X-Men First Class fic: Inevitable Things, 1/6
Title: Inevitable Things
Pairing: Erik/Charles
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: It would be just PG if not for the fact that the guys kissing are guys.
Author's Notes: This fanfic is a birthday present for my dear friend delirium1995 -- I love you oodles! It was beta-read (under light duress and subtle but well-intended coercion) by another friend who shall remain nameless to protect the still-mostly-innocent -- I owe you tons! To new readers: this is the intro; the entire thing weighs in at almost 22k words. All scenes fit within the movie.
Inevitable Things: Part One
October 4, 1962
10 pm
If there is one thing you should know about Charles Xavier by now, it is this:
He makes mistakes.
"You know you're falling into a trap here," Erik said as he returned his bishop to e4, back from a sortie that claimed one of Charles' knights.
Charles made a nonchalant hmph and took another drink of the scotch Erik had nipped from some nameless G-man's office, just barely managing to avoid a telltale collision of the rim of the glass with his teeth. He took his time setting the glass down, hoping to pass it off as being too deep in thought, instead of being too deep in one too many. He'd gotten engrossed in the double entendres Erik seemed to be constantly tossing in his direction and forgot to keep track of the liquor, but they took their chess games too seriously for him to call it off on account of inebriation. "Yes, my friend, I do," he temporized, and took a pawn with his remaining knight. "But I assure you I'm doing it with the best of intentions."
Erik smirked and leaned forward to take the knight with his other bishop in one swift move. "And what are your intentions?" he asked, still leaning across the board as though to posses it entirely, his eyes never leaving Charles' as he placed the captured knight to the side.
There had been plenty of this lately. All the little excursions into one another's personal space were numerous, swift and noncommittal. Casual touches to call attention to some small detail; accidental brushes in passing, gazes that linger but not quite too long. Nothing that could be pinned down or pointed to.
Charles found it especially frustrating, because his usual method for finding the answer to "Does he or doesn't he?" was simply to read the mind of his potential suitor, and this was unavailable to him in regards to Erik. It had never mattered to him when dealing with anyone else, but he considered reading Raven's mind to be an invasion of her privacy, and he found himself naturally thinking of Erik in the same way, especially after having been so inadvertently enmeshed in him when they first met. So he was stuck playing the same games and wondering the same things, making the same tentative forays as any other human being faced with uncertainty until something changed to indicate which way Erik's interests lay.
Among other things, Scotch encourages impatience.
Charles didn't smirk or smile, or even, for that matter, breathe. He looked down at the board to make sure he'd understood it correctly, picked up his queen and replaced Erik's bishop with it, all while -- and this was the tricky part -- leaning forward slowly and running his tongue over his lips like he usually does before saying something he thinks is particularly meaningful. It was an old sleight-of-hand trick, holding someone's attention through deliberate motion to keep them from following his eyes. When he looked up, he found himself once again caught in Erik's gaze, only now he was barely a hand's width away.
"Check," he said.
Erik didn't bother to look down. He pursed his lips briefly and tilted his head just slightly to the right, the expression he usually wore when Charles did something clever that surprised him. "You'll have to show me."
Charles hadn't intended for their first kiss to be a drunken one, but now that the opportunity had come up, he wasn't about to turn it down just because he'd happened to be drinking. "I was going to do it anyway," he reasoned to himself, "it was just a matter of time, and who knows how much of that we have?" Instead of backing away and allowing Erik an easy out, he let his gaze slip from Erik's darkened eyes to his mouth as a preamble and leaned forward past the alcohol-tinged haze until their lips met, only to make the happy discovery that Erik was kissing him back, his rough lips parted and their tonguetips grazing, the sweet smoky taste with a slight copper edge lodging itself firmly in Charles' mind forever after as the flavor of Erik's thoughts.
Then just as suddenly he was drowning in a whirlwind of pent-up emotions and memories from Erik's point of view: images of himself in the water after they'd surfaced, his determination and Erik's incredulity; Charles dripping wet on the boat with his hair falling in his eyes, shivering; how he'd gripped the railing during the initial Cerebro test in spite of all his bravado, which only made his bravery that much more honest and respectable in Erik's eyes; the way he'd stood that night outside the CIA doors when Erik had wanted to leave and Charles had said "Everything" when Erik asked "What do you know about me," and he -- no, Erik -- had wondered "Does that mean you know I want you?" even as his mouth said other words, the electric feel of his hand on Erik's shoulder, the feel of his mind in Erik's mind the night they met, the warmth and weight of it -- and he grasped the front of Erik's turtleneck with two fists as he felt the floor fall out beneath him, and Erik's hand was at the back of his head, his fingers tangling in his hair, holding him steady into a deeper kiss full of wanting even as the images snapped suddenly into focus on Charles gasping and shuddering as the full effect of Cerebro hit him and it was like it was happening all over again, and now Erik had pulled away, and his eyes were open and full of concern.
