prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet
So then this happened. Also available on AO3, if that's what floats your boat. (Seriously, now that AO3 supports embedding vids as well, I will never need another archive again.)
Hilariously, this failed to crosspost from Dreamwidth because it was too long for one LJ post. ARGH. So here I am splitting this in two parts for LJ. Bear with me.
Title: A Hundred Visions and Revisions
Author: kaydeefalls
Fandom: X-Men: First Class (+ Doctor Who)
Rating: R
Characters: Charles/Erik + Canton Delaware III (Who)
Disclaimer: not mine, no profit, don't sue.
Summary: In which the CIA and FBI indulge in some inter-agency snooping, Erik hates Cerebro, a new mutant is found, and Charles is very distracting.
Notes: Written for this prompt at 1stclass_kink. Crossover with a character from Doctor Who and one comicsverse Avenger, but no knowledge of either other canon required. HUGE thanks to Brenda for the beta, and Quinn for the constant cheerleading.
When they return to Virginia with Angel -- their first successful recruit -- they find the FBI waiting for them.
More specifically, they find their CIA patron and Hank squaring off awkwardly with three feds in the facility's foyer. Hank, lurking in his boss's substantial shadow, sees them first. His eyes go wide and desperate behind his glasses, and Erik doesn't need telepathy to know that the boy is projecting PLEASE HELP as loudly as he can.
Charles takes in the scene with his characteristic calm, though Erik can make out the hint of a frown at the edges of his mouth. "Ah, Hank," Charles says. "This is Miss Salvadore. Perhaps you could show her to her new lodgings?" His voice is light, the words tossed out absently, as though he's not paying much attention to what he's saying. That's his only tell, but it's one Erik has quickly come to recognize. Charles is definitely playing inside someone's head right now.
Hank glances nervously toward his boss and the feds, but they pay him no mind. Ah, Erik thinks, satisfied. Sure enough, it's only once Hank and Angel are well out of sight that the men in the black suits finally notice Charles and Erik's presence.
"Hey, speak of the devil!" the CIA Suit says, with forced joviality. (Charles refers to the man as Oliver -- presumably his real name -- but Erik only ever thinks of him as the Suit.) "Mission successful this time?"
"Hello, Oliver," Charles says pleasantly, neatly sidestepping the question. "I see we have guests."
Oliver the Suit coughs. "Of course, yes. Dr. Xavier, may I present Assistant Director Sullivan, of the FBI."
One of the feds steps forward to shake Charles's hand. A.D. Sullivan is a tall, heavyset man with reddish hair rapidly losing the battle to gray. His smile looks more like a grimace. Charles winces at Sullivan's handshake, and Erik wonders whether it's the strength of the man's grip or the brush of his thoughts that Charles finds distasteful. Either way, Erik dislikes Sullivan on the spot.
Apparently Erik himself is to be subordinate in this exchange, like the two nameless feds flanking their A.D. He's perfectly content to be seen as Charles's muscle at the moment, and makes a point of folding his arms across his chest with a scowl, glowering at all three FBI agents indiscriminately. Sullivan hardly spares him a glance, but one of his boys (very tall, middle-aged, with a military buzz cut, metal calling out to Erik from both a visible sidearm and a small revolver in his ankle holster) has the good sense to look nervous. The other, a compact, dark-haired younger man, just returns Erik's gaze impassively.
The Suit prattles on incessantly, while Charles and Sullivan silently assess one another under the guise of exchanging pleasantries. Erik tunes out the words; no one's saying anything of substance, no one references the actual purpose of this CIA facility. He trusts Charles will inform him of what the FBI is really doing here later.
Sure enough: Inter-agency feuding, Charles whispers directly into Erik's mind. Some higher-ups at the FBI want a look at the CIA's pet projects.
Should we care? Erik thinks back.
Oliver does. That's sufficient for the moment.
Erik snorts. He is deeply unconcerned with what the Suit does or does not care about. But one government agency poking around Erik's people is already one too many; they don't need to let the FBI in as well.
Evidently Charles agrees, at least in part, because when Oliver grudgingly leads the G-men on an abbreviated tour of the facility, the labs are suspiciously clean. All of the equipment and data readouts on display are blandly anonymous, with no obvious indications of Hank's actual research. At one point, Oliver makes the mistake of gesturing out the window toward Cerebro, all too visibly alien on the neatly manicured lawn; Charles presses his index finger to his temple and the feds' eyes slide right past the window as though it's not even there. Hank reappears and does a very earnest song-and-dance about breakthroughs in intermolecular interactions and enhancements to human physiology; Erik watches with barely concealed amusement as Sullivan's eyes glass over at all the scientific jargon.
While Hank rambles, Charles steps back to join Erik, leaning against the lab wall by the doorway. "What a spectacular waste of an afternoon," he murmurs. "I had hoped to get in another session with Cerebro while Angel settled in. Hank tweaked a few parameters; we may be able to prioritize results by location now."
"Hear anything interesting from the feds?" Erik asks, keeping his voice similarly low. He leans in toward Charles, their shoulders touching, trying to create an illusion of privacy in this lab full of people.
Charles smiles faintly. "AD Sullivan knows this project involves 'powered' individuals, but not the precise nature of the program, or what we are. He also liaises with another agency that deals with, ah, 'superhuman' threats -- though I believe they keep him pretty well in the dark. He thinks the government is working to build these theoretical supermen for military purposes and moreover, that it's a waste of good American tax dollars."
That is interesting. "So the US government is creating its own mutants?"
"Obviously not in our case," Charles says dryly. His hand brushes against Erik's like an accident. "But one of his men is ex-military, and he's heard of a program designed for just that, though he thinks it's a lot of, ah, 'bull.'"
Erik looks back over at Sullivan's lackeys, re-assessing. "Which one?"
"The taller one. The other..." Charles frowns in concentration, eyes narrowing slightly. "Well, that's unexpected."
At that precise moment, the other agent turns and gives them both a hard, quick look. Nothing else changes in his placid demeanor. Charles blinks, and the man turns back to Hank's presentation.
"He suspects what we are," Charles says quietly. "And unlike his friends, he actually believes that our powers are real."
*
The Assistant Director, of course, is too important to babysit a CIA lab for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, his lackeys aren't. Once Oliver the Suit escorts Sullivan out the door, Charles smoothly intervenes with the suggestion that they all retire to the facility's canteen. "I do apologize, but I've just got off a rather long flight, and I'm afraid I haven't had lunch yet," he explains. "The food is nothing to write home about, but they do have ice cream in the afternoons."
It's a convenient, non-threatening place to keep them busy for a while, and Erik suspects that Charles has now given both federal agents an inexplicable craving for ice cream. Hank slips away with palpable relief. Erik moves to follow him, but Charles shoots him a look that says clearly and in no uncertain terms that if I have to see this charade through, then so do you.
What the hell, Erik hasn't had lunch yet either.
In the cafeteria, Erik discovers that roughly half the resident lab technicians and security guards in the facility are also craving ice cream right this minute. He glances over at Charles, who does a very poor job of suppressing a smile. It's not a bad move -- none of the CIA flunkies are favorably inclined toward interlopers from their rival agency, so they won't be likely to blab, but it takes some of the pressure off Charles as sole guide. And once their boss is out of the building, Agents Larson (ex-military) and Delaware (too shrewd for Erik's liking) manage to loosen up a bit. The security guards seem to take a shine to Larson, anyway. Delaware is quiet and cordial.
"He's a tricky one to read," Charles remarks, keeping an eye on Delaware as Larson launches into an old army story.
Erik frowns, setting down his sandwich. "You mean he's blocking you?"
