X-Men: First Class Fic - Writing on a Wind 1/?
Title: Writing on a Wind
Rating: PG13
Summary: Inspired by the book "The Housekeeper and The Professor". Charles was formerly a genetic professor who got into an accident and lost his ability to remember anything beyond 30 minutes. Erik was his newly assigned caretaker.
Note: beta-ed by lostduckinc. (Oh and she's currently writing in Cherik Fandom, so you might want to check her fics. They're amazing btw)
- - -
Author's note: I finally decided to post this. Hope you'll like it.
“What a groovy EYCL1 gene you have!”
That was the first sentence that blurted out from his mouth as he opened the periwinkle door of his apartment. He was sitting on a metal wheelchair - its design was clearly different from any wheelchair I usually saw throughout my career as a caretaker: instead of mere blue synthetic cloth without any other support, the ash gray chair was just like a normal chair, solid and steady, and each wheel’s forks had been replaced with two broad metal, forming an ‘X’ symbol. It looked elegant, yet personal at the same time.
He himself, to my surprise, looked very young, much younger than what I had imagined. He was wearing three layers of ivory shirt, cornflower blue cardigan, and seashell lab coat. As I took more details, I slowly noticed that a whole tree-full of post-it-sized papers adorned his lab coat; some had aged with time, yellowing and then darkening into sepia, like a developed film, like old leaves.
I observed his face now. If his eyes were water, then they would be made of the vivid waters of the Mediterranean Sea, under a Sicilian sun. The corners of his eyes were slightly wrinkled, but that was just made him look more mature. His nose was lightly freckled; his lips were cherry red and tugging into a smile. I smiled in return.
“EYCL1?”
“Your iris colour, blue-green gene, located on chromosome 19. Name’s Charles Xavier, nice to meet you.”
“Erik Lehnsherr. Nice to meet you too.”
- - -
I always learnt about my wards before I met them, memorising every important detail so that I could make my presence a pleasant company for them, or at least, that was what I thought.
My current ward was Charles Francis Xavier, forty-one years old. Currently, he was living alone in a small apartment in Warburton Avenue, Yonkers Westchester. A professor in genetics in Oxford and loved his career tremendously, before a lorry crashed into his car six years ago, taking everything away from him. His legs were injured so badly that he lost his ability to walk. And, as if that was not enough, his brain was also affected from the accident - his memory now only lasted thirty minutes; like diligent clockwork, every thirty minutes, his memory would reset itself to the moment before the crash. He lost his job afterwards, thus becoming a pensioner whose only source of income was the royalty obtained from his widely acclaimed books.
He was also infamous among caretaker agencies; I was his twenty-second caretaker who ever worked for him. None of his previous caretakers lasted for more than four months. Four months were the best that they could do.
- - -
“This, my friend,” he said, almost smugly, “will help me to remember you.” With that he gently pasted a fresh Post-It onto his inner wrist. Scribbled in a neat longhand was the words: ‘Erik Lehnsherr. EYCL1. Caretaker.’
He pushed his wheelchair back, and with a swift motion, turned it around so that his back was facing me.
“I’ll help you,” I volunteered before he pushed his wheelchair further.
He turned his face around, smile still pasted on his face. “No, it’s okay. It’s more comfortable this way.” Soundlessly, he glided forward, and I followed him in silence.
As I walked inside the narrow apartment of his, I quickly observed the surroundings. The wooden floor made a creaking sound as I stepped forward. The milky white walls were covered with shelves filled with books: the upper shelves were intentionally emptied, even while some books were randomly occupied small tables and chairs, which were also placed thoughtlessly on different parts of the room. Noticing a plate with its questionable content half eaten on one of the tables, I made a note to myself to clean it up later.
He turned to the right, towards a hazel door at the end of the room, which stood ajar. Leaning forward slightly, he pushed the door, slowly but firmly, with his pale, bony palm. He wheeled inside.
“This is my bedroom.”
I looked inside. It was a small bedroom. On the left side was a single bed, on which right was a small desk, filled with manuscripts. He turned around in the cramped corridor, skilfully managing not to bump against any surface.
“I was working with my newest book, the longest I’ve attempted so far,” he chuckled at himself. “Well, it is indeed difficult to be quick, though.”
“What is it about?”
Charles looked out of the small window, fingers swiping at the thick dust that had long accumulated on the ledge. His shadow stretched out, elongating and touching Erik’s feet. “Have you read any of my books?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not really into genetics.”
