Sponge Away the Writing, part 5
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
In the middle of the night, Charles was awoken by a thought, and he sat straight up in his bed. It took a moment to remember where he was; when he did, he turned his head to take comfort from the sight of Sean, who'd fallen asleep despite his best intentions. In the room across the hall, Armando, too, had given into the exhaustion that came from travel and the tension that came from meeting with the Brotherhood. In fact, as far as Charles could tell, there wasn't a soul awake in this house, or for at least ten miles in any direction.
The thought must have come from inside, then.
Old Charles? he asked tentatively.
Old Charles didn't tend to show himself as an image very often--both of them were too well acquainted with mind-to-mind communication to need the illusion of a face. But suddenly, it was as if they were sitting across from each other, and he was staring into Old Charles's familiar weathered face.
This is quite nice, he offered. This illusion. I didn't know you could do this. Is it only with me?
One corner of Old Charles's mouth quirked in a self-deprecating little grin. *I can't actually do this,* he said. *You're still partly asleep--your subconscious is supplying most of the imagery.*
Do you know, my psychology professors would have had a field day with us.
Old Charles's smile grew a bit, but he said nothing. Charles took the opportunity to study his future self's face. It was a shame about the hair, he thought, and wondered when he'd start to lose it. He put less stock in personal appearances these days, and perhaps a receding hairline would even make him look more dignified, but still. From the fact that Old Charles still pictured himself in a wheelchair, Charles guessed that doctors wouldn't cure paralysis in however many years he had left to live. Well. If he had to grow into a bald, paralyzed old man, he supposed there were worse ways to go than to become Old Charles.
*I've always thought I knew myself rather well,* said Old Charles, startling Charles out of his contemplation.
Hmm?
*As I said. Between the understanding of others' minds from telepathy, and the psychology degree and all that...I thought I knew myself.* It was strange to see the rueful expression on Old Charles's face. For so long, he'd been only a strange, inexplicable voice. *But coming here, talking with you....* He sighed. *I think I've become more bitter than I realized, over the years. More set in my ways.*
Well, that's old men for you, said Charles, unsure.
Old Charles nodded. *Yes, I suppose so.* His eyes lost their focus, staring at something that must only have existed in an unfamiliar corner of Charles's mind. *It's so strange. I remember almost every day that I spent with Raven. But I had forgotten the feelings that went with the memories. The love we bore each other. It was easy to forget, in the end.*
Charles reached across the undefined divide and grasped his older self's hand. It was only a psychic projection, he knew, a figment of his imagination reaching out to a ghost that haunted his mind, but he hoped it was still capable of offering Old Charles comfort. The earlier encounter with Raven had left him feeling softer and more exposed than usual. That's dreadful, he said. I'm so sorry.
Old Charles covered Charles's hand with his own. *Thank you, my dear boy,* he said, the distant expression changing once again into a smile. *If death is inevitable, this isn't a bad way to spend the afterlife, I suppose.*
Do you think this is what happens when everyone dies? asked Charles. Do you suppose we just go over and over again to certain points in our lives, rewrite time and all that?
*I don't know, Charles.* Charles wondered, not for the first time, how old Old Charles really was. He seemed more tired than usual. *I don't know whether it would be a positive hereafter on a larger scale or not. Driving us all around in circles, pointing out all the places we went wrong....* He made a face. *I suppose it's a good thing, that you've been granted the opportunity to prevent some of the mistakes that I made. But at times I grow frightfully jealous of you. All the time that I wasted--you may well be the one who gets to enjoy it.*
And what then? asked Charles, less irked by the other Charles's jealousy than sympathetic. If I do get to enjoy all that time, well, won't you have enjoyed it, too? What with our being the same person, and all.
*I don't think so.* Old Charles shook his head. *When you grow to be my age...I don't think you'll be me at all.*
Charles frowned. What becomes of you then? Does your universe cease existing altogether, or does it go on while you're stuck in mine?
*Another excellent question,* said Old Charles, leaning back a bit in his wheelchair. His expression clouded for a moment, and Charles had the wildest urge to read his mind. It cleared after a moment, and Old Charles patted his hand once more before releasing it. *Don't worry about me,* he said. *I think you've got an exciting future ahead of you. I've been happy just to be a witness this time around.*
You don't get bored?
*Not at all. I do a great deal of thinking while you're busy with other things. Going over the past, thinking of things I might have done differently...I had an idea I've been pondering--at one point, it seemed unethical to me, but now, well. In the grand scheme of things, it seems less problematic than it once did to me.*
I shudder to think of what you've got in mind, Charles said, raising his eyebrows.
