The Children of a Lesser God; X-Men: First Class
Title: The Children of a Lesser God
Fandom: X-Men: First Class (2011) (c) Marvel and others.
Characters/Pairings: Charles Xavier/Erik Lehnsherr; Sharon Xavier; Cain Marko; Raven
Genres: Canon!AU/Angst
Rating: R
Summary: Sequel to If You Wish for Peace: After the war, they return to England men, but also murderers. After killing his mother and his stepbrother, Charles decides to part ways with Erik and attends Oxford, in an attempt to honor his father’s memory. It doesn’t exactly work.
Warnings: Character Death (not Charles or Erik); Violence
--
The war was over. They were on their way home, sort of.
Charles didn’t know if he still had a home back in England, but that was the only place he knew. Erik didn’t remember where he came from, but even if he did remember, the place probably no longer existed. The ship captain took pity on them. They were boys, lost, far away from home. They claimed to be brothers, although they looked nothing alike. To the captain, they almost wore the same faces. They called themselves Michael and Charles Xavier. Michael was nineteen, Charles seventeen.
Because they were boys, the captain took pity on them and gave them work. Charles, who said his father had been a physician in the war, was sent to the infirmary. Erik, who was a lot stronger than he looked, was sent to the deck to do odd jobs.
“You’ll be home soon, lads. You can put this all behind you. There will be peace now.”
What the captain didn’t know was that they weren’t boys anymore. The war had made them men. Men and murderers.
When the soldier dove for Erik and pinned him to the ground --
“KILL HIM! CHARLES, KILL HIM!”
Charles shut his eyes tight. Then he opened them again. The soldier was angry. His thoughts were jumbled, shattered in pieces; he was angry at everything: his superiors, his country, everyone who had gotten in the way. It wasn’t supposed to end this way.
You deserve to die, he told the man. You will claw out your own throat. You will repent, repent for every life that you’ve ever took.
He watched the man die, screaming in miserable agony. Erik had the man’s blood on him, but he was alive, and he offered his hand to Charles when he’d gotten to his feet. Charles took his hand and tried not to wince.
“A little quicker next time? That could have hurt.” He rubbed idly behind his neck.
“ -- Sorry.”
The man’s face haunted him. Well, mostly his eyes. He’d clawed out his throat and half of his face.
“Charles.”
Charles almost flinched as he felt arms around his shoulders, but he forced himself to take a deep breath, and let it out, “I woke you?”
Erik shrugged, “I’m not tired. You haven’t slept for days.”
It was true that Charles was exhausted. They were going to be in London in two days, and that there were no more soldiers to kill, no more old women to pity, but he couldn’t close his eyes. If he closed his eyes, he saw dead eyes -- dead faces. He didn’t know how Erik could sleep so soundly at night, and he’d long since decided he didn’t want to know.
“I can’t close my eyes.”
Erik settled his chin gently atop of Charles’ head, “How many people have you killed?” He asked, his voice barely a whisper; it might have been a thought.
“Forty-three,” It was a decidedly odd, and probably very small number. Charles now knew that peaceful ways had no place in a time of war, but since Erik had been at this a lot longer than he had, he let Erik do all the killing. It was only when Erik couldn’t, that Charles did. He couldn’t look at their bodies.
“Once you’ve lost count like I have, it won’t hurt anymore,” said Erik, sounding too old and too wise.
“How long will that take?”
“I don’t know, Charles,” Erik kept a firm grip on his elbow, even as he stepped away. “Come, get some sleep.”
The captain had given them permission to sleep in one of the ship’s storage rooms, and had even given them a blanket. Erik wrapped the blanket securely around Charles and gathered him into his arms once more. The two of them sat quietly in the dark.
“There will probably be nothing left in London for me. But I don’t know where else to go.”
Erik said, “There will be me, at least. Quit your babbling, Charles. Sleep. I will be here. I will always be here.”