"You are a fantastic kisser," Charles said breathlessly as the world righted itself.
"Scheisse," Erik muttered quietly, while holding him upright in a half-open embrace, preserving the sanctity of the chessboard beneath them. He glanced down at Charles' white-knuckled hands still clenched tight on his shirt, and with all seriousness asked "Charles, are you drunk? Do you need to lie down?"
"A little of the former, but as for the latter," Charles paused and met Erik's eyes, and thought to himself "only if we're naked."
Erik laughed out a breath he must have been holding, and then he grinned and said "Careful. Think it, and it's as good as done." So much for thinking to himself; apparently there was no hope of that when Erik was so close.
"I'd much rather actually do it than just think it, for the fun is--" but Erik was kissing him again, and this time the chess pieces were knocked into disarray as Charles found himself lifted out of his chair and onto the floor. He felt his cufflinks unclasp and raised his head to watch in amusement as his belt buckle undid itself. "You must not be as drunk as I am," he accused Erik, who was crouched over him and starting to unbutton Charles' shirt.
"You have your tricks," Erik retorted, "and I have mine."
October 1, 1962
8:30 pm
For a few good hours there, Charles Xavier had been an action hero. He'd left London at midnight, walked in to the CIA by invitation at 11 in the morning, revealed his mutation to humans for the first time (as had Raven, he mustn't forget that), convinced the suit-and-tie spooks to take him on immediately as a consultant operative and here he was off the coast of Florida shortly after nightfall, the star player of the team that had commandeered a Coast Guard cutter and two dozen highly trained sailor-soldiers, and was at this very moment struggling to contain their losses against Sebastian Shaw. He had been thrilled to finally put his gifts to the test against a real opponent, unburdened by ambiguity and his uncertain ethics. He had been just as quickly rendered nearly useless because -- as improbable as it might be -- there was another telepath in the enemy's ranks.
How common is telepathy among mutants? he wondered as he struggled to keep his thoughts hovering just outside the other telepath's reach, even as the Man in Black herded Moira McTaggart fast on Charles' heels down the stairs into the ship's lower decks. And although there's a little sense of numbness, the steel isn't proving to be nearly as much interference as I thought it might. A sense of relief in the face of near-defeat, then; he'd learned to keep observing and thinking even in the spotlight when preparing for this thesis defense -- so few days ago! -- and it had already become a habit.
The other telepath's attention was like a pressure in his head, not acutely painful but not gentle or easily ignored -- is that how Raven knew when I was checking in on her, not just her usual bloody good guesswork? I've never noticed the same awareness in humans; perhaps they feel it but don't recognize it for what it is. Or is this something that only telepaths, or perhaps mutants in general, can sense? -- and then it lifted abruptly with a final jab that made him wince, and by reflex his mind went rushing after it towards Shaw's ship, even as he recognized that it could be a trap of some sort.
But he came up short. He braced himself against the bulkhead automatically when Moira thumped solidly into his back, and realized belatedly that he had stopped moving; in fact, he felt that the whole world had come crashing to a sudden stop, and was surprised to find that the others were still inexplicably in motion, unaware of what he'd found. "We've got to go back, there's another mutant out there!" he explained, turning abruptly to run back to where the action was. He needed to see with his eyes what he saw with this mind.
His heart had been pounding when they were running down those skinny steel stairs below decks. Charles marveled that now, back on deck in the brisk night air with danger all around, he found himself feeling weightless, as though he had passed into the calm of a storm he hadn't known was raging. There above the water was a massive anchor and chain whipping about Shaw's yacht like a living weapon, an enchanted thing of such terrifying beauty that it stole his breath away. And in the water's darkness, with the taste of salt in his mouth and such incredible purpose in his mind, was Erik Lehnsherr.
That sense of identity was so strong that it must have been tempered by something frightful. Charles stood on the deck of the ship, gripping the railing to keep himself from trying to fly. He noted the fear radiating off those around him, but he was so completely overwhelmed by his own sense of exhilaration at finding Erik, at witnessing Erik's forceful mastery of his mutant abilities, the beautiful precision of Erik's mind, that for the first time in his life he forgot to pretend he didn't feel superior to the humans behind him.
