in his mind he was calling it Cerebro the second--had passed so quickly that Charles wasn't sure he could duplicate it if he tried. He wanted to go back to his and Erik's rooms--to clean up and perhaps trade out his sweater for a jacket--but finding the lifts that would take him there was somewhat beyond his abilities. Charles cursed the building's architects, even as he fought off the approach of a panic attack.
It was strange, to feel his breathing shallow. Since his arrival in the compound, he had felt entirely at ease--as comfortable here as he was in Westchester--but now that he was on his own and turned around, a familiar pressure of uncertainty was building in his chest. Charles exhaled steadily and cast his mind out for a familiar thought.
Strangely enough, he found Emma Frost.
She was no longer with Mystique, but walking alone, mind bent on running some figures for a stock split she wanted to initiate. Emma, it appeared, was the Brotherhood's business face--and from what Charles could tell, she was exceptionally good at her job.
Charles Xavier. You're lost, she said, sounding amused. From the feel of it, she was at least three halls over. Waves of calm accompanied her words, Charles immediately grateful.
I am. And running late, Charles replied, giving her a sense of what he was looking for and where he currently was--though given how much every hall he encountered looked the same, he doubted it helped.
Still, speaking with another telepath was an experience Charles would never grow tired of; it was utterly delightful, and instantly improved his mood, his threatened panic attack dissolving completely.
Here, Emma said, and just like that Charles had a map of the entire compound in his head. A second later, a map of the city appeared as well, Charles' head swelling with newfound knowledge.
My dear, I can't thank you enough, Charles said, kicking himself now, because he had been going the wrong way.
Buy me lunch tomorrow and we'll call it even, Emma said, and Charles could tell that she was just as delighted to have met another telepath. He could tell, too, in the tentativeness of the question, that Emma Frost had few friends, but saw Charles as a potential one.
Of course, Charles said. Tomorrow?
Emma floated her acceptance into his mind, arranging a time and place with the press of a single thought. By the time she vanished, Charles was smiling, feeling that same sense of home that he associated with Westchester, and Erik, and now Genosha.
It took next to no time to return to his rooms now that he knew where he was going. To his disappointment, Erik was nowhere to be found, so Charles quickly saw to his needs, changed his shirt and then left, intending to stop at Cerebro the second to gather Hank--the man had an even worse sense of time than Charles did.
It was no surprise, then, when he found Hank, still busy at work.
"I thought you might forget," Charles said, wheeling into the room. Hank glanced up from his work, startled.
"Am I late?" he asked, his thoughts still focused on the processes he'd been running, dinner the last thing on his mind.
"Not yet," Charles said. "But you will be."
"No, he won't," came a voice from the doorway, and Charles turned just in time to watch Linda step into the room. She wore a floor-length black evening dress, her dark hair in ringlets around her shoulders.
Charles turned back to Hank and found him staring at Linda; eyes blown wide, his cheeks flushed a deep violet. The sight brought a smile to Charles' face.
"In that case, since we're all here, perhaps we should attempt to find the formal dining hall together," Charles said. He gestured for Hank to precede him out the door, Hank only moving because Linda had extended a hand.
"I'm glad you decided to do this," Linda said when he got to her side. Her thoughts reflected her pleasure at their reconciliation. She had been worrying, for both their sakes. Charles thought seriously about giving her a raise. She probably deserved it.
It was easy to find the formal dining hall now that he had Emma's map in his head. As they approached the room, he let his thoughts drift ahead, pleasantly surprised when he alighted on the familiar warmth of Erik's mind--he had worried Erik would be wearing the helmet. Charles reached out to touch Erik's thoughts hesitantly, a surge of affection and longing hitting him when Erik realized he was there. No longer needing Emma's map, Charles let Erik's mind guide them like a beacon.
When they finally arrived, Mystique and her companion--Destiny, her mind provided--were already there. Destiny's mind was a chaotic place and Charles recoiled from it the second he brushed against it. Charles had never met a precognitive. He couldn't imagine how difficult it would be to live with such knowledge. The dark vortex of her thoughts frightened him, but they terrified her. Sympathy welled in Charles' breast.