Charles would always have Erik Lehnsherr, but somehow, that wasn’t the same. He clutched Erik’s hands close and closed his eyes.
--
The man behind the desk pushed a chocolate bar across the smooth, wooden surface, “Here, eat this chocolate bar. It is very good.” He said this in a tongue that Charles recognized -- German, but didn’t understand. But the boy on the other side of the desk did.
“I don’t want any chocolate.”
“Oh? Too bad. It’s very good chocolate. Very difficult to get in this time of war.” The man chewed chocolate noisily and clicked his fingers. The snaps were too loud.
Behind them, the door opened, and two armed men brought in a woman. She and the boy embraced tightly. She said something to him, something hysterical sounding.
“Mother!”
Charles jerked awake. Erik’s eyes were open too, and his face seemed very pale.
“Erik, you were having a nightmare.” He’d seen this nightmare before, he’d seen lots of Erik’s nightmares, but this one was the only one he saw over and over again. Erik never liked to talk about any of it.
“I was not,” Erik said stiffly. “But I’m sorry if I woke you. Go back to sleep, the sun won’t be up for a little while.”
--
London was as dreary as he remembered. It took them two more days to bribe their way to where they needed to be. The mansion seemed perfectly undisturbed, and serene, as if the war never happened.
Erik said, “You could have escaped the war.” There was something close to deep admiration in his voice.
“I couldn’t leave my father,” said Charles. “I couldn’t leave everyone who needed me.” Even though he no longer believed as he did then, he still knew he did the right thing. The men had died, Luke Wardell, Lt. Henry O’Shea, Teddy Irwin, Pierre LaMontagne -- he still remembered all their names. He’d given them peace.
They walked to the door together, and Charles raised his hand up to knock, but before he could do so, the door swung open.
A young man stood there, crossing his arms, and looking just as cross. “We’re not giving to charity anymore, please leave.” He wrinkled his nose.
Cain Marko. This was his house. Charles’ mother had married his father out of necessity because she knew he’d never return. Charles was probably dead, too. She needed men in her life, she was like that. Always had been.
“My name is Charles Xavier, fetch my mother for me.”
“She said her son and her husband were dead,” Cain said, not moving from his position in the doorway. She has the letter to prove it. I don’t know who you are, but you’ve better leave.”
“You will fetch my mother.”
Cain’s demeanor changed, as all semblance of emotion seemed to disappear from his face, leaving his countenance seeming strangely blank, “Pardon me a moment,” he said.
Erik said, “I didn’t know you could do that, I didn’t even feel it.”
Charles was surprised too, but before he could say anything, a woman in a loud red dress came to the door with Cain still wearing a blank face, “Mother, Charles and Erik are here to see you.”
His mother’s face scrunched up in confusion, “Who --”
Charles looked at her, “It’s Charles and Erik.”
Suddenly, she embraced him tightly, almost cracking his ribs, “Oh, Charles, you’re alive.”
(His mother had never held him before. He just wanted to know what it felt like, out of a sort of morbid curiosity.)
--
“You can’t keep controlling them like this,” said Erik. “Your mind won’t be able to stand it.”
“What else am I supposed to do?” Charles spat at him, as a sudden pang shot through his temple. “I understand if she forgets me, but my father. She forgot him.” It was unforgivable. “Everything that he’s ever done, he was thinking of her.”
“Kill her,” Erik said, only pausing a little. “Kill all of them. They are of no use to us, they won’t understand. Take what’s rightfully yours.”
“Erik, I can’t kill my own mother.”
“I’ll do it, then.”
Suddenly, the door to their shared bedroom burst open. Cain stood there, and his eyes were dark. “I knew it. You’re a freak.”
There was a dresser right by the door, Cain picked it up effortlessly, and hurled it at them.
“Charles, get down!”
Charles dove instinctively towards the floor.
Something metal whizzed past Charles, and he only felt a little pain.
Erik screamed.