And then it fell to pieces.
Something strange happened on the ripped-up yacht, and it jerked oddly and lurched aside. Erik's shock turned to anger, and Charles saw through his perception that the bottom -- "the keel of the hull" Erik's mind supplied -- was actually a submarine which was now beginning to dive. Anger turned to desperation as Erik abandoned his hold on the anchor chain and tried to grasp the submarine sinking in the water, but without the benefit of something else on which to fasten his mind's eye, his hold on Shaw's submarine started to pull Erik under the water's surface. Charles' stomach twisted horribly as he realized what was happening.
He'd left the railing. He was shouting desperately for someone to get in the water to rescue Erik, as Erik's own desperation began to turn into acceptance. He sensed the minds frozen in shock all around him -- most of whom hadn't seen or accepted that the object forming a small wake behind the now-invisible submarine was actually a person dammit -- and he knew the would-be rescuers were too far away, trying to rescue themselves after the capsizing of the small boats they'd intended to use for boarding.
His coat was off when he reached the little platform and he leapt in the water headfirst; he'd just enough presence of mind to recall his diving lessons before his hands hit the water. His eyes stung in the saltwater but there was enough illumination from the search lights that he could see Erik's sleek form before him, and he reached out with his mind and his arms at the same time. Erik fought him, of course. The dying always do, his mother would have said bitterly (she had never forgiven his father for dying), and he cursed the memory even while he struggled to re-bond with Erik's now furiously whirling mind and flailing body. But Charles won out in the end, and though he worried at first that Erik would just take a gulp of air and dive again to give chase like a shark fixated on its prey, he was immensely, deeply pleased to find Erik focusing all his attention on him instead.
Except that he couldn't make his legs kick or his arms wave sufficiently to keep his head above the water, for the onslaught of sheer emotion that came with that attention was more than he'd ever dealt with before. If the initial brush of Erik's mind was a veritable thunderbolt, this was the deep reverberation of the air rushing back in to fill the vacuum from everywhere at once -- hatred and despair being replaced by terror, awe, and something else, something indescribable that Charles couldn't stop trying to figure out, something that made his chest tight and the blood in his ears sing. Maybe it was just the primal response to being immersed in dark water where the waves were bigger than they'd looked from the safety of the ship, and his clothes were weighing him down more than he would have expected, and he was going to drown if his circumstances didn't change soon, but looking in Erik's eyes he was struck with the notion that all his plans for the future were nothing but a little boy's made-up stories fit only for the playroom, and it would be a terrible, horrible thing to die now, having only just met the most fascinating person in the world.
Who just happened to be killing him with the maelstrom of his emotions, because Charles apparently had neither self-restraint nor self-control where Erik was concerned, and could not disentangle his awareness from the other man's, not even enough to remember how to tread water properly.
"Calm your mind!" Charles said, making it sound as much like an order as he could. Erik responds to orders, he knew. Erik flinched -- a quick intake of breath, a slight drawing back, all automatic and impossible to hide, especially with Charles still in Erik's mind -- and the slap of a wave against his face was familiar, though far too light. And Erik responds to pain, Charles saw, aghast; and quietly, somehow managing to keep the thought to himself: My God, Erik, how could they do this to you? But he knew what had been done and who'd done it, he'd seen so much history flash through Erik's mind as the submarine slipped out of his grasp; the why of it was not hard to guess at, but his empathy stuttered and failed to comprehend how anyone could do that to a person.
"I heard you in my head!" The words fell from Erik in a rush, laced with shock and indignation, curiosity and awe. "How did you do that?!"
"You have your tricks, I have mine." Tricks, he and Raven had called them when they were children, and so they referred to them still. "I'm like you."
"I thought I was alone," Erik said, and the tightness in Charles' chest lifted and was replaced with a warmth he usually only felt towards Raven.
"You are not alone," Charles told him in-between gasps for air amongst the swells. "Erik, you're not alone." He might have said "Calm your mind" again, but what he really meant to say was "I've got you, now."
October 4, 1962
10:20 pm
Erik was leaning in for another kiss, eyes half-lidded and lips parted, when he suddenly stilled, looking towards the door.
"We're not alone," he said, his voice low, cautious.
Charles reached out, brushed his mind against -- "Moira," he said, rolling out from underneath Erik, who was now scowling at the closed door even as he leapt to his feet.