Charles bristles a little. "As though he could. But he's certainly putting up a good show of it -- his surface emotions bleed through clear as day, but when I try to pry deeper..." He smiles in spite of himself. "Well, he's thinking very hard about a door. A closed door. With at least six padlocks across it. It's a childish trick, really -- that is, Raven used to do something very similar when we were younger, before I had better control of my powers. It kept me from accidentally slipping into her mind."
"Is it effective?"
"In keeping me out if I want to get in? Goodness, no, not in the least. But it's a fairly simple deterrent. A locked door -- it's as though he's put up a very polite sign requesting that I go no further. To do so anyway would be tantamount to breaking and entering."
Erik believes that when someone goes to the trouble of locking a door so extravagantly, it means there's something very valuable on the other side, and 'need to know' most certainly applies. But he somehow suspects Charles will disagree. And he's not about to engage him in a lengthy argument about the ethical application of mind control in mixed company, so he doesn't press the issue.
With conversation flowing around them, Charles and Erik are more or less overlooked for the time being. So no one else notices when Charles goes very still, spoonful of soup suspended halfway between the bowl and his mouth.
Erik clears his throat pointedly.
"Hank's introduced Angel to Raven and Moira," Charles explains, eyes distant. "Good. They know to occupy themselves out of sight for the next few hours."
Erik is torn between his healthy appreciation for privacy on one hand (the young recruits are none of the FBI's business) and, on the other, an instinctive hatred of the idea that they should have to hide from anyone. But another thought arises, distracting him: the lodgings are on the far side of the facility, a good 400 meters away at least. If Charles can send and receive thoughts to them... "What is the range of your power?"
Charles shrugs. "I haven't pushed myself terribly far, to be honest. It's always been sufficient to my needs. At least a mile, I think, though reaching out so far takes a great deal of effort and concentration. That's why Cerebro is such a godsend -- with that, the telepathy's range could be very nearly limitless."
Anywhere I go, no matter how far I run, he could still find me, Erik realizes, doing his best not to broadcast it to Charles. The thought simultaneously terrifies and thrills him. It's so strange to think of this friendly, spoiled young idealist possessing such power. Charles could bring the world to its knees if he so chose -- and yet here he is, sitting in a government canteen, hair still charmingly tousled from a long day of travel, frowning down at the cold soup in his spoon as though he can't imagine how on earth it got there. Erik smirks at Charles's bemused expression, and feels something tighten in his chest when Charles looks back up at him with laughter in his eyes. He chooses not to analyze that too closely.
Instead he looks away, and notices an empty seat at the other end of the long canteen table.
"Charles," he says, keeping his voice low and calm. But something in either his tone or his mind must give him away, because Charles's full attention snaps to him sharply, like a compass drawn to north. "Agent Delaware is missing."
"He probably just stepped out to find the loo," Charles says, but his finger is pressed to his temple and his gaze has gone unfocused. "Or -- ah, there. I'd rather avoid a scene, Erik, so if you would be so kind as to slip out after him..."
Erik is already getting to his feet. "You'll direct me, I assume?"
Of course, Charles says in his mind. He's heading for Cerebro.
*
Cerebro's chamber is set out on the grounds, where anyone could just walk up to it. The entrance is generally kept secured -- at least on the days Hank isn't too distracted by his work to remember to lock it. But even assuming the worst, that this Agent Delaware gets inside -- well, really, it's not as though he'll have the slightest notion what Cerebro is. Erik's not particularly worried. Irritated, yes. Very much so.
The door isn't locked. He pushes it up and open with a gesture, and climbs in.
Sure enough, there's Delaware, visibly startled by the clanging door, a sheaf of data readouts in hand. He's giving the raised platform a healthy berth. Not that Erik is the resident expert, but Cerebro itself appears untouched. He hasn't been up in here but the once, and Hank and Charles have made some changes to the place -- there are additional workstations set up around the edges, desks littered with notes and printouts -- but the headpiece is just the same.
"Hello," Erik says acidly. "If you were looking for the restroom, you must have missed a turning."
Delaware recovers his composure quickly. "Must have. Maze like your facility, you'd think there'd be signs." His voice is gravelly, deadpan.
Erik glances down at the papers in the fed's hands. To his credit, Delaware makes no attempt to conceal them. "Agent Delaware, I do believe you've been snooping around our lab."
"I'm an FBI agent, Mr. Lehnsherr," Delaware says, faintly exasperated. "Of course I'm snooping, what the hell did you expect?"
That surprises a short laugh out of him. "Find anything interesting?"
Delaware scowls, tossing the papers back down on the lab bench. "Kinda hard to tell, isn't it? I'm not a scientist. But you've got a hell of a setup in here. What on earth is this helmet thing? Some kind of torture device?"
Erik remembers the mingled ecstasy and agony on Charles's face when he'd first used Cerebro, pain and wonder so jumbled together Erik could feel them viscerally, roiling in his gut. He hasn't been able to sit in on the Cerebro sessions since. It's an unusual sensation for Erik; he is certainly not unaccustomed to pain, either inflicting or receiving it, but to stand by and do nothing while Charles opens his mind to a million screaming voices at once...
Perhaps Delaware is not entirely incorrect in his assessment.
"It's nothing you'd have any use for," Erik says instead, which is not a lie. "You do realize you've just illegally trespassed within a top secret program, of course."
Delaware coughs. "As opposed to the legal sort of trespassing? Anyway, I've got jurisdiction, technically. Oversight, my boss forced a deal out of your boss, et cetera. And you can't just build a big white sphere in the middle of the lawn and expect no one to notice -- though you and your pal Xavier did a good job distracting us from it earlier."
"And what did you hope to discover in here?"
"What sort of tests you people are running," Delaware says promptly. "Some clue as to who you and Dr. Xavier are, because God knows you aren't CIA. And while we're at it, which one of you was trying to poke around in my head, 'cause that felt weird."
If he'd wanted to surprise a reaction out of Erik, he's going to be disappointed. Ignoring the last, Erik gestures to the mess of incomprehensible printouts. "And you somehow expected to find it all written out for you? In layman's terms? Highlighted in red, perhaps?"
"You clearly aren't a government employee. We have to write up an official report every time we sneeze."
It's a flippant remark, but Erik has to suppress a twitch. He has many reasons to be uncomfortable working with the CIA. This is just one more. Sure, Hank cleaned up his labs before the feds got in, but somewhere -- in this facility, or in Oliver the Suit's office, or on some anonymous steno's desk -- there are records of precisely what Charles and Erik are doing here. Security clearances mean little. After all, there isn't a safe in the world Erik couldn't break into with his powers. If a written record exists, someone can find and read it.
And Charles, with Cerebro, is compiling a list of known mutants for recruitment purposes. Brilliant.
Something must show in his expression, because Delaware narrows his eyes, considering. "I don't know exactly what's going on here, Mr. Lehnsherr, but something tells me you like it just about as much as I do."
For a moment, Erik wishes he were the telepath. Delaware is no ally -- for starters, he's human, and Erik will never trust Moira and her ilk the way Charles does. And his curiosity, though refreshingly frank, is a liability. Erik wants to know why Delaware is so interested in this facility.
"I may not know much about machines and things, but I'm not a complete idiot. Some of those printouts are coordinates," Delaware presses on, low and intent. "What are you looking for, Mr. Lehnsherr?"
There's the ringing tread of someone clambering up the metal stairs, and Erik can feel the light brush against his mind that signals Charles's presence. He supposes it is a 'weird' sensation, as Delaware said, but for some reason he never finds it off-putting. It's rather -- not comforting, exactly, but familiar. Which really ought to be disconcerting -- he's only known the man a matter of weeks, if that.
"Ah, Agent Delaware, there you are," Charles says pleasantly, stepping up through the open grate. "I thought I heard voices in here."
Erik snorts, and ignores Charles's mental reproof in favor of the flash of mischief in his eyes.