“ -- Oh, so you too.” Cain said. “That’s neat, you know. What you can do with the knives. Where’d you get them?”
Charles opened his eyes, Erik was crushed against the wall, “...We’ve killed people for them. Lots of them. We’ll kill you too.”
Charles, kill him.
Sometimes, Charles dreamed of having a brother, but Cain Marko was more like a nightmare. He looked at Cain, and willed Cain's hands to unclench around Erik’s throat.
“What -- what’s happening?”
Charles said, “You’re dying.” He picked up one of the knives (Erik had lied, the knife was from the kitchen. He recognized it.) and before he could change his mind, plunged Cain through the chest. Blood splattered everywhere, but at least there was no sound, just a deafening silence.
Erik caught him as his knees gave away, “Charles, Charles you did good.”
“I -- I killed him.” Charles couldn’t stand to look at his hands, “Erik I --”
A woman was screaming, his mother. His mother was in the doorway, her face had lost all color, and she was trembling.
“Oh, what have you done?”
Lightning quick, a knife slashed her throat. She was still too. Effortlessly, Erik picked him up and stepped over his mother’s body on the way to the bathroom, “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
--
It was always Erik who was bloody afterwards, never Charles. He let Erik take off his blood-soaked clothes and scrubbed him clean, while he sat trembling in the tub.
“Charles, talk to me.” Erik's voice seemed so far away.
“ -- I -- I don’t think I can do this,” said Charles. “I can’t continue to kill people. The war is over. Did you ever stop and think about what we’ve done, Erik?”
“There is no other way, Charles. We must. Think of the future.” Erik's jaw twitched stubbornly, like the rest of him.
“My father said once,” said Charles, almost not hearing him. “That killing would not bring us peace. I think he was right.”
“Your father is dead in some street in Poland,” said Erik. “Don’t you remember? He was stupid. Only because he refused to fight. Killing might not bring us peace, but it will bring the future peace, it will bring everyone else, peace.”
Charles got out of the bathtub, he dressed in some clean clothes that Erik had found, “My friend. I love you more deeply than perhaps I will love anyone else in this world. But we must part ways here.”
Erik said nothing.
Still, Charles took his hand, “Come with me.”
He led him into his father’s -- mother’s bedroom, and went into the closet. Charles pushed aside some coats, and came away with a small box. There were a small stack of bills. He split the bill neatly in half and held out half for Erik.
“I know this isn’t much,” he said.
Erik took the money, “Do I go with your blessing?”
“My blessing,” Charles said. “Go and do what I’m too much of a coward to do.”
Erik leaned forward and kissed him; they’d kissed very few times during the three years they knew each other, but they’d never needed to. Charles clung to him, knowing it was the last time. At least, the last time for a very long time.
“I will change the world, my friend. And when I do, I want you by my side. You and I, we will be Gods.”
Closing the closet behind him, Charles walked him to the door, and embraced him one last time, “If you are ever tired, Erik, just come home.”
He watched Erik go, and then turned back into his empty house.
--
Oxford was abysmally dull. If he was lonely his bed was never empty. He hated this life.
But it was what his father had always wanted him to do, and Charles had to honor what he considered Brian Xavier’s last wishes. He was studying to be a geneticist. He was able to afford an education thanks to the handsome sum he had received selling the Westchester Manor. He never wanted to go back to that place again.
It’d been a little more than two years since he’d laid eyes on Erik Lehnsherr, but Charles thought of him everyday. He wondered if his friend was well.
When Charles stepped out of the pub, he noted that it was drizzling, and maybe it might storm soon.
Raven Darkholm was like him. She called herself Mystique and looked about twenty-eight at the pub, but Charles knew otherwise.
She whipped out a thin blade from her purse and spat him, “I don’t know who you are, but you’ve better leave. I’ve got no time to deal with drunk university boys.”