Old Charles laughed. *You needn't. Perhaps it's a decision you'll never have to face. You've changed so much already.* He hesitated, folding his hands in his lap. *Remember that you're not as alone as you think. You can ask for help. You don't have to make all the decisions yourself, and in fact you shouldn't. I think I forget that, sometimes. In the future.*
Lord, how can you possibly forget? Between you and Moira and Armando and Hank and all the rest of them, I'm amazed I get to make any decisions at all.
Old Charles laughed again even as his image dissipated, and Charles was abruptly ejected from the void and dropped into full consciousness, to the drafty bedroom in northern Illinois. He sighed. Evidently, Old Charles had weightier matters to ponder than, oh, the hereafter and the time-space continuum and the future of their lives. To be fair, being in this house had given Charles some preoccupations of his own. He had a sneaking suspicion he'd get no more sleep that night.
As quietly as he could, he pulled his wheelchair closer to the bed and maneuvered himself into it. Raven had said they had tea; he probably wouldn't be able to make himself any in their kitchen, but if they hadn't placed it too high up, he could at least see for himself what sort they had.
To his complete and utter shock, he wasn't the only person in the kitchen when he arrived. Erik sat at the table, his fingers steepled together on the table and that absurd goddamned helmet still on his head.
"Good Lord!" Charles exclaimed before remembering to lower his voice. "Do you actually sleep in that thing?"
Erik smiled wryly. "You assume I've done any sleeping tonight."
"An obviously false assumption." Charles wheeled himself closer to the table. It seemed the Brotherhood had enjoyed a roast of some sort for dinner; the smell still lingered around the counters and table. A teapot stood on the stove, while a mug, an old or empty one to judge by the lack of steam, stood in front of Erik's hands. "Well. Since you're awake anyway, could I trouble you for a cup of tea?"
Erik huffed out a laugh. "Since I'm awake anyway, I suppose." He pushed his chair back from the table and stretched, the movement causing his silly red shirt to ride up. Charles forced his eyes away to Erik's hands as he filled the teapot with water and put it back on the stove. This was not a notable improvement.
"I take it you had a productive talk with Mystique," Erik said over his shoulder. "She spent the rest of the night unsure whether to laugh or cry."
Charles hoped that was a good thing. "Mystique?" he said. "Not a Betty Friedan fan, then?"
"Hmm?" asked Erik with a frown.
"The Feminine Mystique? Book that came out this past February? It's about, oh, women's lib, and societal expectations for women and whatnot. The titular feminine mystique is this sort of widespread cultural norm making women feel they have to be housewives." Erik's baffled frown didn't dissipate. "Moira recommended it to me. It's quite interesting, actually--I should get Raven--Mystique, I suppose--a copy. I missed her birthday this year."
The frown was now more of a scowl. "Is Moira still at the mansion, then?"
"The school, yes. She wasn't for a while." There wasn't really any point in explaining about the memory-wiping thing, was there? Probably not. "She's back now, though. She's left the CIA, you know. She's been applying to graduate programs in biophysics, and helping out in the labs and with some administrative business around the school."
"Biophysics." Erik nodded slowly. "I see. I suppose it's a great help to her to have a doctor of genetics around. And a mutant, to boot."
"Mm-hmm. Less than you'd think, though. I suspect Moira's intellectual interests are altogether more practical than mine."
"Ah." Erik's mouth had flattened into a thin line. "Well. You still make for a nice couple either way."
Charles almost choked on his own spit. "Moira? And me? You must be joking. We wouldn't suit each other at all, and besides, she's dating the physics instructor."
Erik's expression didn't change, but some of the lines around his mouth lightened. Charles wasn't sure what to make of that--his carefully-studied understanding of facial expressions and emotional reactions tended to fall apart around Erik. "Which reminds me," Erik said, his voice still cool. "Miss Frost tells me you have several human instructors at your school."
"If by 'several' you mean 'four,' then yes."
"Why?"
Charles studied Erik's face. Once, he thought he'd been able to say the right thing to Erik at least part of the time. It hadn't ended well, though. "Well, I could tell you that Hank and I have very little experience teaching in the humanities, and that I don't know the first thing about teaching small children, which would be true. I could also tell you that the mutant population is as of yet only a sliver of the adult population of the United States and that of that sliver, only the tiniest of fractions is made up of qualified teachers--and I think I've hired them all--and that would also be true."
"But those aren't the real reason?" asked Erik, tilting his head slightly. It made him look a bit birdlike.
"They're real enough," said Charles with a shrug. "But honestly, I think it's also that I don't consider myself to be something separate from humanity. I'm not building a school so my students can spend the rest of their lives hanging about my house, I'm building it so that they can find a place for themselves in the world outside. They can't do that if they can't interact with humans and humans can't interact with them."