"Voices," Delaware says flatly, glancing between them. "I'm sure you did."
He knows one of us is a telepath, but isn't sure which, Erik thinks deliberately in Charles's direction.
Yes, Charles replies, his mental voice amused. I know. Aloud, he says, "Agent Larson has been looking for you. Apparently you've been called back to headquarters -- he wouldn't give me any details, of course."
"Of course," Delaware echoes, his visible reluctance warring against the gentle, insistent push of Charles's mind. "I'll just see myself out, then." He takes one last look at Cerebro, sighs, and elbows past them to exit.
"You're not actually letting him wander around the grounds on his own again," Erik says. It's not a question.
Charles raises an eyebrow. "There are some extraordinarily helpful security guards waiting just outside to assist him."
"And the phone call from FBI headquarters?"
"Larson certainly believes he received such a call," Charles says. "And it's a bit of a drive back into D.C., particularly at this time of day. By the time they reach the office, it'll be too late to sort out the confusion and return here."
Erik gives him a hard-edged smile. "Playing rather fast and loose with your code of ethics, aren't you, Charles?"
"Just a little white lie, no harm done," Charles replies easily. "I'm only protecting our secrets."
The thought clicks in Erik's mind. Something about the edge of concern in Delaware's voice -- What are you looking for, Mr. Lehnsherr? "And what do you suppose Delaware is trying to protect?"
Charles frowns. "I'm not sure, but I do think you're right. He's not just an overzealous investigator, is he?"
"You said you could read his emotions -- what was he feeling, in here? Curiosity?"
"Worry," Charles says quietly. "He felt worried."
*
Angel is flying by moonlight. She looks rather like a hummingbird, flitting about over the facility's grounds. Erik wonders how she could stand to have lived so long grounded, tucking her beautiful gossamer wings out of sight. She was made for the open air.
He flips the old Nazi coin idly between his fingers, to remind himself what he was made for.
There's a hooting cry, and Erik looks up to see a small dark shape in the air. Angel laughs and twists away, darting toward the treeline; the shape follows. Erik jogs after them with a frown. Not that he thinks Angel is in any danger from an owl, but still. Best to keep an eye on her. She was born and raised in LA, probably never interacted with birds bigger than pigeons before. He hopes she's not trying to tame the creature.
She comes to earth at the edge of the yard, beneath the spreading branches of an old pine tree. The owl, he sees, is perched on the lowest branch, blinking down at her. "Making friends among the local wildlife?" Erik asks dryly.
Angel turns to him with a smirk. "Gee, papi, he just followed me home. Can I keep him?"
"No." He looks up at the bird. It matches him stare for stare. "I've never seen one take such an interest in people before."
"We aren't exactly people like he's used to," Angel points out. "He's probably wondering what the hell I was doing in his airspace."
Erik glances down at her, feeling a small smile tug at the edges of his mouth. "Then it's time he learned to share."
Angel returns the smile, slow and sweet. "Share, huh. Something tells me you're not so good at that yourself. Though I gotta tell you, the way you and the professor showed up in my club--"
"We needed to speak with you in private," Erik says, shrugging it off. "It was expeditious."
She rolls her eyes. "Right, sure. Hey, where is Xavier, anyway? I think this is the first time I seen one of you without the other."
Erik's shoulders stiffen involuntarily. "Cerebro," he says curtly. "The device Dr. McCoy designed -- the one that helps Charles locate others of our kind."
"And that's a bad thing? 'Cause you don't look so happy about it."
"Using Cerebro -- it takes a certain toll on him. The power is marvelous, of course, but being connected to all those minds, all at once..." Erik doesn't know how to describe it, can't really even imagine what it must feel like in Charles's mind under normal conditions, let alone with Cerebro's massive amplifying influence. "It exhausts him," Erik says instead, choosing his words carefully. "I tried to convince him to wait until tomorrow -- we've had such a long day already, finding you last night and spending the morning on the plane, and then that bureaucratic nonsense with the FBI this afternoon -- but Charles insisted."
Angel eyes him with undisguised interest, and Erik realizes that this is probably the most she's heard him speak all in one go. Charles is usually the one who does the talking.
"Speaking of which, you must be worn out as well," he says abruptly. "Or are you going to fly all night?"
She tilts her face up to the sky. "I think maybe I could," she says wistfully. "But I probably shouldn't. I am pretty tired."
"I'll see you back to your room." He glances back up at the branch, and is surprised to find the owl still perched there, staring. "Say goodnight to your new friend."
Angel grins and blows the owl a kiss. "Buenas noches, poquito."
The owl blinks slowly. Erik can't quite shake off the feeling that it's watching them the whole walk back to the facility.
*
It's nearly two in the morning when Charles finally emerges from Cerebro. Erik knows this because there's a clock on the wall of Charles's quarters, where Erik had fallen asleep in an armchair waiting for him. He jerks out of a monochromatic dream of roiling storm clouds and barbed wire to the gentle weight of Charles's hand on his shoulder. "Whatever are you doing here?" Charles asks softly.
Erik shakes his head to chase away the remains of the dream. "I didn't expect you to take so long." He peers at the clock, then blinks. "Christ, Charles, you've been working with Cerebro since just after dinner. Are you insane?"
"Of course I wasn't in the device this whole time," Charles scoffs. But his face looks ashen even in the warm lamplight, his blue eyes bloodshot and fever-bright. "It's just that there's so much work to be done, and I'm the only one who can use it."
"Yes, and what a great deal of good you'll do us once you've completely burned yourself out," Erik snaps. "Have you found anything useful, at least?"
Charles recoils, and Erik feels the flash of hurt as though it were his own. Charles really must be tired to be unconsciously projecting like this. "I did, in fact," he says stiffly. "Another mutant, this one much closer to home. He's in Alexandria. I thought we might drive up tomorrow morning."
"Tomorrow afternoon, maybe, and only if you can prove conclusively that you've gotten at least eight hours of sleep."
An image flickers in and out of Erik's head unbidden: precisely how he might ensure that Charles sleep tonight. He honestly can't tell whose mind it originated in, and he'd rather not consider that too closely. Charles flushes faintly but makes no further remark. "I'm fine," he says instead.
"You're exhausted," Erik retorts. "I'm exhausted, and at least I slept in the hotel last night. You were up half the night scribbling notes at the desk. And then you played mind games with the FBI all afternoon before your marathon session with Cerebro, which leaves you looking like death warmed over under the best of circumstances."
Charles sighs, sitting heavily on the edge of his bed. "My friend, you're hardly one to lecture about overtaxing one's powers."
"And as a friend of mine once pointed out, killing oneself in pursuit of one's mission accomplishes nothing."
That evokes a smile, tired though it is. "You know, I can't even remember why I'm arguing about this. Get out of my room and let me get some sleep already." The fondness in Charles's voice takes the sting out of the words. He curls up on top of the blankets still fully clothed and watches Erik with heavy-lidded eyes.
Erik pulls himself to his feet. His own bedroom seems irritatingly far away at the moment, but the armchair isn't all that comfortable. "Tomorrow afternoon, then?"
"Morning," Charles counters, eyes closing. "Alexandria."
Afternoon, Erik thinks back pointedly, and allows himself a brief moment to enjoy the soft smile curving at the edges of Charles's generous lips. He so rarely has the time to just stop and look, what with searching for Shaw and cross-country treks and the government breathing down their necks. And it's still so strange and new to him, this unlikely friendship; a frivolous indulgence at best, a distraction.
He shouldn't like being distracted this much.
Why were you waiting up for me? Charles murmurs in his head, fading fast, and Erik can't think of a single answer to give him. It doesn't matter. Charles is already asleep.