“I’m not drunk,” said Charles. Fine, he was a little drunk, but nowhere near drunk enough to have it be noticeable. “You shouldn’t be dealing with university boys, anyway. I know you are twelve. I know the troubles you face.”
I know everything about you. Do not be afraid.
She dropped her knife.
Her skin was a brilliant shade of blue, and her hair a bright red, but Charles was right, she was young. The world was cruel to her and made her old. The world that he and Erik were going to create meant that she didn’t have to face any of those things.
You are beautiful. He told her.
I’m disgusting. That was what she’d always been told. Raven looked away from him, and took a step back.
Charles held out a hand towards her.
“Come home with me,” he said. “You will have to worry about anything else ever again.”
--
When Charles returned home to his flat, there was a package settled on the desk of his study. It was crudely wrapped with old, wrinkled newspaper and had no address of any sort scribbled on it. The newspaper was German, dated last Thursday.
Tentatively, Charles unwrapped it. Inside was an old watch. A watch that looked expensive, but really probably wasn’t. There was a crack on its face, and the hands weren’t moving.
There was a note, written in a hasty, uneven scrawl:
This isn’t your father’s watch. But I have a feeling that sons always get their father’s watches, and it isn’t fair that you have to suffer from his stupidity. I think of you every day. It is as if no time has passed, if I imagine you here with me. I will be home soon.
- E.
There was some shuffling behind him, “ -- Whose watch is that?” Raven blinked sleepily at him.
“Mine,” Charles slipped it on. It fit his wrist just right. “Have you ever thought about the future, Raven?”
She settled her hands on the back of his chair, and was quiet for a long time, “What do you mean?” He guessed no one had ever asked her that before.
“What do you wish for in your future?” He looked at her, “Anything you’d like.”
“I want a lot of things,” her eyes were bright and hopeful. “To be happy, to be loved, and --” breaking off abruptly, she turned to him. She might have blushed, but Charles couldn’t tell because she was blue. But that didn’t matter. “Do you think that I’ll get all those things?”
Charles smiled at her, “Yes, once Erik comes home. Yes, you will.”
--
-End-
Fandom: X-Men: First Class (2011) (c) Marvel and others.
Characters/Pairings: Charles Xavier/Erik Lehnsherr; Sharon Xavier; Cain Marko; Raven
Genres: Canon!AU/Angst
Rating: R
Summary: Sequel to If You Wish for Peace: After the war, they return to England men, but also murderers. After killing his mother and his stepbrother, Charles decides to part ways with Erik and attends Oxford, in an attempt to honor his father’s memory. It doesn’t exactly work.
Warnings: Character Death (not Charles or Erik); Violence
--
The war was over. They were on their way home, sort of.
Charles didn’t know if he still had a home back in England, but that was the only place he knew. Erik didn’t remember where he came from, but even if he did remember, the place probably no longer existed. The ship captain took pity on them. They were boys, lost, far away from home. They claimed to be brothers, although they looked nothing alike. To the captain, they almost wore the same faces. They called themselves Michael and Charles Xavier. Michael was nineteen, Charles seventeen.
Because they were boys, the captain took pity on them and gave them work. Charles, who said his father had been a physician in the war, was sent to the infirmary. Erik, who was a lot stronger than he looked, was sent to the deck to do odd jobs.
“You’ll be home soon, lads. You can put this all behind you. There will be peace now.”
What the captain didn’t know was that they weren’t boys anymore. The war had made them men. Men and murderers.
When the soldier dove for Erik and pinned him to the ground --
“KILL HIM! CHARLES, KILL HIM!”
Charles shut his eyes tight. Then he opened them again. The soldier was angry. His thoughts were jumbled, shattered in pieces; he was angry at everything: his superiors, his country, everyone who had gotten in the way. It wasn’t supposed to end this way.
You deserve to die, he told the man. You will claw out your own throat. You will repent, repent for every life that you’ve ever took.
He watched the man die, screaming in miserable agony. Erik had the man’s blood on him, but he was alive, and he offered his hand to Charles when he’d gotten to his feet. Charles took his hand and tried not to wince.