"Sorry we're late," he said, coming fully into the room, which he could see now was actually a dining hall--he had thought Erik exaggerating. A long, rectangular table occupied the centre of the space, its wood a dark, polished oak. Matching chairs sat evenly spaced along either side, with a slightly largely chair at its head. Their seat cushions were upholstered in rich red velvet.
The room, much to Charles' amusement, reminded him of what he imagined a Victorian gentleman's club might have looked like. The walls were paneled in the same oak as the table. Set in the corner were two towering wing-back chairs, a small table--perfect for a chess set, Charles' mind provided--set between them. Behind the table's head was a liquor cabinet, and on the far wall sat a sideboard, its surface occupied by a single bell. Directly opposite the table's foot--which held no chair--was a set of extra-wide French doors, stood open to reveal another room and inside what appeared to be a billiards table.
"Quite all right," Erik said, coming to Charles' side. He bent smoothly and pressed a soft kiss to the edge of Charles' mouth, his thoughts hinting at his desire for more. Charles smiled when they parted, unable to tear his gaze from Erik's face. Erik seemed to be having the same problem, and for a moment they merely stared at one another.
Charles glanced away first, scolding himself in the process--it had only been six hours; surely he could go six hours without seeing Erik. He let his attention drift over Erik's right shoulder. Standing shoulder to shoulder, Mystique and Destiny seemed hesitant, uncertain what was expected of them. They were obviously here because Erik--or perhaps Magneto--had invited them, but they were unused to socializing with the Brotherhood's guests--and to be fair, the Brotherhood very rarely had guests. Charles shared the thought with Erik, who rolled his eyes and then glanced over his shoulder to scowl at the pair of them.
He turned his attention to Hank and Linda.
"I'm glad you could make it," he said, extending a hand to Linda. She accepted it politely. "May I introduce my second in command, Mystique, and her companion for this evening, Destiny." He turned to Destiny and Mystique. "And this is Hank McCoy and Linda Carter, Charles' friends and companions."
Introductions made, Erik gestured everyone to the table, pausing only long enough to ring the bell that sat atop the sideboard. A door Charles hadn't noticed--because it blended seamlessly into the wall--swung open and a group of mutants appeared, carrying a wide variety of serving trays. Charles, who sat at Erik's right, raised an appraising eyebrow in Erik's direction. Erik merely shrugged, but the beginnings of a smirk tugged at his lip. Charles had wanted a dinner and it was clear Erik had provided.
~*~
As much as he hated to admit it, Erik was having a good time. Technically, he always had a good time when he was around Charles--and this, he suspected, was part of what he loved about Charles, because Erik had spent too much of his life ignoring the more pleasant aspects of life, and Charles had changed that. Things like good food and good company and good sex and good conversation he had filed under unnecessary distractions. He was only just now beginning to see their value.
"Please, only stodgy old men play chess," Mystique was saying, drawing a chuckle from Destiny--though that was hardly unexpected; the pair had been attached at the hip the entire dinner.
How the conversation had turned to chess, Erik didn't know--he'd spent the last ten minutes staring at the red of Charles' lips and wondering how much longer they were expected to linger before he could take Charles back to their rooms. They had been talking about the latest Blackbird upgrade before that--one of the few topics of conversation Hank had contributed to--and before that it had been the recent U.S. Presidential election--Mystique had asked Linda if she was at all related to this Jimmy person. She was not.
Erik set his drink down on the table--only recently cleared of their supper--intent on responding to Mystique's slur, but Charles beat him to it.
"Let me guess," he said, drawing his fingers to his temple. "You're a charades sort of girl." This sent Destiny off into another peel of laughter--and so far only Charles had matched her for drinks, not that the damned man seemed in the least drunk.
"I also play billiards," Mystique said, gesturing over her shoulder through the French doors that separated the dining hall from the games' room. Erik hated that they had a games' room, but Emma had been right when she suggested it; it did improve moral.