"So what if she sees?" he muttered, eyes narrowed. "She works for the CIA, isn't she supposed to know everyone's secrets?"
"It's illegal, Erik," Charles zipped his fly and buttoned it, fastened his belt hurriedly and tumbled back in his chair. He was shoving his sleeves up as the door opened -- from the look of surprise on Moira's face and her upraised hand poised to knock, Erik had used his power to open it.
"And eavesdropping isn't," Erik noted. The chill between Erik and Moira was palpable, even through the flush Charles still felt from… well, from having just been about to perform an illegal act he'd been very much looking forward to, if he'd been lucky.
Moira dropped her hand but remained hovering on the threshold. "You found the chessboard," she said, and from the disappointment in her voice it was clear that she'd taken the scene in and had probably come to the correct conclusion. "Raven said you might be playing. I'm sorry for interrupting your game," -- this directed to Erik -- "but I just got word that the funding authorization for active recruitment came through." She squared her shoulders and walked carefully into the room, passing Erik to stand between the two of them. She looked down at the board, on which two pieces were miraculously still standing, then at Charles for a long moment. "We've got a meeting with Smith in accounting at 8 in the morning, and then you two are good to go, as requested."
"Just the two of us?" Erik prompted, his whole body still but tensed, leonine behind her.
"Yes." She raised her hand with two fingers up mimicking Charles' habitual gesture, her eyes wide in a silent appeal. Out loud she continued, "I'll be handling logistics from here."
Everywhere is bugged she thought, so loudly Charles hardly had to concentrate. I can't cover for everything. I'd lose my job if they knew I told you. He nodded and leaned around her to catch Erik's eye, passed the warning on to him.
"I'm glad to know we're in good hands, Agent McTaggart," Charles said, smiling up at her.
Erik's shoulders relaxed a little, and he turned to Charles with an expression somewhere between triumphant and smug. "We should take the chessboard, Charles. I'll be up for a game every night, if you are."
Charles couldn't help the smile, even as he silently damned Erik for his cheekiness and for being mean to Moira. Erik's possessiveness was… flattering.
"The meeting's in 6 hours." Moira's voice was grim. "There are certainly no rules against civilians having an evening cocktail, but sobriety at meetings is appreciated." She turned on her heel and started to leave.
"Won't there be coffee?" Erik asked her. She paused at the doorframe, looked at him over her shoulder with a small, almost imperceptible sigh.
"The cafeteria opens at 7:30. Help yourself." And then she was gone, the sound of her heels on the linoleum floor echoing away down the hall. Charles was impressed that she managed to keep the bitterness out of her voice, and sorry that there was any cause for it in the first place. But there was Erik with that half-smile paying at his lips, and the mischievous look in his eyes as he gazed at Charles, and…
"Looks like it's all work and no play at the CIA, Charles," Erik tossed the remainder of his drink back in one smooth swig.
"Indeed, my friend, and more's the pity. I'll pack the board."
Erik went to the door, then turned to lean against the frame where Moira had just been and regarded Charles for a long moment, his hands jammed in his pockets. "I'm looking forward to it," he said finally.
"I hope you don't mind being beaten, overly much" Charles said. He found himself immediately biting down the urge to cringe, chagrined; he wouldn't have spoken so brashly, but talking his skills up for the benefit of anyone listening now or in the future was so automatic he hadn't realized he was doing it until the words spilled out of his mouth. It was a habit he didn't like, defending the mighty PhD, as though having a doctorate of science from Oxford meant he's supposed to be good at anything and everything requiring intelligence, even though he knew better.
But Erik didn't know about Oxford, or if he did, he chose to respond to a different taunt entirely.
"No one's ever been able to beat me overly much," he said, placing a gentle emphasis on the words in completely the wrong way. "If you can do it," he added, still with that level expression that gave so little away, "you're welcome to it." Then he nodded a goodnight and left Charles to himself. Erik's soft steps were out of earshot three steps from the door; Charles let his thoughts trail after him, guiltily savoring the feel of Erik's graceful walk, habitually quiet and smooth and alert, always hunting. He stayed with Erik as he went down a flight of stairs, slipped down a side hall to avoid a lit office, and passed the elevators to head down another flight of stairs. He let the contact go when Erik opened the door to his spartan assigned room, a dorm that looked identical to his own; Charles knew what he was going to do as soon as he got to his own room, the only thing he could possibly do given the circumstances. Whether Erik was going to do the same was Erik's own business.