“A little quicker next time? That could have hurt.” He rubbed idly behind his neck.
“ -- Sorry.”
The man’s face haunted him. Well, mostly his eyes. He’d clawed out his throat and half of his face.
“Charles.”
Charles almost flinched as he felt arms around his shoulders, but he forced himself to take a deep breath, and let it out, “I woke you?”
Erik shrugged, “I’m not tired. You haven’t slept for days.”
It was true that Charles was exhausted. They were going to be in London in two days, and that there were no more soldiers to kill, no more old women to pity, but he couldn’t close his eyes. If he closed his eyes, he saw dead eyes -- dead faces. He didn’t know how Erik could sleep so soundly at night, and he’d long since decided he didn’t want to know.
“I can’t close my eyes.”
Erik settled his chin gently atop of Charles’ head, “How many people have you killed?” He asked, his voice barely a whisper; it might have been a thought.
“Forty-three,” It was a decidedly odd, and probably very small number. Charles now knew that peaceful ways had no place in a time of war, but since Erik had been at this a lot longer than he had, he let Erik do all the killing. It was only when Erik couldn’t, that Charles did. He couldn’t look at their bodies.
“Once you’ve lost count like I have, it won’t hurt anymore,” said Erik, sounding too old and too wise.
“How long will that take?”
“I don’t know, Charles,” Erik kept a firm grip on his elbow, even as he stepped away. “Come, get some sleep.”
The captain had given them permission to sleep in one of the ship’s storage rooms, and had even given them a blanket. Erik wrapped the blanket securely around Charles and gathered him into his arms once more. The two of them sat quietly in the dark.
“There will probably be nothing left in London for me. But I don’t know where else to go.”
Erik said, “There will be me, at least. Quit your babbling, Charles. Sleep. I will be here. I will always be here.”
Charles would always have Erik Lehnsherr, but somehow, that wasn’t the same. He clutched Erik’s hands close and closed his eyes.
--
The man behind the desk pushed a chocolate bar across the smooth, wooden surface, “Here, eat this chocolate bar. It is very good.” He said this in a tongue that Charles recognized -- German, but didn’t understand. But the boy on the other side of the desk did.
“I don’t want any chocolate.”
“Oh? Too bad. It’s very good chocolate. Very difficult to get in this time of war.” The man chewed chocolate noisily and clicked his fingers. The snaps were too loud.
Behind them, the door opened, and two armed men brought in a woman. She and the boy embraced tightly. She said something to him, something hysterical sounding.
“Mother!”
Charles jerked awake. Erik’s eyes were open too, and his face seemed very pale.
“Erik, you were having a nightmare.” He’d seen this nightmare before, he’d seen lots of Erik’s nightmares, but this one was the only one he saw over and over again. Erik never liked to talk about any of it.
“I was not,” Erik said stiffly. “But I’m sorry if I woke you. Go back to sleep, the sun won’t be up for a little while.”
--
London was as dreary as he remembered. It took them two more days to bribe their way to where they needed to be. The mansion seemed perfectly undisturbed, and serene, as if the war never happened.
Erik said, “You could have escaped the war.” There was something close to deep admiration in his voice.
“I couldn’t leave my father,” said Charles. “I couldn’t leave everyone who needed me.” Even though he no longer believed as he did then, he still knew he did the right thing. The men had died, Luke Wardell, Lt. Henry O’Shea, Teddy Irwin, Pierre LaMontagne -- he still remembered all their names. He’d given them peace.
They walked to the door together, and Charles raised his hand up to knock, but before he could do so, the door swung open.
A young man stood there, crossing his arms, and looking just as cross. “We’re not giving to charity anymore, please leave.” He wrinkled his nose.
Cain Marko. This was his house. Charles’ mother had married his father out of necessity because she knew he’d never return. Charles was probably dead, too. She needed men in her life, she was like that. Always had been.