*
Charles wins by virtue of already being up and functional when Erik stumbles to breakfast late at eight o'clock. ('Late' being a relative term -- Raven never makes it down to the canteen before ten at the earliest.) Erik doesn't like breakfast as a rule, but though the war is many years behind him, he still thinks of fresh fruit as a rare treat to be hoarded, and the CIA canteen always sets some out in the mornings.
"We'll need to do one last coordinate fix with Hank before setting out," Charles says, far too cheerfully for as little sleep as he must have gotten. Maybe that's his secondary mutation. "But it's Saturday morning, he'll probably be at home. That's for the best, I think. Angel was an anomaly -- most of these people are likely to be less approachable at their place of work."
Erik grunts and helps himself to an orange. "Do we know anything more about this mutant?"
Charles smiles, eyes lighting up as they always do in the face of something new and marvelous. To a telepath, Erik supposes that anything new must by definition be marvelous. It would certainly explain Charles's continuing fascination with him, a man so outside his usual frame of reference. "Some, yes, of course, though less than I saw with Angel or the others."
'The others' being the first two new mutants they'd attempted to recruit. One turned out to be too young for government work, a fourteen-year-old boy with an invisible mutation that enabled him to understand any language, oral or written; the other, a pretty brunette their own age, had a husband and a new baby and no interest whatsoever in exploring her ability to see in the dark on the CIA's dime.
"So what did you see?" Erik asks.
"His name is Sam Wilson. Black, thirties, rather impressive build. A physical man, certainly. Possibly military, or formerly so. His mind was a bit hazy -- I think he might be at least mildly telepathic. Or perhaps a strong empath, I've never encountered one of those before, I'm not sure how one would affect my own powers." Charles shrugs. "Or the haziness could just be interference from Cerebro -- we still have a great deal of calibration to do. The power is enormous, but it's rather like a large, blunt instrument. Like trying to focus on one mind in a noisy, crowded room -- which I'm more than capable of -- but multiplied to some exponential degree."
Erik tries ,once again, to imagine it, and fails. "It hurts you."
Charles waves this off. "Yes, of course, but what of it? It's all part of the learning curve. Your morning run causes you physical discomfort when you push yourself hard, but how else can you increase your endurance? Same thing."
Yes, but running too fast won't cause me to go mad, Erik thinks irritably, and doesn't care whether Charles overheard it or not. He glances down at the orange on his tray, realizing he's shredded the peel into jagged strips with his pocketknife, the fruit underneath untouched. Charles doesn't comment on the knife still hovering a few inches above the tray. Erik pockets it with a twitch of his fingers and pops an orange segment into his mouth.
"You really dislike Cerebro, don't you?" Charles asks, brow furrowed. "Despite appreciating what we can accomplish with it."
"It's an incredible tool," Erik agrees. "And it will make you into an incredible weapon, just as Shaw made me. I don't have to like the methods to appreciate the results."
Charles frowns. "The situations are entirely different."
"Believe what you like," Erik says with a shrug, getting to his feet. He takes the remains of the orange with him. "Didn't you say you wanted another go with it before heading after this potential empath of yours?"
He leads the way out to Cerebro, ignoring the mental edge of Charles's concern. In his mind, he visualizes a thick metal door with a bolt and padlock across it, just to feel Charles flinch.
*
Erik had fully intended to join Charles in Cerebro's chamber this time -- at the very least, his presence will intimidate Hank into keeping the session short -- but Charles stops him at the stairway. "I think perhaps it would be best for you to remain here, Erik," he says. "This shouldn't take but a moment. I just want to be sure our Mr. Wilson hasn't traveled across the country overnight."
He reaches out, placating, but Erik pulls away. "Fine," he says curtly. "Make it quick."
The morning air is cool, but it's shaping up to be a beautiful, cloudless day, summer's last gasp before conceding fully to autumn. Erik sprawls across the grass beside Cerebro to wait. The CIA facility is quieter on the weekends -- the security guards are out in force, as always, but the rest of the support staff are off, as are most of the lab technicians apart from Hank. Hopefully the relative peace will help Angel ease herself into her new life here, he thinks, and then wonders why he cares. That's what Charles is here for, to coddle the new recruits and ease their minds. In his absence, Raven should do well as a surrogate. She was his original stray, after all; she's surely picked up a few of her foster brother's tricks.
A small flock of sparrows circles Cerebro's dome, then comes to rest in the shadow at its base. Erik watches them idly, comparing their flight patterns to Angel's, wondering if they'll find more mutants who can fly. Enough to create a flock of their own, perhaps, one day. Wouldn't that be a sight?
When Charles emerges from Cerebro, fifteen or so minutes later, the sparrows are still there. Erik does believe in coincidences -- his life has been shaped by them in too many ways -- but that doesn't make him any less skeptical. "Charles," he says calmly, "do Angel's talents give her any additional...affinities?"
Charles blinks down at him. It's an unusual perspective, Charles looming above him. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."
"An owl chased her through the air while she was flying last night," Erik says. "And those sparrows have been watching Cerebro ever since you went inside. She was curious about it yesterday."
"I can't imagine the connection," Charles says, eying the birds. They stare right back at him. "If anything, her wings are far more like an insect's, not feathered. And she was very forthcoming about her abilities when we spoke with her -- I don't know why she would have kept this aspect secret."
"Maybe she doesn't realize it herself?" Erik suggests, but he knows it's weak. "I don't know. Might it have something to do with Cerebro -- some frequency of radio waves it emits, or neurological resonance...?"
Charles laughs. "Now you're just inventing some pseudoscience to suit your theories. I'll check with Hank, but I very much doubt it. Anyway, are you ready to head out? Our new friend is still in Alexandria. We can easily make the trip by lunchtime."
With one last glance at the sparrows, Erik gets to his feet. "I'll drive, you navigate."
"Of course." Charles hesitates, then puts a hand on Erik's arm before he can head out toward the parking lot. This time Erik allows it. "I apologize for shutting you out, with Cerebro. It's just -- having you right there with me, feeling the way you do about it..." He smiles ruefully. "You're rather distracting, you know."
"The feeling is mutual," Erik mutters. He doesn't know how to respond to the sudden intensity in Charles's gaze, so he walks away.
*
Sam Wilson lives in a smallish apartment complex just off the highway. They both leave their jackets in the car in deference both to the warmth of the day and the informality of a home visit on a Saturday. The building itself is nice enough -- fairly recent construction, judging by the newness of the steel Erik can sense in the foundations. A bit shabby in spite of itself, and the interior decoration of the lobby is distinctly uninspired, but everything is clean and the hallways are lit brightly to combat their narrowness.
Charles charms their way past the front desk attendant with a little mental encouragement, then leads the way to the top floor. He stops abruptly in front of apartment 9C. "Here," he says. "This one."
"You're sure?" Erik asks unnecessarily, and is rewarded with an arrogant eyebrow arch. He smirks. "In that case, will you do the honors, or shall I?"
"No need to pull any doors off their hinges," Charles says primly. He raps at the door of 9C, and they wait.
No one answers.
"In fairness," Erik says, after a minute or so. "if I heard an unexpected knock at my door on a Saturday morning, I probably wouldn't answer it, either."
"Not all of us have quite your rationale for paranoia." Charles presses his lips together into a thin line. "Although I suppose he might think we're trying to sell him something."
"We are trying to sell him something."
"Fair point," Charles concedes with a laugh. "Let me try adding an extra incentive to our pitch." He presses a finger to his temple in concentration, then nods. Erik knocks this time.
Muffled behind the apartment walls, he hears someone call, "Canton, you're closer to the door!" and someone else respond with an unintelligible grumble. Erik turns to exchange a smile with Charles, but as footsteps approach the door, Charles's eyes suddenly go very wide.
"Well, this is unexpected," Charles murmurs just before the door swings open.