Part 2
Pairing: Erik/Charles
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: It would be just PG if not for the fact that the guys kissing are guys.
Author's Notes: This fanfic is a birthday present for my dear friend delirium1995 -- I love you oodles! It was beta-read (under light duress and subtle but well-intended coercion) by another friend who shall remain nameless to protect the still-mostly-innocent -- I owe you tons! To new readers: this is the intro; the entire thing weighs in at almost 22k words. All scenes fit within the movie.
Inevitable Things: Part One
October 4, 1962
10 pm
If there is one thing you should know about Charles Xavier by now, it is this:
He makes mistakes.
"You know you're falling into a trap here," Erik said as he returned his bishop to e4, back from a sortie that claimed one of Charles' knights.
Charles made a nonchalant hmph and took another drink of the scotch Erik had nipped from some nameless G-man's office, just barely managing to avoid a telltale collision of the rim of the glass with his teeth. He took his time setting the glass down, hoping to pass it off as being too deep in thought, instead of being too deep in one too many. He'd gotten engrossed in the double entendres Erik seemed to be constantly tossing in his direction and forgot to keep track of the liquor, but they took their chess games too seriously for him to call it off on account of inebriation. "Yes, my friend, I do," he temporized, and took a pawn with his remaining knight. "But I assure you I'm doing it with the best of intentions."
Erik smirked and leaned forward to take the knight with his other bishop in one swift move. "And what are your intentions?" he asked, still leaning across the board as though to posses it entirely, his eyes never leaving Charles' as he placed the captured knight to the side.
There had been plenty of this lately. All the little excursions into one another's personal space were numerous, swift and noncommittal. Casual touches to call attention to some small detail; accidental brushes in passing, gazes that linger but not quite too long. Nothing that could be pinned down or pointed to.
Charles found it especially frustrating, because his usual method for finding the answer to "Does he or doesn't he?" was simply to read the mind of his potential suitor, and this was unavailable to him in regards to Erik. It had never mattered to him when dealing with anyone else, but he considered reading Raven's mind to be an invasion of her privacy, and he found himself naturally thinking of Erik in the same way, especially after having been so inadvertently enmeshed in him when they first met. So he was stuck playing the same games and wondering the same things, making the same tentative forays as any other human being faced with uncertainty until something changed to indicate which way Erik's interests lay.
Among other things, Scotch encourages impatience.
Charles didn't smirk or smile, or even, for that matter, breathe. He looked down at the board to make sure he'd understood it correctly, picked up his queen and replaced Erik's bishop with it, all while -- and this was the tricky part -- leaning forward slowly and running his tongue over his lips like he usually does before saying something he thinks is particularly meaningful. It was an old sleight-of-hand trick, holding someone's attention through deliberate motion to keep them from following his eyes. When he looked up, he found himself once again caught in Erik's gaze, only now he was barely a hand's width away.
"Check," he said.
Erik didn't bother to look down. He pursed his lips briefly and tilted his head just slightly to the right, the expression he usually wore when Charles did something clever that surprised him. "You'll have to show me."
Charles hadn't intended for their first kiss to be a drunken one, but now that the opportunity had come up, he wasn't about to turn it down just because he'd happened to be drinking. "I was going to do it anyway," he reasoned to himself, "it was just a matter of time, and who knows how much of that we have?" Instead of backing away and allowing Erik an easy out, he let his gaze slip from Erik's darkened eyes to his mouth as a preamble and leaned forward past the alcohol-tinged haze until their lips met, only to make the happy discovery that Erik was kissing him back, his rough lips parted and their tonguetips grazing, the sweet smoky taste with a slight copper edge lodging itself firmly in Charles' mind forever after as the flavor of Erik's thoughts.
Then just as suddenly he was drowning in a whirlwind of pent-up emotions and memories from Erik's point of view: images of himself in the water after they'd surfaced, his determination and Erik's incredulity; Charles dripping wet on the boat with his hair falling in his eyes, shivering; how he'd gripped the railing during the initial Cerebro test in spite of all his bravado, which only made his bravery that much more honest and respectable in Erik's eyes; the way he'd stood that night outside the CIA doors when Erik had wanted to leave and Charles had said "Everything" when Erik asked "What do you know about me," and he -- no, Erik -- had wondered "Does that mean you know I want you?" even as his mouth said other words, the electric feel of his hand on Erik's shoulder, the feel of his mind in Erik's mind the night they met, the warmth and weight of it -- and he grasped the front of Erik's turtleneck with two fists as he felt the floor fall out beneath him, and Erik's hand was at the back of his head, his fingers tangling in his hair, holding him steady into a deeper kiss full of wanting even as the images snapped suddenly into focus on Charles gasping and shuddering as the full effect of Cerebro hit him and it was like it was happening all over again, and now Erik had pulled away, and his eyes were open and full of concern.