“My name is Charles Xavier, fetch my mother for me.”
“She said her son and her husband were dead,” Cain said, not moving from his position in the doorway. She has the letter to prove it. I don’t know who you are, but you’ve better leave.”
“You will fetch my mother.”
Cain’s demeanor changed, as all semblance of emotion seemed to disappear from his face, leaving his countenance seeming strangely blank, “Pardon me a moment,” he said.
Erik said, “I didn’t know you could do that, I didn’t even feel it.”
Charles was surprised too, but before he could say anything, a woman in a loud red dress came to the door with Cain still wearing a blank face, “Mother, Charles and Erik are here to see you.”
His mother’s face scrunched up in confusion, “Who --”
Charles looked at her, “It’s Charles and Erik.”
Suddenly, she embraced him tightly, almost cracking his ribs, “Oh, Charles, you’re alive.”
(His mother had never held him before. He just wanted to know what it felt like, out of a sort of morbid curiosity.)
--
“You can’t keep controlling them like this,” said Erik. “Your mind won’t be able to stand it.”
“What else am I supposed to do?” Charles spat at him, as a sudden pang shot through his temple. “I understand if she forgets me, but my father. She forgot him.” It was unforgivable. “Everything that he’s ever done, he was thinking of her.”
“Kill her,” Erik said, only pausing a little. “Kill all of them. They are of no use to us, they won’t understand. Take what’s rightfully yours.”
“Erik, I can’t kill my own mother.”
“I’ll do it, then.”
Suddenly, the door to their shared bedroom burst open. Cain stood there, and his eyes were dark. “I knew it. You’re a freak.”
There was a dresser right by the door, Cain picked it up effortlessly, and hurled it at them.
“Charles, get down!”
Charles dove instinctively towards the floor.
Something metal whizzed past Charles, and he only felt a little pain.
Erik screamed.
“ -- Oh, so you too.” Cain said. “That’s neat, you know. What you can do with the knives. Where’d you get them?”
Charles opened his eyes, Erik was crushed against the wall, “...We’ve killed people for them. Lots of them. We’ll kill you too.”
Charles, kill him.
Sometimes, Charles dreamed of having a brother, but Cain Marko was more like a nightmare. He looked at Cain, and willed Cain's hands to unclench around Erik’s throat.
“What -- what’s happening?”
Charles said, “You’re dying.” He picked up one of the knives (Erik had lied, the knife was from the kitchen. He recognized it.) and before he could change his mind, plunged Cain through the chest. Blood splattered everywhere, but at least there was no sound, just a deafening silence.
Erik caught him as his knees gave away, “Charles, Charles you did good.”
“I -- I killed him.” Charles couldn’t stand to look at his hands, “Erik I --”
A woman was screaming, his mother. His mother was in the doorway, her face had lost all color, and she was trembling.
“Oh, what have you done?”
Lightning quick, a knife slashed her throat. She was still too. Effortlessly, Erik picked him up and stepped over his mother’s body on the way to the bathroom, “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
--
It was always Erik who was bloody afterwards, never Charles. He let Erik take off his blood-soaked clothes and scrubbed him clean, while he sat trembling in the tub.
“Charles, talk to me.” Erik's voice seemed so far away.
“ -- I -- I don’t think I can do this,” said Charles. “I can’t continue to kill people. The war is over. Did you ever stop and think about what we’ve done, Erik?”
“There is no other way, Charles. We must. Think of the future.” Erik's jaw twitched stubbornly, like the rest of him.
“My father said once,” said Charles, almost not hearing him. “That killing would not bring us peace. I think he was right.”
“Your father is dead in some street in Poland,” said Erik. “Don’t you remember? He was stupid. Only because he refused to fight. Killing might not bring us peace, but it will bring the future peace, it will bring everyone else, peace.”