He took a slow, deep breath, eyes growing softer. “There are about 20,000 genes in a human’s body. It was quite a small number though, considering that rice alone has more than 46,000 genes.” He paused for a moment before turning around, eyes meeting mine. “But imagine how many possible combinations that can be made! And that’s why each individual is unique.”
I nodded, prompting him to continue.
“I need to show them, my friend, that they are already groovy in their own way, and that they should embrace it, be proud of it,” His voice was filled with excitement right now. “But here’s the tricky part: not everybody would like to read books on genetics. It was completely understandable, though. Most books on genetics were scientifically written, practical but boring. Moreover, it is difficult enough to remember all gene codes, let alone to remember which code translates into which phenotype.”
He paused for a moment before he continued. “Thus, I decided to translate all this knowledge into something that can be enjoyed by everybody, even if they completely have no idea about genetics study; something that is less scientific and more comprehensible-a novel.”
He rotated his wheelchair around so that his front was completely facing me. He gave me an expectant look. “So what do you think?”
“Great idea,” I replied. “And I don’t think anybody has thought about this before.”
Maybe somebody had thought about this before, penned it down, and published it. But no, I could not let him down, or more correctly, I should not let him down.
His smile was bright at my response. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Slowly, he wheeled forward. “Have I shown you the kitchen?” I shook my head. “Then, let’s go there, shall we?”
- - -
If emergency kitchen in a war torn area existed, then this was the perfect replica of it.
“Sorry,” he grinned nervously as he noticed the slight twitch at the corner of my left eye. “A bit messy, I know.”
It was quite an effort to remain composed after seeing this.
“It’s okay. I’ll clean this up now.” I resolved as I rolled up my long sleeve, picked a charcoal-crusted saucepan on the stained ceramic floor, and brought it towards the barely visible sink.
“Um… do you need help?”
“No.”
“All right then. I’ll be outside, reading,” He gestured weakly towards the vicinity of his back before exiting the kitchen hesitantly. “I… Thank you by the way.”
As the shutting sound of the sliding door behind me was heard, I checked my titanium watch: 5.26 PM.
- - -
25 minutes…
I quickly took one of the plastic bags that had been scattered on the floor, shoving the garbage into it.
19 minutes…
Setting aside all dirty kitchenware out of the sink, I finally found a sponge and a dishwasher at the right hand corner of the sink. In a dash, I scrubbed and washed the kitchenware, starting from a blackened spatula.
3 minutes…
Unfortunately, I had yet to finish washing all utensils. I quickly rinsed my hand, turned around, and paced out of the kitchen
- - -
I found Charles in the living room, a thick hardcover in his hand. He noticed my presence, and gave a warm smile.
“Hi, have you finished… uh…”
“Cleaning. No.”
“Oh… all right then…” He stared into my eyes for a moment before lifting his wrist to his eye level. “… Erik.”
I glanced at my watch once more. “I guess it’s time for dinner. Do you want to wait here while I buy it for you, or would you prefer that we go together outside?”
He lighted up at my response.
“Going outside would be very nice.”
- - -
“Lot’s of things have changed since the last time I remembered.” He pointed a long, pale index finger towards the pavement at other end of the road. “For instance, there was an apple tree before,” His hand pointed to another direction. “And this place was once an Italian restaurant with a very nice owner. Sometimes he gave me discounts.”
He kept pointing out to different directions as we walked down, peppering the observations with explanations of his experiences with the locations. I quietly listened to him, occasionally nodding whenever he turned around to see my reaction.
We finally arrived at the small restaurant at the end of the corner of the road. I pushed the glass door, opening it for him. The air of the restaurant slowly warmed up my face.
“Thanks”
“No problem,” I smiled politely. A waiter, who had been standing by the door, turned around and greeted us. “A table for two.”
He nodded curtly as he took two menus from the counter next to him. “This way, please.”
We sat face-to-face on a small, cherry-wood table at corner of the restaurant as the waiter gave us the menu. I closed the book and placed it on the table, already knowing what exactly I would order later. I looked at him instead; his blue eyes were moving up and down the menu, sometimes they stop at one part of the menu for quite a long time, before moving on to the next part of the menu. It was quite a while until he sighed and put down the menu, still open, on the table.
“I’m sorry, my friend. But I really don’t know what to eat.” He smiled apologetically. “I guess I’ll take whatever you choose, then.”
“Are you sure?”
He replied with a quick nod.