"You are a fantastic kisser," Charles said breathlessly as the world righted itself.
"Scheisse," Erik muttered quietly, while holding him upright in a half-open embrace, preserving the sanctity of the chessboard beneath them. He glanced down at Charles' white-knuckled hands still clenched tight on his shirt, and with all seriousness asked "Charles, are you drunk? Do you need to lie down?"
"A little of the former, but as for the latter," Charles paused and met Erik's eyes, and thought to himself "only if we're naked."
Erik laughed out a breath he must have been holding, and then he grinned and said "Careful. Think it, and it's as good as done." So much for thinking to himself; apparently there was no hope of that when Erik was so close.
"I'd much rather actually do it than just think it, for the fun is--" but Erik was kissing him again, and this time the chess pieces were knocked into disarray as Charles found himself lifted out of his chair and onto the floor. He felt his cufflinks unclasp and raised his head to watch in amusement as his belt buckle undid itself. "You must not be as drunk as I am," he accused Erik, who was crouched over him and starting to unbutton Charles' shirt.
"You have your tricks," Erik retorted, "and I have mine."
October 1, 1962
8:30 pm
For a few good hours there, Charles Xavier had been an action hero. He'd left London at midnight, walked in to the CIA by invitation at 11 in the morning, revealed his mutation to humans for the first time (as had Raven, he mustn't forget that), convinced the suit-and-tie spooks to take him on immediately as a consultant operative and here he was off the coast of Florida shortly after nightfall, the star player of the team that had commandeered a Coast Guard cutter and two dozen highly trained sailor-soldiers, and was at this very moment struggling to contain their losses against Sebastian Shaw. He had been thrilled to finally put his gifts to the test against a real opponent, unburdened by ambiguity and his uncertain ethics. He had been just as quickly rendered nearly useless because -- as improbable as it might be -- there was another telepath in the enemy's ranks.
How common is telepathy among mutants? he wondered as he struggled to keep his thoughts hovering just outside the other telepath's reach, even as the Man in Black herded Moira McTaggart fast on Charles' heels down the stairs into the ship's lower decks. And although there's a little sense of numbness, the steel isn't proving to be nearly as much interference as I thought it might. A sense of relief in the face of near-defeat, then; he'd learned to keep observing and thinking even in the spotlight when preparing for this thesis defense -- so few days ago! -- and it had already become a habit.
The other telepath's attention was like a pressure in his head, not acutely painful but not gentle or easily ignored -- is that how Raven knew when I was checking in on her, not just her usual bloody good guesswork? I've never noticed the same awareness in humans; perhaps they feel it but don't recognize it for what it is. Or is this something that only telepaths, or perhaps mutants in general, can sense? -- and then it lifted abruptly with a final jab that made him wince, and by reflex his mind went rushing after it towards Shaw's ship, even as he recognized that it could be a trap of some sort.
But he came up short. He braced himself against the bulkhead automatically when Moira thumped solidly into his back, and realized belatedly that he had stopped moving; in fact, he felt that the whole world had come crashing to a sudden stop, and was surprised to find that the others were still inexplicably in motion, unaware of what he'd found. "We've got to go back, there's another mutant out there!" he explained, turning abruptly to run back to where the action was. He needed to see with his eyes what he saw with this mind.
His heart had been pounding when they were running down those skinny steel stairs below decks. Charles marveled that now, back on deck in the brisk night air with danger all around, he found himself feeling weightless, as though he had passed into the calm of a storm he hadn't known was raging. There above the water was a massive anchor and chain whipping about Shaw's yacht like a living weapon, an enchanted thing of such terrifying beauty that it stole his breath away. And in the water's darkness, with the taste of salt in his mouth and such incredible purpose in his mind, was Erik Lehnsherr.
That sense of identity was so strong that it must have been tempered by something frightful. Charles stood on the deck of the ship, gripping the railing to keep himself from trying to fly. He noted the fear radiating off those around him, but he was so completely overwhelmed by his own sense of exhilaration at finding Erik, at witnessing Erik's forceful mastery of his mutant abilities, the beautiful precision of Erik's mind, that for the first time in his life he forgot to pretend he didn't feel superior to the humans behind him.