Charles got out of the bathtub, he dressed in some clean clothes that Erik had found, “My friend. I love you more deeply than perhaps I will love anyone else in this world. But we must part ways here.”
Erik said nothing.
Still, Charles took his hand, “Come with me.”
He led him into his father’s -- mother’s bedroom, and went into the closet. Charles pushed aside some coats, and came away with a small box. There were a small stack of bills. He split the bill neatly in half and held out half for Erik.
“I know this isn’t much,” he said.
Erik took the money, “Do I go with your blessing?”
“My blessing,” Charles said. “Go and do what I’m too much of a coward to do.”
Erik leaned forward and kissed him; they’d kissed very few times during the three years they knew each other, but they’d never needed to. Charles clung to him, knowing it was the last time. At least, the last time for a very long time.
“I will change the world, my friend. And when I do, I want you by my side. You and I, we will be Gods.”
Closing the closet behind him, Charles walked him to the door, and embraced him one last time, “If you are ever tired, Erik, just come home.”
He watched Erik go, and then turned back into his empty house.
--
Oxford was abysmally dull. If he was lonely his bed was never empty. He hated this life.
But it was what his father had always wanted him to do, and Charles had to honor what he considered Brian Xavier’s last wishes. He was studying to be a geneticist. He was able to afford an education thanks to the handsome sum he had received selling the Westchester Manor. He never wanted to go back to that place again.
It’d been a little more than two years since he’d laid eyes on Erik Lehnsherr, but Charles thought of him everyday. He wondered if his friend was well.
When Charles stepped out of the pub, he noted that it was drizzling, and maybe it might storm soon.
Raven Darkholm was like him. She called herself Mystique and looked about twenty-eight at the pub, but Charles knew otherwise.
She whipped out a thin blade from her purse and spat him, “I don’t know who you are, but you’ve better leave. I’ve got no time to deal with drunk university boys.”
“I’m not drunk,” said Charles. Fine, he was a little drunk, but nowhere near drunk enough to have it be noticeable. “You shouldn’t be dealing with university boys, anyway. I know you are twelve. I know the troubles you face.”
I know everything about you. Do not be afraid.
She dropped her knife.
Her skin was a brilliant shade of blue, and her hair a bright red, but Charles was right, she was young. The world was cruel to her and made her old. The world that he and Erik were going to create meant that she didn’t have to face any of those things.
You are beautiful. He told her.
I’m disgusting. That was what she’d always been told. Raven looked away from him, and took a step back.
Charles held out a hand towards her.
“Come home with me,” he said. “You will have to worry about anything else ever again.”
--
When Charles returned home to his flat, there was a package settled on the desk of his study. It was crudely wrapped with old, wrinkled newspaper and had no address of any sort scribbled on it. The newspaper was German, dated last Thursday.
Tentatively, Charles unwrapped it. Inside was an old watch. A watch that looked expensive, but really probably wasn’t. There was a crack on its face, and the hands weren’t moving.
There was a note, written in a hasty, uneven scrawl:
This isn’t your father’s watch. But I have a feeling that sons always get their father’s watches, and it isn’t fair that you have to suffer from his stupidity. I think of you every day. It is as if no time has passed, if I imagine you here with me. I will be home soon.
- E.
There was some shuffling behind him, “ -- Whose watch is that?” Raven blinked sleepily at him.
“Mine,” Charles slipped it on. It fit his wrist just right. “Have you ever thought about the future, Raven?”
She settled her hands on the back of his chair, and was quiet for a long time, “What do you mean?” He guessed no one had ever asked her that before.
“What do you wish for in your future?” He looked at her, “Anything you’d like.”
“I want a lot of things,” her eyes were bright and hopeful. “To be happy, to be loved, and --” breaking off abruptly, she turned to him. She might have blushed, but Charles couldn’t tell because she was blue. But that didn’t matter. “Do you think that I’ll get all those things?”
Charles smiled at her, “Yes, once Erik comes home. Yes, you will.”
--
-End-