"Oh, that sounds like a challenge," Charles said, and Erik choked on his next mouthful of martini. For the first time since they'd met, Charles was in over his head.
Mystique stood then, head held high, even as she wobbled slightly. She hadn't had as much to drink as Destiny, but her body metabolized the alcohol faster, which meant she both got drunk and sobered up a lot faster.
"You, sir, are about to get your ass kicked," she said. Destiny cheered. She glanced to the others at the table, her expression conspiratorial.
"She is," she said, the white of her eyes seeming almost translucent in that moment.
"I nominate Destiny as my cheerleader," Mystique said, already crossing to the French doors. Erik watched in horror as Charles turn to look in his direction, expression expectant. There was something about the dopey grin he wore that tugged at Erik's heart.
"I love you dearly, Charles, but do I look stupid?" he asked. Charles cocked his head, expression softening considerably even as his eyes widened with shock. Erik replayed what he'd just said. "I said that out loud, didn't I?"
"You did," Charles said, smiling warmly. Erik sent him a pleading thought; a request to ignore the slip until they had a moment to themselves. Charles acceded with a small nod of his head.
"My point is, she's going to mop the floor with you, my friend," Erik said.
Charles laughed at that, so Erik offered him a sympathetic smiled--one that said: it's too late now, you've gotten yourself into this mess you need to get yourself out. Charles gave a mocking bow, complete with hand flourish.
"I'll be my own cheerleader," he announced.
Which is precisely when Erik remembered the table's other occupants; because until now, Linda and Hank had been strangely quiet, all polite conversation--save Hank's excited input where the Blackbird was concerned--while Erik's minions--and given their current escapades, they were both deserving of the title--had been loud, obnoxious and drunk.
At least Erik wasn't the only one having a good time.
Linda had stood gracefully--and she was rather graceful, for a human. She patted Hank's hand and then circled around the table to Charles' side.
"I would be more than happy to stand in as your cheerleader, Charles," she said. Charles beamed at her.
"You have my eternal gratitude, Ms. Carter," he said, offering an arm.
She had to bend down to accept it, but she did it without making the gesture seem offensive, allowing Charles to lead her towards the games' room. Erik watched them go, mildly surprised when Charles turned up in his head.
Play nice with Hank, and I'll need another drink in a minute or two, he said. Erik choked back a yes, dear and instead sent Charles an image of exactly what other uses they could find for said billiards table. It was hardly the first time his thoughts had turned in that direction. Spending any significant amount of time in Charles' presence tended to excite such interest.
Erik felt delightfully vindicated when Charles choked on his next mouthful of whiskey. He felt rather than saw Charles' glare.
Under normal circumstances, Erik would have followed the others into the room; would have watched the game as it played out, reveling in the sight of Charles leaning forward in his chair, fingers caressing the pool cue, but Linda's abrupt departure--especially given how silent she'd been all night--suggested that her leaving had been orchestrated. Erik took another sip of his drink and then turned his head to find Hank watching him.
"I'm assuming you had something you wanted to say to me, outside of Charles' hearing."
Hank stood and moved around the table, coming to stand next to liquor cabinet. He leaned against it and calmly met Erik's eye.
"Does Charles know how many men you've killed?" he asked.
And ah, of course this was where this was going--it was probably the only reason Hank had agreed to come tonight.
"Charles knows everything about me, I would imagine," Erik said, and that probably wasn't true, because Charles hadn't run screaming yet and that tended to be what people who knew him exceptionally well did. It was what Magda had done.
It was not, however, enough to put Hank off. He leaned forward.
"Out of curiosity, how many men have you killed?" he asked. He was faking casual indifference--rather badly Erik thought.
Erik's first instinct was to tell Hank it was none of his business; to throw him out of the room, Charles' ire be damned, but that, he suspected, was Magneto talking, so instead he calmly leaned back into his chair, took a sip of his martini and decided upon telling Hank the truth.
After all, what did he have to lose?
"Let's see," Erik said, voice eerily calm. "I killed my first two men when I was nine. An accident, of course; my mother had just been murdered and I'd lost control of my powers--I crushed their Nazi skulls beneath their helmets, if you must know."