There's a moment where everyone sort of freezes and stares at one another.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Agent Canton Delaware demands.
*
On to part 2!
Hilariously, this failed to crosspost from Dreamwidth because it was too long for one LJ post. ARGH. So here I am splitting this in two parts for LJ. Bear with me.
Title: A Hundred Visions and Revisions
Author: kaydeefalls
Fandom: X-Men: First Class (+ Doctor Who)
Rating: R
Characters: Charles/Erik + Canton Delaware III (Who)
Disclaimer: not mine, no profit, don't sue.
Summary: In which the CIA and FBI indulge in some inter-agency snooping, Erik hates Cerebro, a new mutant is found, and Charles is very distracting.
Notes: Written for this prompt at 1stclass_kink. Crossover with a character from Doctor Who and one comicsverse Avenger, but no knowledge of either other canon required. HUGE thanks to Brenda for the beta, and Quinn for the constant cheerleading.
When they return to Virginia with Angel -- their first successful recruit -- they find the FBI waiting for them.
More specifically, they find their CIA patron and Hank squaring off awkwardly with three feds in the facility's foyer. Hank, lurking in his boss's substantial shadow, sees them first. His eyes go wide and desperate behind his glasses, and Erik doesn't need telepathy to know that the boy is projecting PLEASE HELP as loudly as he can.
Charles takes in the scene with his characteristic calm, though Erik can make out the hint of a frown at the edges of his mouth. "Ah, Hank," Charles says. "This is Miss Salvadore. Perhaps you could show her to her new lodgings?" His voice is light, the words tossed out absently, as though he's not paying much attention to what he's saying. That's his only tell, but it's one Erik has quickly come to recognize. Charles is definitely playing inside someone's head right now.
Hank glances nervously toward his boss and the feds, but they pay him no mind. Ah, Erik thinks, satisfied. Sure enough, it's only once Hank and Angel are well out of sight that the men in the black suits finally notice Charles and Erik's presence.
"Hey, speak of the devil!" the CIA Suit says, with forced joviality. (Charles refers to the man as Oliver -- presumably his real name -- but Erik only ever thinks of him as the Suit.) "Mission successful this time?"
"Hello, Oliver," Charles says pleasantly, neatly sidestepping the question. "I see we have guests."
Oliver the Suit coughs. "Of course, yes. Dr. Xavier, may I present Assistant Director Sullivan, of the FBI."
One of the feds steps forward to shake Charles's hand. A.D. Sullivan is a tall, heavyset man with reddish hair rapidly losing the battle to gray. His smile looks more like a grimace. Charles winces at Sullivan's handshake, and Erik wonders whether it's the strength of the man's grip or the brush of his thoughts that Charles finds distasteful. Either way, Erik dislikes Sullivan on the spot.
Apparently Erik himself is to be subordinate in this exchange, like the two nameless feds flanking their A.D. He's perfectly content to be seen as Charles's muscle at the moment, and makes a point of folding his arms across his chest with a scowl, glowering at all three FBI agents indiscriminately. Sullivan hardly spares him a glance, but one of his boys (very tall, middle-aged, with a military buzz cut, metal calling out to Erik from both a visible sidearm and a small revolver in his ankle holster) has the good sense to look nervous. The other, a compact, dark-haired younger man, just returns Erik's gaze impassively.
The Suit prattles on incessantly, while Charles and Sullivan silently assess one another under the guise of exchanging pleasantries. Erik tunes out the words; no one's saying anything of substance, no one references the actual purpose of this CIA facility. He trusts Charles will inform him of what the FBI is really doing here later.
Sure enough: Inter-agency feuding, Charles whispers directly into Erik's mind. Some higher-ups at the FBI want a look at the CIA's pet projects.
Should we care? Erik thinks back.
Oliver does. That's sufficient for the moment.
Erik snorts. He is deeply unconcerned with what the Suit does or does not care about. But one government agency poking around Erik's people is already one too many; they don't need to let the FBI in as well.
Evidently Charles agrees, at least in part, because when Oliver grudgingly leads the G-men on an abbreviated tour of the facility, the labs are suspiciously clean. All of the equipment and data readouts on display are blandly anonymous, with no obvious indications of Hank's actual research. At one point, Oliver makes the mistake of gesturing out the window toward Cerebro, all too visibly alien on the neatly manicured lawn; Charles presses his index finger to his temple and the feds' eyes slide right past the window as though it's not even there. Hank reappears and does a very earnest song-and-dance about breakthroughs in intermolecular interactions and enhancements to human physiology; Erik watches with barely concealed amusement as Sullivan's eyes glass over at all the scientific jargon.
While Hank rambles, Charles steps back to join Erik, leaning against the lab wall by the doorway. "What a spectacular waste of an afternoon," he murmurs. "I had hoped to get in another session with Cerebro while Angel settled in. Hank tweaked a few parameters; we may be able to prioritize results by location now."
"Hear anything interesting from the feds?" Erik asks, keeping his voice similarly low. He leans in toward Charles, their shoulders touching, trying to create an illusion of privacy in this lab full of people.
Charles smiles faintly. "AD Sullivan knows this project involves 'powered' individuals, but not the precise nature of the program, or what we are. He also liaises with another agency that deals with, ah, 'superhuman' threats -- though I believe they keep him pretty well in the dark. He thinks the government is working to build these theoretical supermen for military purposes and moreover, that it's a waste of good American tax dollars."
That is interesting. "So the US government is creating its own mutants?"
"Obviously not in our case," Charles says dryly. His hand brushes against Erik's like an accident. "But one of his men is ex-military, and he's heard of a program designed for just that, though he thinks it's a lot of, ah, 'bull.'"
Erik looks back over at Sullivan's lackeys, re-assessing. "Which one?"
"The taller one. The other..." Charles frowns in concentration, eyes narrowing slightly. "Well, that's unexpected."
At that precise moment, the other agent turns and gives them both a hard, quick look. Nothing else changes in his placid demeanor. Charles blinks, and the man turns back to Hank's presentation.
"He suspects what we are," Charles says quietly. "And unlike his friends, he actually believes that our powers are real."
*
The Assistant Director, of course, is too important to babysit a CIA lab for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, his lackeys aren't. Once Oliver the Suit escorts Sullivan out the door, Charles smoothly intervenes with the suggestion that they all retire to the facility's canteen. "I do apologize, but I've just got off a rather long flight, and I'm afraid I haven't had lunch yet," he explains. "The food is nothing to write home about, but they do have ice cream in the afternoons."
It's a convenient, non-threatening place to keep them busy for a while, and Erik suspects that Charles has now given both federal agents an inexplicable craving for ice cream. Hank slips away with palpable relief. Erik moves to follow him, but Charles shoots him a look that says clearly and in no uncertain terms that if I have to see this charade through, then so do you.
What the hell, Erik hasn't had lunch yet either.
In the cafeteria, Erik discovers that roughly half the resident lab technicians and security guards in the facility are also craving ice cream right this minute. He glances over at Charles, who does a very poor job of suppressing a smile. It's not a bad move -- none of the CIA flunkies are favorably inclined toward interlopers from their rival agency, so they won't be likely to blab, but it takes some of the pressure off Charles as sole guide. And once their boss is out of the building, Agents Larson (ex-military) and Delaware (too shrewd for Erik's liking) manage to loosen up a bit. The security guards seem to take a shine to Larson, anyway. Delaware is quiet and cordial.
"He's a tricky one to read," Charles remarks, keeping an eye on Delaware as Larson launches into an old army story.
Erik frowns, setting down his sandwich. "You mean he's blocking you?"
Charles bristles a little. "As though he could. But he's certainly putting up a good show of it -- his surface emotions bleed through clear as day, but when I try to pry deeper..." He smiles in spite of himself. "Well, he's thinking very hard about a door. A closed door. With at least six padlocks across it. It's a childish trick, really -- that is, Raven used to do something very similar when we were younger, before I had better control of my powers. It kept me from accidentally slipping into her mind."