“All right then,” I said while waving at one waiter nearby. He walked towards us, smiling expectantly.
“Two bowls of cream and mushroom soup with smoked beef sandwich, please.” The waiter quickly jotted it down on his small black notepad. “Oh, and add more salad.”
- - -
“That was the best cream and mushroom soup I’ve ever eaten in my entire life,” he exclaimed, pressing his voice over the word ‘best’ as we walked out of the restaurant.
“Really?”
He nodded excitedly. “I never ate cream and mushroom soup beside the one from the can. Well, at least that’s what I can remember.”
“Glad you liked it,” I said, giving him a slight smile.
He went quiet for a moment, smiling sadly. “I really wish I would be able to remember this.”
I fell silent at his comment, unsure of what to say. “I…”
“Oh look! A street violinist!” He pointed out, right hand tugging at my coat sleeve before he glided towards the performer. I followed hurriedly in his direction.
The violinist was so engrossed with the piece he was playing that he did not notice our presence. I looked at Charles. His eyes had fluttered shut, and his whole body had relaxed, his lips tugging into a peaceful smile.
The song ended, perhaps too abruptly. Charles applauded at the violinist before shoving one hand into his jeans’ pocket, taking out his oak brown leather wallet. He opened it, took out all the coins he had inside, and threw them into an open violin case at the performer’s feet.
He glanced at me. “Let’s go back, my friend.”
- - -
“So tell me, what happened before we met the violinist?” He asked as I closed his apartment’s door, its click reverberating throughout the apartment.
“We went to a restaurant, and we ate cream and mushroom soup with sandwich.”
He looked intrigued, “Care to describe the details to me? Well, it’s completely okay if you don’t, though.”
“No, it’s fine.”
I started to retrace our journey, from when Charles started commenting on the surroundings, until the moment he saw the violinist. I, however, scrapped the part where he said he wished to be able remember this.
“I see… Thank you.”
I checked my watch: 9.45 PM
“I guess I need to go back now.” I showed my watch to him. His face suddenly fell.
“You’ll come again tomorrow, right?”
“Of course. I’m your caretaker now,” I held the doorknob of his apartment, although I delayed turning it yet. “Well then, goodnight, Mr. Xavier.”
“Charles. Call me Charles. Goodnight, Erik.”
- - -
Rating: PG13
Summary: Inspired by the book "The Housekeeper and The Professor". Charles was formerly a genetic professor who got into an accident and lost his ability to remember anything beyond 30 minutes. Erik was his newly assigned caretaker.
Note: beta-ed by lostduckinc. (Oh and she's currently writing in Cherik Fandom, so you might want to check her fics. They're amazing btw)
- - -
Author's note: I finally decided to post this. Hope you'll like it.
“What a groovy EYCL1 gene you have!”
That was the first sentence that blurted out from his mouth as he opened the periwinkle door of his apartment. He was sitting on a metal wheelchair - its design was clearly different from any wheelchair I usually saw throughout my career as a caretaker: instead of mere blue synthetic cloth without any other support, the ash gray chair was just like a normal chair, solid and steady, and each wheel’s forks had been replaced with two broad metal, forming an ‘X’ symbol. It looked elegant, yet personal at the same time.
He himself, to my surprise, looked very young, much younger than what I had imagined. He was wearing three layers of ivory shirt, cornflower blue cardigan, and seashell lab coat. As I took more details, I slowly noticed that a whole tree-full of post-it-sized papers adorned his lab coat; some had aged with time, yellowing and then darkening into sepia, like a developed film, like old leaves.
I observed his face now. If his eyes were water, then they would be made of the vivid waters of the Mediterranean Sea, under a Sicilian sun. The corners of his eyes were slightly wrinkled, but that was just made him look more mature. His nose was lightly freckled; his lips were cherry red and tugging into a smile. I smiled in return.
“EYCL1?”
“Your iris colour, blue-green gene, located on chromosome 19. Name’s Charles Xavier, nice to meet you.”
“Erik Lehnsherr. Nice to meet you too.”
- - -
I always learnt about my wards before I met them, memorising every important detail so that I could make my presence a pleasant company for them, or at least, that was what I thought.