"And how have they accepted their mutant students?" The teakettle whistled; Erik removed it from the stove with a quick movement of his finger, cutting off the sound before it could wake anyone else.
Charles took a moment to admire his control before answering, "Quite well." Erik spoke as if he expected the worst, but then, many people did, so as not to be disappointed, and Erik had far more reason than most.
Erik smiled thinly. "And they're all like us are they, the students? With invisible mutations, ones that wouldn't cause a stir in polite company?"
Charles raised an eyebrow at him. "Erik, I'm not sure what exactly your experience with polite company is, but I can assure you that telepathy does, in fact, cause a stir. You try your floating teakettle trick at a cocktail party sometime and see what it gets you." Erik laughed at that, a short, sharp bark that still lifted Charles's spirits unaccountably. "Besides," he continued, "about half the students I have now haven't got invisible mutations at all. I've one I think you'd like to meet--her body's made of liquid metal. She can squeeze herself under doors. It's fantastic; she's almost as good at eavesdropping as I am."
"Quite an accomplishment indeed." Erik seemed to have relaxed some as he poured one cup of tea for Charles and then another, presumably for himself. His smile now was the toothier, more genuine one, a sign of humor rather than scorn.
"I'm sure Cessily would be pleased to hear you say that." He took a deep breath over his tea, taking in the warm steam. Perfect on a cold night. "So. Did your meeting go well this evening?
Erik shrugged, elaborately casual. "Well enough. I think you're likely to receive the assistance you've asked for." He sipped his own tea quietly and didn't meet Charles's eyes.
"Ah. Excellent." Charles wondered that Erik didn't feel the need to elaborate his answer more than that bare-bones statement, but it was likely he'd get more details in the morning. "If I might ask another question?"
The line of Erik's shoulders tensed. "Ask away."
"Do you honestly wear that helmet all the time? I would think Miss Frost would object." Charles certainly did. It was very odd indeed to pick up nothing, with no efforts at shielding at all, from a person sitting right in front of him. It made for an unsettling blank spot in his senses.
"Not all the time, no," said Erik flatly.
What did that mean? That he only put it on when Charles was about? As hurtful as that thought was, Charles didn't think that could be it--Erik had been wearing the helmet in the CIA's surveillance photos. So...did he only put it on when he was thinking especially important and private thoughts? When he was feeling emotions he didn't want anyone else to see? "All right," he said. "I actually thought I'd bring it up since--well, if you really are going to help with Cerebro and recruit from New York, your helmet might pose a practical difficulty."
"What, do you mean on planes?" Erik smiled, again that thin, sharp smile that wasn't really a smile at all. "I actually don't find myself going through airport security much at all these days."
Charles decided not to touch the questions that that raised. "That wasn't actually what I meant." He took another sip of his tea. "Only--there's a fair chance that some of the mutants you meet will be like me and Miss Frost. The fact that there are, in fact, at least two telepaths means there are probably more as well. One of my teachers, Miss Argosy, has an ability that resembles my own talent for mental manipulation; if it works on the same principles as telepathy, it's probably blocked by your helmet as well."
"Charles, what are you getting at?"
He looked down into his mug. "Well. I suppose I'm curious as to how you'll explain to them why you feel the need to keep something around to block telepathy and not, oh, teleportation, or controlling the weather, or what have you. What distinction do you make between the distrust and fear they'll get from humans and the distrust and fear they'll get from you?"
Erik set his mug down, the lines of his face harsh in the dim kitchen light. "Charles."
"I mean, I don't blame you," Charles went on, feeling stupid and inarticulate. "Everyone's got a right to privacy, after all. I suppose. Well, anyway, if they want privacy, I'm happy to give it. But from the perspective of ideological consistency, why would telepaths want to join a group that's interested in the pursuit of mutant liberation but doesn't trust its telepathic members?"
Erik shoved his chair away from the table and turned away from Charles, busying himself with something on the counter. "You are not a member of this group," he said.
"No," said Charles, deflated. "I suppose not." For all he knew, Erik trusted Emma Frost implicitly, invited her into his mind all the time. Stupid. He couldn't claim offense on behalf of all telepaths when the only other one he knew seemed to work with Erik with no problems.
"And while we're on the subject of ideology," said Erik, who was still facing the kitchen window, "what will you tell your students when a human outside of your walls hurts them? That no matter what's done to them, they have to forgive it with a smile on their face? That anything they should do to prevent themselves from being hurt again is worse than the original crime?"
Now Charles was lost. "What?"
"'Revenge will not bring you peace.' That's what you said, isn't it?" Erik turned around, glaring at Charles. "That's what this is all about, isn't it? You're angry that I wouldn't let you manipulate me into not killing Shaw."
"Manipulate--no, of course not!" Charles hadn't even thought of that, the way Sebastian Shaw had died. He'd been trying not to.