"Is it effective?"
"In keeping me out if I want to get in? Goodness, no, not in the least. But it's a fairly simple deterrent. A locked door -- it's as though he's put up a very polite sign requesting that I go no further. To do so anyway would be tantamount to breaking and entering."
Erik believes that when someone goes to the trouble of locking a door so extravagantly, it means there's something very valuable on the other side, and 'need to know' most certainly applies. But he somehow suspects Charles will disagree. And he's not about to engage him in a lengthy argument about the ethical application of mind control in mixed company, so he doesn't press the issue.
With conversation flowing around them, Charles and Erik are more or less overlooked for the time being. So no one else notices when Charles goes very still, spoonful of soup suspended halfway between the bowl and his mouth.
Erik clears his throat pointedly.
"Hank's introduced Angel to Raven and Moira," Charles explains, eyes distant. "Good. They know to occupy themselves out of sight for the next few hours."
Erik is torn between his healthy appreciation for privacy on one hand (the young recruits are none of the FBI's business) and, on the other, an instinctive hatred of the idea that they should have to hide from anyone. But another thought arises, distracting him: the lodgings are on the far side of the facility, a good 400 meters away at least. If Charles can send and receive thoughts to them... "What is the range of your power?"
Charles shrugs. "I haven't pushed myself terribly far, to be honest. It's always been sufficient to my needs. At least a mile, I think, though reaching out so far takes a great deal of effort and concentration. That's why Cerebro is such a godsend -- with that, the telepathy's range could be very nearly limitless."
Anywhere I go, no matter how far I run, he could still find me, Erik realizes, doing his best not to broadcast it to Charles. The thought simultaneously terrifies and thrills him. It's so strange to think of this friendly, spoiled young idealist possessing such power. Charles could bring the world to its knees if he so chose -- and yet here he is, sitting in a government canteen, hair still charmingly tousled from a long day of travel, frowning down at the cold soup in his spoon as though he can't imagine how on earth it got there. Erik smirks at Charles's bemused expression, and feels something tighten in his chest when Charles looks back up at him with laughter in his eyes. He chooses not to analyze that too closely.
Instead he looks away, and notices an empty seat at the other end of the long canteen table.
"Charles," he says, keeping his voice low and calm. But something in either his tone or his mind must give him away, because Charles's full attention snaps to him sharply, like a compass drawn to north. "Agent Delaware is missing."
"He probably just stepped out to find the loo," Charles says, but his finger is pressed to his temple and his gaze has gone unfocused. "Or -- ah, there. I'd rather avoid a scene, Erik, so if you would be so kind as to slip out after him..."
Erik is already getting to his feet. "You'll direct me, I assume?"
Of course, Charles says in his mind. He's heading for Cerebro.
*
Cerebro's chamber is set out on the grounds, where anyone could just walk up to it. The entrance is generally kept secured -- at least on the days Hank isn't too distracted by his work to remember to lock it. But even assuming the worst, that this Agent Delaware gets inside -- well, really, it's not as though he'll have the slightest notion what Cerebro is. Erik's not particularly worried. Irritated, yes. Very much so.
The door isn't locked. He pushes it up and open with a gesture, and climbs in.
Sure enough, there's Delaware, visibly startled by the clanging door, a sheaf of data readouts in hand. He's giving the raised platform a healthy berth. Not that Erik is the resident expert, but Cerebro itself appears untouched. He hasn't been up in here but the once, and Hank and Charles have made some changes to the place -- there are additional workstations set up around the edges, desks littered with notes and printouts -- but the headpiece is just the same.
"Hello," Erik says acidly. "If you were looking for the restroom, you must have missed a turning."
Delaware recovers his composure quickly. "Must have. Maze like your facility, you'd think there'd be signs." His voice is gravelly, deadpan.
Erik glances down at the papers in the fed's hands. To his credit, Delaware makes no attempt to conceal them. "Agent Delaware, I do believe you've been snooping around our lab."
"I'm an FBI agent, Mr. Lehnsherr," Delaware says, faintly exasperated. "Of course I'm snooping, what the hell did you expect?"
That surprises a short laugh out of him. "Find anything interesting?"
Delaware scowls, tossing the papers back down on the lab bench. "Kinda hard to tell, isn't it? I'm not a scientist. But you've got a hell of a setup in here. What on earth is this helmet thing? Some kind of torture device?"
Erik remembers the mingled ecstasy and agony on Charles's face when he'd first used Cerebro, pain and wonder so jumbled together Erik could feel them viscerally, roiling in his gut. He hasn't been able to sit in on the Cerebro sessions since. It's an unusual sensation for Erik; he is certainly not unaccustomed to pain, either inflicting or receiving it, but to stand by and do nothing while Charles opens his mind to a million screaming voices at once...
Perhaps Delaware is not entirely incorrect in his assessment.
"It's nothing you'd have any use for," Erik says instead, which is not a lie. "You do realize you've just illegally trespassed within a top secret program, of course."
Delaware coughs. "As opposed to the legal sort of trespassing? Anyway, I've got jurisdiction, technically. Oversight, my boss forced a deal out of your boss, et cetera. And you can't just build a big white sphere in the middle of the lawn and expect no one to notice -- though you and your pal Xavier did a good job distracting us from it earlier."
"And what did you hope to discover in here?"
"What sort of tests you people are running," Delaware says promptly. "Some clue as to who you and Dr. Xavier are, because God knows you aren't CIA. And while we're at it, which one of you was trying to poke around in my head, 'cause that felt weird."
If he'd wanted to surprise a reaction out of Erik, he's going to be disappointed. Ignoring the last, Erik gestures to the mess of incomprehensible printouts. "And you somehow expected to find it all written out for you? In layman's terms? Highlighted in red, perhaps?"
"You clearly aren't a government employee. We have to write up an official report every time we sneeze."
It's a flippant remark, but Erik has to suppress a twitch. He has many reasons to be uncomfortable working with the CIA. This is just one more. Sure, Hank cleaned up his labs before the feds got in, but somewhere -- in this facility, or in Oliver the Suit's office, or on some anonymous steno's desk -- there are records of precisely what Charles and Erik are doing here. Security clearances mean little. After all, there isn't a safe in the world Erik couldn't break into with his powers. If a written record exists, someone can find and read it.
And Charles, with Cerebro, is compiling a list of known mutants for recruitment purposes. Brilliant.
Something must show in his expression, because Delaware narrows his eyes, considering. "I don't know exactly what's going on here, Mr. Lehnsherr, but something tells me you like it just about as much as I do."
For a moment, Erik wishes he were the telepath. Delaware is no ally -- for starters, he's human, and Erik will never trust Moira and her ilk the way Charles does. And his curiosity, though refreshingly frank, is a liability. Erik wants to know why Delaware is so interested in this facility.
"I may not know much about machines and things, but I'm not a complete idiot. Some of those printouts are coordinates," Delaware presses on, low and intent. "What are you looking for, Mr. Lehnsherr?"
There's the ringing tread of someone clambering up the metal stairs, and Erik can feel the light brush against his mind that signals Charles's presence. He supposes it is a 'weird' sensation, as Delaware said, but for some reason he never finds it off-putting. It's rather -- not comforting, exactly, but familiar. Which really ought to be disconcerting -- he's only known the man a matter of weeks, if that.
"Ah, Agent Delaware, there you are," Charles says pleasantly, stepping up through the open grate. "I thought I heard voices in here."
Erik snorts, and ignores Charles's mental reproof in favor of the flash of mischief in his eyes.
"Voices," Delaware says flatly, glancing between them. "I'm sure you did."