My current ward was Charles Francis Xavier, forty-one years old. Currently, he was living alone in a small apartment in Warburton Avenue, Yonkers Westchester. A professor in genetics in Oxford and loved his career tremendously, before a lorry crashed into his car six years ago, taking everything away from him. His legs were injured so badly that he lost his ability to walk. And, as if that was not enough, his brain was also affected from the accident - his memory now only lasted thirty minutes; like diligent clockwork, every thirty minutes, his memory would reset itself to the moment before the crash. He lost his job afterwards, thus becoming a pensioner whose only source of income was the royalty obtained from his widely acclaimed books.
He was also infamous among caretaker agencies; I was his twenty-second caretaker who ever worked for him. None of his previous caretakers lasted for more than four months. Four months were the best that they could do.
- - -
“This, my friend,” he said, almost smugly, “will help me to remember you.” With that he gently pasted a fresh Post-It onto his inner wrist. Scribbled in a neat longhand was the words: ‘Erik Lehnsherr. EYCL1. Caretaker.’
He pushed his wheelchair back, and with a swift motion, turned it around so that his back was facing me.
“I’ll help you,” I volunteered before he pushed his wheelchair further.
He turned his face around, smile still pasted on his face. “No, it’s okay. It’s more comfortable this way.” Soundlessly, he glided forward, and I followed him in silence.
As I walked inside the narrow apartment of his, I quickly observed the surroundings. The wooden floor made a creaking sound as I stepped forward. The milky white walls were covered with shelves filled with books: the upper shelves were intentionally emptied, even while some books were randomly occupied small tables and chairs, which were also placed thoughtlessly on different parts of the room. Noticing a plate with its questionable content half eaten on one of the tables, I made a note to myself to clean it up later.
He turned to the right, towards a hazel door at the end of the room, which stood ajar. Leaning forward slightly, he pushed the door, slowly but firmly, with his pale, bony palm. He wheeled inside.
“This is my bedroom.”
I looked inside. It was a small bedroom. On the left side was a single bed, on which right was a small desk, filled with manuscripts. He turned around in the cramped corridor, skilfully managing not to bump against any surface.
“I was working with my newest book, the longest I’ve attempted so far,” he chuckled at himself. “Well, it is indeed difficult to be quick, though.”
“What is it about?”
Charles looked out of the small window, fingers swiping at the thick dust that had long accumulated on the ledge. His shadow stretched out, elongating and touching Erik’s feet. “Have you read any of my books?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not really into genetics.”
He took a slow, deep breath, eyes growing softer. “There are about 20,000 genes in a human’s body. It was quite a small number though, considering that rice alone has more than 46,000 genes.” He paused for a moment before turning around, eyes meeting mine. “But imagine how many possible combinations that can be made! And that’s why each individual is unique.”
I nodded, prompting him to continue.
“I need to show them, my friend, that they are already groovy in their own way, and that they should embrace it, be proud of it,” His voice was filled with excitement right now. “But here’s the tricky part: not everybody would like to read books on genetics. It was completely understandable, though. Most books on genetics were scientifically written, practical but boring. Moreover, it is difficult enough to remember all gene codes, let alone to remember which code translates into which phenotype.”
He paused for a moment before he continued. “Thus, I decided to translate all this knowledge into something that can be enjoyed by everybody, even if they completely have no idea about genetics study; something that is less scientific and more comprehensible-a novel.”
He rotated his wheelchair around so that his front was completely facing me. He gave me an expectant look. “So what do you think?”
“Great idea,” I replied. “And I don’t think anybody has thought about this before.”
Maybe somebody had thought about this before, penned it down, and published it. But no, I could not let him down, or more correctly, I should not let him down.
His smile was bright at my response. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Slowly, he wheeled forward. “Have I shown you the kitchen?” I shook my head. “Then, let’s go there, shall we?”
- - -
If emergency kitchen in a war torn area existed, then this was the perfect replica of it.
“Sorry,” he grinned nervously as he noticed the slight twitch at the corner of my left eye. “A bit messy, I know.”
It was quite an effort to remain composed after seeing this.
“It’s okay. I’ll clean this up now.” I resolved as I rolled up my long sleeve, picked a charcoal-crusted saucepan on the stained ceramic floor, and brought it towards the barely visible sink.
“Um… do you need help?”
“No.”
“All right then. I’ll be outside, reading,” He gestured weakly towards the vicinity of his back before exiting the kitchen hesitantly. “I… Thank you by the way.”
As the shutting sound of the sliding door behind me was heard, I checked my titanium watch: 5.26 PM.
- - -
25 minutes…
I quickly took one of the plastic bags that had been scattered on the floor, shoving the garbage into it.