And then it fell to pieces.
Something strange happened on the ripped-up yacht, and it jerked oddly and lurched aside. Erik's shock turned to anger, and Charles saw through his perception that the bottom -- "the keel of the hull" Erik's mind supplied -- was actually a submarine which was now beginning to dive. Anger turned to desperation as Erik abandoned his hold on the anchor chain and tried to grasp the submarine sinking in the water, but without the benefit of something else on which to fasten his mind's eye, his hold on Shaw's submarine started to pull Erik under the water's surface. Charles' stomach twisted horribly as he realized what was happening.
He'd left the railing. He was shouting desperately for someone to get in the water to rescue Erik, as Erik's own desperation began to turn into acceptance. He sensed the minds frozen in shock all around him -- most of whom hadn't seen or accepted that the object forming a small wake behind the now-invisible submarine was actually a person dammit -- and he knew the would-be rescuers were too far away, trying to rescue themselves after the capsizing of the small boats they'd intended to use for boarding.
His coat was off when he reached the little platform and he leapt in the water headfirst; he'd just enough presence of mind to recall his diving lessons before his hands hit the water. His eyes stung in the saltwater but there was enough illumination from the search lights that he could see Erik's sleek form before him, and he reached out with his mind and his arms at the same time. Erik fought him, of course. The dying always do, his mother would have said bitterly (she had never forgiven his father for dying), and he cursed the memory even while he struggled to re-bond with Erik's now furiously whirling mind and flailing body. But Charles won out in the end, and though he worried at first that Erik would just take a gulp of air and dive again to give chase like a shark fixated on its prey, he was immensely, deeply pleased to find Erik focusing all his attention on him instead.
Except that he couldn't make his legs kick or his arms wave sufficiently to keep his head above the water, for the onslaught of sheer emotion that came with that attention was more than he'd ever dealt with before. If the initial brush of Erik's mind was a veritable thunderbolt, this was the deep reverberation of the air rushing back in to fill the vacuum from everywhere at once -- hatred and despair being replaced by terror, awe, and something else, something indescribable that Charles couldn't stop trying to figure out, something that made his chest tight and the blood in his ears sing. Maybe it was just the primal response to being immersed in dark water where the waves were bigger than they'd looked from the safety of the ship, and his clothes were weighing him down more than he would have expected, and he was going to drown if his circumstances didn't change soon, but looking in Erik's eyes he was struck with the notion that all his plans for the future were nothing but a little boy's made-up stories fit only for the playroom, and it would be a terrible, horrible thing to die now, having only just met the most fascinating person in the world.
Who just happened to be killing him with the maelstrom of his emotions, because Charles apparently had neither self-restraint nor self-control where Erik was concerned, and could not disentangle his awareness from the other man's, not even enough to remember how to tread water properly.
"Calm your mind!" Charles said, making it sound as much like an order as he could. Erik responds to orders, he knew. Erik flinched -- a quick intake of breath, a slight drawing back, all automatic and impossible to hide, especially with Charles still in Erik's mind -- and the slap of a wave against his face was familiar, though far too light. And Erik responds to pain, Charles saw, aghast; and quietly, somehow managing to keep the thought to himself: My God, Erik, how could they do this to you? But he knew what had been done and who'd done it, he'd seen so much history flash through Erik's mind as the submarine slipped out of his grasp; the why of it was not hard to guess at, but his empathy stuttered and failed to comprehend how anyone could do that to a person.
"I heard you in my head!" The words fell from Erik in a rush, laced with shock and indignation, curiosity and awe. "How did you do that?!"
"You have your tricks, I have mine." Tricks, he and Raven had called them when they were children, and so they referred to them still. "I'm like you."
"I thought I was alone," Erik said, and the tightness in Charles' chest lifted and was replaced with a warmth he usually only felt towards Raven.
"You are not alone," Charles told him in-between gasps for air amongst the swells. "Erik, you're not alone." He might have said "Calm your mind" again, but what he really meant to say was "I've got you, now."
October 4, 1962
10:20 pm
Erik was leaning in for another kiss, eyes half-lidded and lips parted, when he suddenly stilled, looking towards the door.
"We're not alone," he said, his voice low, cautious.
Charles reached out, brushed his mind against -- "Moira," he said, rolling out from underneath Erik, who was now scowling at the closed door even as he leapt to his feet.