He knows one of us is a telepath, but isn't sure which, Erik thinks deliberately in Charles's direction.
Yes, Charles replies, his mental voice amused. I know. Aloud, he says, "Agent Larson has been looking for you. Apparently you've been called back to headquarters -- he wouldn't give me any details, of course."
"Of course," Delaware echoes, his visible reluctance warring against the gentle, insistent push of Charles's mind. "I'll just see myself out, then." He takes one last look at Cerebro, sighs, and elbows past them to exit.
"You're not actually letting him wander around the grounds on his own again," Erik says. It's not a question.
Charles raises an eyebrow. "There are some extraordinarily helpful security guards waiting just outside to assist him."
"And the phone call from FBI headquarters?"
"Larson certainly believes he received such a call," Charles says. "And it's a bit of a drive back into D.C., particularly at this time of day. By the time they reach the office, it'll be too late to sort out the confusion and return here."
Erik gives him a hard-edged smile. "Playing rather fast and loose with your code of ethics, aren't you, Charles?"
"Just a little white lie, no harm done," Charles replies easily. "I'm only protecting our secrets."
The thought clicks in Erik's mind. Something about the edge of concern in Delaware's voice -- What are you looking for, Mr. Lehnsherr? "And what do you suppose Delaware is trying to protect?"
Charles frowns. "I'm not sure, but I do think you're right. He's not just an overzealous investigator, is he?"
"You said you could read his emotions -- what was he feeling, in here? Curiosity?"
"Worry," Charles says quietly. "He felt worried."
*
Angel is flying by moonlight. She looks rather like a hummingbird, flitting about over the facility's grounds. Erik wonders how she could stand to have lived so long grounded, tucking her beautiful gossamer wings out of sight. She was made for the open air.
He flips the old Nazi coin idly between his fingers, to remind himself what he was made for.
There's a hooting cry, and Erik looks up to see a small dark shape in the air. Angel laughs and twists away, darting toward the treeline; the shape follows. Erik jogs after them with a frown. Not that he thinks Angel is in any danger from an owl, but still. Best to keep an eye on her. She was born and raised in LA, probably never interacted with birds bigger than pigeons before. He hopes she's not trying to tame the creature.
She comes to earth at the edge of the yard, beneath the spreading branches of an old pine tree. The owl, he sees, is perched on the lowest branch, blinking down at her. "Making friends among the local wildlife?" Erik asks dryly.
Angel turns to him with a smirk. "Gee, papi, he just followed me home. Can I keep him?"
"No." He looks up at the bird. It matches him stare for stare. "I've never seen one take such an interest in people before."
"We aren't exactly people like he's used to," Angel points out. "He's probably wondering what the hell I was doing in his airspace."
Erik glances down at her, feeling a small smile tug at the edges of his mouth. "Then it's time he learned to share."
Angel returns the smile, slow and sweet. "Share, huh. Something tells me you're not so good at that yourself. Though I gotta tell you, the way you and the professor showed up in my club--"
"We needed to speak with you in private," Erik says, shrugging it off. "It was expeditious."
She rolls her eyes. "Right, sure. Hey, where is Xavier, anyway? I think this is the first time I seen one of you without the other."
Erik's shoulders stiffen involuntarily. "Cerebro," he says curtly. "The device Dr. McCoy designed -- the one that helps Charles locate others of our kind."
"And that's a bad thing? 'Cause you don't look so happy about it."
"Using Cerebro -- it takes a certain toll on him. The power is marvelous, of course, but being connected to all those minds, all at once..." Erik doesn't know how to describe it, can't really even imagine what it must feel like in Charles's mind under normal conditions, let alone with Cerebro's massive amplifying influence. "It exhausts him," Erik says instead, choosing his words carefully. "I tried to convince him to wait until tomorrow -- we've had such a long day already, finding you last night and spending the morning on the plane, and then that bureaucratic nonsense with the FBI this afternoon -- but Charles insisted."
Angel eyes him with undisguised interest, and Erik realizes that this is probably the most she's heard him speak all in one go. Charles is usually the one who does the talking.
"Speaking of which, you must be worn out as well," he says abruptly. "Or are you going to fly all night?"
She tilts her face up to the sky. "I think maybe I could," she says wistfully. "But I probably shouldn't. I am pretty tired."
"I'll see you back to your room." He glances back up at the branch, and is surprised to find the owl still perched there, staring. "Say goodnight to your new friend."
Angel grins and blows the owl a kiss. "Buenas noches, poquito."
The owl blinks slowly. Erik can't quite shake off the feeling that it's watching them the whole walk back to the facility.
*
It's nearly two in the morning when Charles finally emerges from Cerebro. Erik knows this because there's a clock on the wall of Charles's quarters, where Erik had fallen asleep in an armchair waiting for him. He jerks out of a monochromatic dream of roiling storm clouds and barbed wire to the gentle weight of Charles's hand on his shoulder. "Whatever are you doing here?" Charles asks softly.
Erik shakes his head to chase away the remains of the dream. "I didn't expect you to take so long." He peers at the clock, then blinks. "Christ, Charles, you've been working with Cerebro since just after dinner. Are you insane?"
"Of course I wasn't in the device this whole time," Charles scoffs. But his face looks ashen even in the warm lamplight, his blue eyes bloodshot and fever-bright. "It's just that there's so much work to be done, and I'm the only one who can use it."
"Yes, and what a great deal of good you'll do us once you've completely burned yourself out," Erik snaps. "Have you found anything useful, at least?"
Charles recoils, and Erik feels the flash of hurt as though it were his own. Charles really must be tired to be unconsciously projecting like this. "I did, in fact," he says stiffly. "Another mutant, this one much closer to home. He's in Alexandria. I thought we might drive up tomorrow morning."
"Tomorrow afternoon, maybe, and only if you can prove conclusively that you've gotten at least eight hours of sleep."
An image flickers in and out of Erik's head unbidden: precisely how he might ensure that Charles sleep tonight. He honestly can't tell whose mind it originated in, and he'd rather not consider that too closely. Charles flushes faintly but makes no further remark. "I'm fine," he says instead.
"You're exhausted," Erik retorts. "I'm exhausted, and at least I slept in the hotel last night. You were up half the night scribbling notes at the desk. And then you played mind games with the FBI all afternoon before your marathon session with Cerebro, which leaves you looking like death warmed over under the best of circumstances."
Charles sighs, sitting heavily on the edge of his bed. "My friend, you're hardly one to lecture about overtaxing one's powers."
"And as a friend of mine once pointed out, killing oneself in pursuit of one's mission accomplishes nothing."
That evokes a smile, tired though it is. "You know, I can't even remember why I'm arguing about this. Get out of my room and let me get some sleep already." The fondness in Charles's voice takes the sting out of the words. He curls up on top of the blankets still fully clothed and watches Erik with heavy-lidded eyes.
Erik pulls himself to his feet. His own bedroom seems irritatingly far away at the moment, but the armchair isn't all that comfortable. "Tomorrow afternoon, then?"
"Morning," Charles counters, eyes closing. "Alexandria."
Afternoon, Erik thinks back pointedly, and allows himself a brief moment to enjoy the soft smile curving at the edges of Charles's generous lips. He so rarely has the time to just stop and look, what with searching for Shaw and cross-country treks and the government breathing down their necks. And it's still so strange and new to him, this unlikely friendship; a frivolous indulgence at best, a distraction.
He shouldn't like being distracted this much.
Why were you waiting up for me? Charles murmurs in his head, fading fast, and Erik can't think of a single answer to give him. It doesn't matter. Charles is already asleep.