Hank's expression fell. He stared at Erik in abject horror. Erik mentally tallied a point in his favour. A quick glance through the French doors showed Charles bent over the table, Linda leaning against the back of his chair to keep it from tipping over.
"I killed a lot of men after that, though never of my own free will," Erik continued, turning his attention back to Hank. "Doktor Schmidt would regularly bring in subjects and have me kill them in all sorts of interesting ways, but I suspect you mean how many men have I killed knowingly, and of my own free will."
When Hank didn't answer, Erik pressed on. He felt a little like he imagined Charles must have felt, that first night when he had given his speech. There was no emotion in Erik's tone--only the certainty of what was past; what was long buried.
He set his arm on the table and rolled up his sleeve.
"I killed the man who gave me this," he said, pulling aside the fabric to reveal the line of numbers tattooed on his arm. "I killed the soldier who spat on my mother as they led us into Auschwitz. I killed the solider that beat my mother with the butt of his gun when she refused to let us be separated. I killed the man Doktor Schmidt had flog me when I didn't respond fast enough to his demands."
Here Erik paused, not because the story meant anything to him anymore--he was no longer that boy--but because he knew he couldn't say it without sounding remote and in those moments he worried that Schmidt had done what he'd set out to do; that he had made Erik nothing more than a machine; a monster whose sole purpose was killing.
He pressed on.
"I killed the two soldiers Doktor Schmidt had rape me when I was eleven. I killed the solider who threw me into a pile of rotting corpses when I was thirteen." And that had been worse; far, far worse. "I killed the Nazi who called me Juden like it was a disease. I killed the young officer--though he was a middle aged man when he died--who liked to tie a rope around my neck and drag me through the yard, because Doktor Schmidt determined the fresh air and exercise would be good for me. I killed the officer's three friends, who used to watch and laugh and hurl taunts in my direction.
"I killed the man who struck the woman I loved, simply because she refused his advances--she thanked me by fleeing from me in terror, if you're curious. I killed twelve high ranking Nazi officers, all of whom had some hand in tracking, arresting and incarcerating my family. And then I killed Klaus Schmidt. After that, I stopped keeping count."
By the time he had finished, Hank looked a little green--an amazing feat given his physiology. Erik slowly rolled down his sleeve and refastened his cuff-link. He turned his head to look through the French doors. Mystique was crowing, and Charles' brow was furrowed in concentration. Mystique was kicking his ass.
Erik stood then and crossed to the liquor cabinet, waving Hank aside--who moved surprisingly quickly, head bent to avoid Erik's gaze. Erik fixed himself another martini, and then pulled down a fresh glass for Charles. He uncapped a new bottle of whiskey--the last one drained.
"Is that too many for you?" he asked, still sounding far, far too detached. Hank wore an expression Erik knew well--half pity, half revulsion. "Does Charles come with a body count limit?"
Hank looked up sharply at that. In two strides he was in Erik's space and for a moment Erik thought Hank meant to throttle him. Instead, he reached across Erik's chest to stop the hand currently pouring Charles' next drink. Erik used his power to grasp Hank by his watch and move his hand away. His expression turned hard as he turned to meet Hank's gaze.
"At least water it down," Hank said.
Erik narrowed his eyes, suddenly confused. "He's not a child, you know."
Hank's expression was hard to classified, but if Erik had to, he'd say that for the first time since their meeting Hank was looking at him as an equal. It was enough to stay Erik's hand, the newly open bottle setting down on the cabinet, Charles' glass remaining empty.
"You said you loved him. Earlier," Hank clarified. "You said you loved him, and if you do--if you honestly care about him, then I can forgive you a good many things, including your past, but I can't forgive this. If you enable this; I will tear you apart, no matter how much Charles hates me for it."
Erik drew back, uncertain. This was not something he had expected. He watched, still and silent, as Hank crossed back to the table, sitting heavily. He leaned back into his chair and tipped his head. Erik spared a single glance through the French doors--and found the match still well underway--and then came to claim the seat opposite Hank's.