"So what if she sees?" he muttered, eyes narrowed. "She works for the CIA, isn't she supposed to know everyone's secrets?"
"It's illegal, Erik," Charles zipped his fly and buttoned it, fastened his belt hurriedly and tumbled back in his chair. He was shoving his sleeves up as the door opened -- from the look of surprise on Moira's face and her upraised hand poised to knock, Erik had used his power to open it.
"And eavesdropping isn't," Erik noted. The chill between Erik and Moira was palpable, even through the flush Charles still felt from… well, from having just been about to perform an illegal act he'd been very much looking forward to, if he'd been lucky.
Moira dropped her hand but remained hovering on the threshold. "You found the chessboard," she said, and from the disappointment in her voice it was clear that she'd taken the scene in and had probably come to the correct conclusion. "Raven said you might be playing. I'm sorry for interrupting your game," -- this directed to Erik -- "but I just got word that the funding authorization for active recruitment came through." She squared her shoulders and walked carefully into the room, passing Erik to stand between the two of them. She looked down at the board, on which two pieces were miraculously still standing, then at Charles for a long moment. "We've got a meeting with Smith in accounting at 8 in the morning, and then you two are good to go, as requested."
"Just the two of us?" Erik prompted, his whole body still but tensed, leonine behind her.
"Yes." She raised her hand with two fingers up mimicking Charles' habitual gesture, her eyes wide in a silent appeal. Out loud she continued, "I'll be handling logistics from here."
Everywhere is bugged she thought, so loudly Charles hardly had to concentrate. I can't cover for everything. I'd lose my job if they knew I told you. He nodded and leaned around her to catch Erik's eye, passed the warning on to him.
"I'm glad to know we're in good hands, Agent McTaggart," Charles said, smiling up at her.
Erik's shoulders relaxed a little, and he turned to Charles with an expression somewhere between triumphant and smug. "We should take the chessboard, Charles. I'll be up for a game every night, if you are."
Charles couldn't help the smile, even as he silently damned Erik for his cheekiness and for being mean to Moira. Erik's possessiveness was… flattering.
"The meeting's in 6 hours." Moira's voice was grim. "There are certainly no rules against civilians having an evening cocktail, but sobriety at meetings is appreciated." She turned on her heel and started to leave.
"Won't there be coffee?" Erik asked her. She paused at the doorframe, looked at him over her shoulder with a small, almost imperceptible sigh.
"The cafeteria opens at 7:30. Help yourself." And then she was gone, the sound of her heels on the linoleum floor echoing away down the hall. Charles was impressed that she managed to keep the bitterness out of her voice, and sorry that there was any cause for it in the first place. But there was Erik with that half-smile paying at his lips, and the mischievous look in his eyes as he gazed at Charles, and…
"Looks like it's all work and no play at the CIA, Charles," Erik tossed the remainder of his drink back in one smooth swig.
"Indeed, my friend, and more's the pity. I'll pack the board."
Erik went to the door, then turned to lean against the frame where Moira had just been and regarded Charles for a long moment, his hands jammed in his pockets. "I'm looking forward to it," he said finally.
"I hope you don't mind being beaten, overly much" Charles said. He found himself immediately biting down the urge to cringe, chagrined; he wouldn't have spoken so brashly, but talking his skills up for the benefit of anyone listening now or in the future was so automatic he hadn't realized he was doing it until the words spilled out of his mouth. It was a habit he didn't like, defending the mighty PhD, as though having a doctorate of science from Oxford meant he's supposed to be good at anything and everything requiring intelligence, even though he knew better.
But Erik didn't know about Oxford, or if he did, he chose to respond to a different taunt entirely.
"No one's ever been able to beat me overly much," he said, placing a gentle emphasis on the words in completely the wrong way. "If you can do it," he added, still with that level expression that gave so little away, "you're welcome to it." Then he nodded a goodnight and left Charles to himself. Erik's soft steps were out of earshot three steps from the door; Charles let his thoughts trail after him, guiltily savoring the feel of Erik's graceful walk, habitually quiet and smooth and alert, always hunting. He stayed with Erik as he went down a flight of stairs, slipped down a side hall to avoid a lit office, and passed the elevators to head down another flight of stairs. He let the contact go when Erik opened the door to his spartan assigned room, a dorm that looked identical to his own; Charles knew what he was going to do as soon as he got to his own room, the only thing he could possibly do given the circumstances. Whether Erik was going to do the same was Erik's own business.
Part 2