19 minutes…
Setting aside all dirty kitchenware out of the sink, I finally found a sponge and a dishwasher at the right hand corner of the sink. In a dash, I scrubbed and washed the kitchenware, starting from a blackened spatula.
3 minutes…
Unfortunately, I had yet to finish washing all utensils. I quickly rinsed my hand, turned around, and paced out of the kitchen
- - -
I found Charles in the living room, a thick hardcover in his hand. He noticed my presence, and gave a warm smile.
“Hi, have you finished… uh…”
“Cleaning. No.”
“Oh… all right then…” He stared into my eyes for a moment before lifting his wrist to his eye level. “… Erik.”
I glanced at my watch once more. “I guess it’s time for dinner. Do you want to wait here while I buy it for you, or would you prefer that we go together outside?”
He lighted up at my response.
“Going outside would be very nice.”
- - -
“Lot’s of things have changed since the last time I remembered.” He pointed a long, pale index finger towards the pavement at other end of the road. “For instance, there was an apple tree before,” His hand pointed to another direction. “And this place was once an Italian restaurant with a very nice owner. Sometimes he gave me discounts.”
He kept pointing out to different directions as we walked down, peppering the observations with explanations of his experiences with the locations. I quietly listened to him, occasionally nodding whenever he turned around to see my reaction.
We finally arrived at the small restaurant at the end of the corner of the road. I pushed the glass door, opening it for him. The air of the restaurant slowly warmed up my face.
“Thanks”
“No problem,” I smiled politely. A waiter, who had been standing by the door, turned around and greeted us. “A table for two.”
He nodded curtly as he took two menus from the counter next to him. “This way, please.”
We sat face-to-face on a small, cherry-wood table at corner of the restaurant as the waiter gave us the menu. I closed the book and placed it on the table, already knowing what exactly I would order later. I looked at him instead; his blue eyes were moving up and down the menu, sometimes they stop at one part of the menu for quite a long time, before moving on to the next part of the menu. It was quite a while until he sighed and put down the menu, still open, on the table.
“I’m sorry, my friend. But I really don’t know what to eat.” He smiled apologetically. “I guess I’ll take whatever you choose, then.”
“Are you sure?”
He replied with a quick nod.
“All right then,” I said while waving at one waiter nearby. He walked towards us, smiling expectantly.
“Two bowls of cream and mushroom soup with smoked beef sandwich, please.” The waiter quickly jotted it down on his small black notepad. “Oh, and add more salad.”
- - -
“That was the best cream and mushroom soup I’ve ever eaten in my entire life,” he exclaimed, pressing his voice over the word ‘best’ as we walked out of the restaurant.
“Really?”
He nodded excitedly. “I never ate cream and mushroom soup beside the one from the can. Well, at least that’s what I can remember.”
“Glad you liked it,” I said, giving him a slight smile.
He went quiet for a moment, smiling sadly. “I really wish I would be able to remember this.”
I fell silent at his comment, unsure of what to say. “I…”
“Oh look! A street violinist!” He pointed out, right hand tugging at my coat sleeve before he glided towards the performer. I followed hurriedly in his direction.
The violinist was so engrossed with the piece he was playing that he did not notice our presence. I looked at Charles. His eyes had fluttered shut, and his whole body had relaxed, his lips tugging into a peaceful smile.
The song ended, perhaps too abruptly. Charles applauded at the violinist before shoving one hand into his jeans’ pocket, taking out his oak brown leather wallet. He opened it, took out all the coins he had inside, and threw them into an open violin case at the performer’s feet.
He glanced at me. “Let’s go back, my friend.”
- - -
“So tell me, what happened before we met the violinist?” He asked as I closed his apartment’s door, its click reverberating throughout the apartment.
“We went to a restaurant, and we ate cream and mushroom soup with sandwich.”
He looked intrigued, “Care to describe the details to me? Well, it’s completely okay if you don’t, though.”
“No, it’s fine.”
I started to retrace our journey, from when Charles started commenting on the surroundings, until the moment he saw the violinist. I, however, scrapped the part where he said he wished to be able remember this.
“I see… Thank you.”
I checked my watch: 9.45 PM
“I guess I need to go back now.” I showed my watch to him. His face suddenly fell.
“You’ll come again tomorrow, right?”
“Of course. I’m your caretaker now,” I held the doorknob of his apartment, although I delayed turning it yet. “Well then, goodnight, Mr. Xavier.”
“Charles. Call me Charles. Goodnight, Erik.”
- - -