"What the hell do you mean; enable this?"
Hank looked up, startled--perhaps not expecting Erik to want this conversation. He exhaled, looking momentarily defeated. He glanced briefly into the other room, and then met Erik's eye.
"It's not the paralysis, you know."
"Excuse me?" Erik said, suddenly angry.
"His drinking. It's not the paralysis." Hank had leaned forward across the table and was staring directly at Erik, unflinching. Erik raged.
"I don't see how it's any of your business," he said.
"He's my friend, but more importantly, and as much as I hate to admit it, it's your business." Erik glared, jaw clenching, but he could find nothing to say to that. "Do you know what happens to someone who drinks as much and as often as he does?" Hank asked. He didn't bother waiting for Erik to reply. "Slowly his organs will begin shutting down--cirrhosis will probably hit first, maybe pancreatitis. It'll probably kill him; a slow, painful, lingering death, well before his time. Is that what you want for him?"
Erik found he couldn't answer. His entire body trembled with fury; though it was hard to tell who that fury was directed at. Hank took his silence as permission to keep talking. Erik wished he had Charles' power to freeze people at will--he wished he had the willpower to rise from his chair and end the conversation.
"I was sixteen when I met Charles. He was twenty-three and already a professor. A remarkable man--I was lucky he agreed to take me under his wing. I'm not sure I'd be alive today if he hadn't. A few years later I was doing my graduate work under his tutelage. I was dating this brilliant girl, I think you might know her; Angel Salvatore?"
Erik recoiled in shock. Tempest was not someone he would have imagined Beast knowing. She had left Genosha years ago.
"Charles was dating this pretty little bird named Moira, cheating on her more often than not. He was drinking then, and he's drinking now, and he's going to drink himself to an early grave. You'll forgive me for not wanting that for him."
There were so many things Erik could have said to that--so many things he wanted to say--but at that moment a loud cheer rose up from the other room, Erik turning his head in time to see Mystique giving Destiny a high-five. Charles looked resigned, but he mustered a smile and offered Mystique his hand, extending congratulations like the gentleman Erik knew him to be. They re-entered the dining hall, led by the victorious Mystique.
As soon as Charles caught his eye, he knew something was wrong. His hand came up to his temple, but Erik shook his head and Charles lowered his hand, looking more hurt than Erik could bear to see. He stood from his place at the table and crossed to Charles' side.
"I told you she was going to kick your ass," he said, letting a hand fall on Charles' shoulder. He squeezed briefly.
What happened? Charles said into his mind.
"Not now," Erik answered. He turned to Mystique, ignoring the frown that had settled over Charles' face. "Congratulations, I hope you weren't too hard on him."
"Seriously? You're mad because I beat your boyfriend at pool?" Mystique stood with hands on hips and Erik could tell she was seconds away from chewing him out, so he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, and then turned his attention to the room at large.
"Thank you, everyone, for coming. I believe we should be ready to do a live test of Cerebro tomorrow afternoon," he glanced at Hank, receiving a nod, "so I'd suggest we all get a little sleep."
Mystique seemed disappointed, but Destiny actually groaned--though she did immediately begin making a circuit of the room, exchanging pleasant goodbyes with each of its occupants. "Your babies are going to look like kittens," she told Linda, to which Erik could only shake his head. He turned his attention back to Charles.
"Shall we?"
In lieu of answering, Charles began making his own circuit of the room. He shook Mystique's hand and promised a rematch. He held up a hand at whatever Destiny might have said, begging her silence. He smiled sweetly at Linda, took her hand and pressed a chaste kiss to her knuckles. He gave Hank an appraising look, but settled on clasping the man's hand and thanking him for agreeing to come.
"I suppose I can tolerate him," Hank said, gesturing to Erik. Charles beamed.
"Thank you, Hank," he said. Erik exchange a brief glance with Hank over the top of Charles' head, uncertain exactly what he had done to warrant Hank's sudden approval. He suspected it might have something to do with the still empty glass, abandoned atop the liquor cabinet.
On to chapter 18