*
Charles wins by virtue of already being up and functional when Erik stumbles to breakfast late at eight o'clock. ('Late' being a relative term -- Raven never makes it down to the canteen before ten at the earliest.) Erik doesn't like breakfast as a rule, but though the war is many years behind him, he still thinks of fresh fruit as a rare treat to be hoarded, and the CIA canteen always sets some out in the mornings.
"We'll need to do one last coordinate fix with Hank before setting out," Charles says, far too cheerfully for as little sleep as he must have gotten. Maybe that's his secondary mutation. "But it's Saturday morning, he'll probably be at home. That's for the best, I think. Angel was an anomaly -- most of these people are likely to be less approachable at their place of work."
Erik grunts and helps himself to an orange. "Do we know anything more about this mutant?"
Charles smiles, eyes lighting up as they always do in the face of something new and marvelous. To a telepath, Erik supposes that anything new must by definition be marvelous. It would certainly explain Charles's continuing fascination with him, a man so outside his usual frame of reference. "Some, yes, of course, though less than I saw with Angel or the others."
'The others' being the first two new mutants they'd attempted to recruit. One turned out to be too young for government work, a fourteen-year-old boy with an invisible mutation that enabled him to understand any language, oral or written; the other, a pretty brunette their own age, had a husband and a new baby and no interest whatsoever in exploring her ability to see in the dark on the CIA's dime.
"So what did you see?" Erik asks.
"His name is Sam Wilson. Black, thirties, rather impressive build. A physical man, certainly. Possibly military, or formerly so. His mind was a bit hazy -- I think he might be at least mildly telepathic. Or perhaps a strong empath, I've never encountered one of those before, I'm not sure how one would affect my own powers." Charles shrugs. "Or the haziness could just be interference from Cerebro -- we still have a great deal of calibration to do. The power is enormous, but it's rather like a large, blunt instrument. Like trying to focus on one mind in a noisy, crowded room -- which I'm more than capable of -- but multiplied to some exponential degree."
Erik tries ,once again, to imagine it, and fails. "It hurts you."
Charles waves this off. "Yes, of course, but what of it? It's all part of the learning curve. Your morning run causes you physical discomfort when you push yourself hard, but how else can you increase your endurance? Same thing."
Yes, but running too fast won't cause me to go mad, Erik thinks irritably, and doesn't care whether Charles overheard it or not. He glances down at the orange on his tray, realizing he's shredded the peel into jagged strips with his pocketknife, the fruit underneath untouched. Charles doesn't comment on the knife still hovering a few inches above the tray. Erik pockets it with a twitch of his fingers and pops an orange segment into his mouth.
"You really dislike Cerebro, don't you?" Charles asks, brow furrowed. "Despite appreciating what we can accomplish with it."
"It's an incredible tool," Erik agrees. "And it will make you into an incredible weapon, just as Shaw made me. I don't have to like the methods to appreciate the results."
Charles frowns. "The situations are entirely different."
"Believe what you like," Erik says with a shrug, getting to his feet. He takes the remains of the orange with him. "Didn't you say you wanted another go with it before heading after this potential empath of yours?"
He leads the way out to Cerebro, ignoring the mental edge of Charles's concern. In his mind, he visualizes a thick metal door with a bolt and padlock across it, just to feel Charles flinch.
*
Erik had fully intended to join Charles in Cerebro's chamber this time -- at the very least, his presence will intimidate Hank into keeping the session short -- but Charles stops him at the stairway. "I think perhaps it would be best for you to remain here, Erik," he says. "This shouldn't take but a moment. I just want to be sure our Mr. Wilson hasn't traveled across the country overnight."
He reaches out, placating, but Erik pulls away. "Fine," he says curtly. "Make it quick."
The morning air is cool, but it's shaping up to be a beautiful, cloudless day, summer's last gasp before conceding fully to autumn. Erik sprawls across the grass beside Cerebro to wait. The CIA facility is quieter on the weekends -- the security guards are out in force, as always, but the rest of the support staff are off, as are most of the lab technicians apart from Hank. Hopefully the relative peace will help Angel ease herself into her new life here, he thinks, and then wonders why he cares. That's what Charles is here for, to coddle the new recruits and ease their minds. In his absence, Raven should do well as a surrogate. She was his original stray, after all; she's surely picked up a few of her foster brother's tricks.
A small flock of sparrows circles Cerebro's dome, then comes to rest in the shadow at its base. Erik watches them idly, comparing their flight patterns to Angel's, wondering if they'll find more mutants who can fly. Enough to create a flock of their own, perhaps, one day. Wouldn't that be a sight?
When Charles emerges from Cerebro, fifteen or so minutes later, the sparrows are still there. Erik does believe in coincidences -- his life has been shaped by them in too many ways -- but that doesn't make him any less skeptical. "Charles," he says calmly, "do Angel's talents give her any additional...affinities?"
Charles blinks down at him. It's an unusual perspective, Charles looming above him. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."
"An owl chased her through the air while she was flying last night," Erik says. "And those sparrows have been watching Cerebro ever since you went inside. She was curious about it yesterday."
"I can't imagine the connection," Charles says, eying the birds. They stare right back at him. "If anything, her wings are far more like an insect's, not feathered. And she was very forthcoming about her abilities when we spoke with her -- I don't know why she would have kept this aspect secret."
"Maybe she doesn't realize it herself?" Erik suggests, but he knows it's weak. "I don't know. Might it have something to do with Cerebro -- some frequency of radio waves it emits, or neurological resonance...?"
Charles laughs. "Now you're just inventing some pseudoscience to suit your theories. I'll check with Hank, but I very much doubt it. Anyway, are you ready to head out? Our new friend is still in Alexandria. We can easily make the trip by lunchtime."
With one last glance at the sparrows, Erik gets to his feet. "I'll drive, you navigate."
"Of course." Charles hesitates, then puts a hand on Erik's arm before he can head out toward the parking lot. This time Erik allows it. "I apologize for shutting you out, with Cerebro. It's just -- having you right there with me, feeling the way you do about it..." He smiles ruefully. "You're rather distracting, you know."
"The feeling is mutual," Erik mutters. He doesn't know how to respond to the sudden intensity in Charles's gaze, so he walks away.
*
Sam Wilson lives in a smallish apartment complex just off the highway. They both leave their jackets in the car in deference both to the warmth of the day and the informality of a home visit on a Saturday. The building itself is nice enough -- fairly recent construction, judging by the newness of the steel Erik can sense in the foundations. A bit shabby in spite of itself, and the interior decoration of the lobby is distinctly uninspired, but everything is clean and the hallways are lit brightly to combat their narrowness.
Charles charms their way past the front desk attendant with a little mental encouragement, then leads the way to the top floor. He stops abruptly in front of apartment 9C. "Here," he says. "This one."
"You're sure?" Erik asks unnecessarily, and is rewarded with an arrogant eyebrow arch. He smirks. "In that case, will you do the honors, or shall I?"
"No need to pull any doors off their hinges," Charles says primly. He raps at the door of 9C, and they wait.
No one answers.
"In fairness," Erik says, after a minute or so. "if I heard an unexpected knock at my door on a Saturday morning, I probably wouldn't answer it, either."
"Not all of us have quite your rationale for paranoia." Charles presses his lips together into a thin line. "Although I suppose he might think we're trying to sell him something."
"We are trying to sell him something."
"Fair point," Charles concedes with a laugh. "Let me try adding an extra incentive to our pitch." He presses a finger to his temple in concentration, then nods. Erik knocks this time.
Muffled behind the apartment walls, he hears someone call, "Canton, you're closer to the door!" and someone else respond with an unintelligible grumble. Erik turns to exchange a smile with Charles, but as footsteps approach the door, Charles's eyes suddenly go very wide.
"Well, this is unexpected," Charles murmurs just before the door swings open.
There's a moment where everyone sort of freezes and stares at one another.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Agent Canton Delaware demands.
*
On to part 2!