"And this is why your school is bound to fail in its purposes," Erik continued as if Charles hadn't even spoken. "The human world will trample your students under its feet, and you'll let it. You can't take both the side of the oppressor and the oppressed, Charles--you think it's fair, but it isn't, and it's how the oppressors gain power time and time again--when the good and the evenhanded people care more about fairness than justice."
"I'm glad you killed Shaw!" Charles shouted, and then immediately covered his mouth. "Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get so loud. I hope I haven't woken anybody."
Erik shook his head as if in disbelief, staring through narrowed eyes at Charles. "You're... glad."
Charles nodded and said, more quietly this time, "Yes, I'm glad. He was a sociopathic megalomaniac, and I don't believe for a second that anything but death could have stopped him. He'd probably have sunk the world in nuclear winter if he'd been allowed to go on. Just because I don't go about strangling people with pipes doesn't mean I'm a complete idiot."
"But then...." Erik frowned."Why...."
Charles had hoped he would never have to speak of this. He could never forget it, but he could tuck the memories away, put them where he wouldn't have to look at them. He'd always been a coward that way, though--sometimes you had to lance a wound, and sometimes you had to tell people the truth, regardless of how it would make them or you feel. "Look, Erik," he said, "I don't know why you thought I was directing you towards where Sebastian Shaw was hiding if not so you could kill him. But when--in the end--when you took the helmet from his head--it hurt."
Erik scoffed. "Don't be absurd. It doesn't hurt you not to be able to read somebody's mind. I have been working with a telepath for about a year now, you'll recall."
"No, you bastard, but it bloody well does hurt to have a coin shoved through your head!"
"I didn't--" All the color suddenly drained from Erik's face, and he swallowed slowly, looking like hit hurt him to do so. "You felt that?"
"Of course I fucking felt that! I didn't stop holding Shaw still for you when you put the damned helmet on--I was in there the whole time. He was strong--it took everything I had just to keep him still. We could have done it another way--we could have knocked him unconscious and killed him while he slept, I could have manipulated him into putting all that nuclear energy of his back in the generator and you could probably have killed him with your bare hands, you could have held him still yourself with all the metal in that room and strangled him with a damn pipe while I stayed out of it. But we didn't, because you couldn't do me the courtesy of waiting after the damn battle to decide you didn't trust me."
Erik wiped at his mouth. He looked a bit nauseated, but Charles had a hard time mustering up to much sympathy. "I didn't--I knew you could see and hear through Shaw, but I didn't know you felt his pain as well."
"Well, Christ," said Charles, "I thought you'd been working with a telepath for a year. Don't you know everything there is to know about the matter?"
It seemed Erik couldn't think up a response to that. Instead, he turned and paced up and down the length of the kitchen, his expression growing darker with every step. Charles had expected to feel satisfied, relieved, something along those lines, but instead he felt mostly drained. He wanted to go back to the guest room and drink the rest of his tea in silence and peace. "I'm sorry," he said. "It doesn't matter now, anyway. We can talk more in the morning." He turned his chair around to leave.
The wheels froze, stopped in place, and then the whole chair whirled about to face Erik so quickly it made Charles a bit sick. Erik was breathing hard, but with emotion, not exertion.
"You see, this--" he said, pointing his finger at Charles, "this is what I don't trust about you. If a man had done to me what I've done to you--shoot me, multiple times, apparently, paralyze me, abandon me, the only time we would ever meet again would be when I killed him. But you come to me with an invitation to your home--a school full of children, no less--and an offer to help me recruit more to my side. You sit in my kitchen and drink my tea and apologize for no reason. Wheelchair or no, you're not a weak man. You could have had your vengeance at any time, but you don't seem interested. Why? "
"Well," said Charles, taking a quick sip of tea to fortify himself. He wished he'd thought to ask Erik for a spot of brandy to pour into it. "I could tell you that I don't blame you--that it was an all an accident, and you didn't mean any of it to hurt me, which I think would be true. I could tell you that getting in touch with you is more or less the only way for me to speak with my sister, whom, despite all the damage we've done each other, I love very much. And that would be true. I could tell you that it's absurd for us to be at odds--it's not like the country's full of groups trying to achieve mutant visibility and equality, as far as I can tell it's just us, and someone had to make the first move. And that would also be true."
Some of the fire left Erik's eyes, and he sagged against the counter, looking exhausted. "But none of those is the real reason?" he said with a weary grin. "It seems we've had this conversation before."
Charles sighed. "That's one thing I have a hard time communicating to people who aren't telepaths. There's almost always more than one reason for why someone does something, and they're all real reasons." He rolled himself back up to the table and set his tea down. His breath felt tight in his chest. This was as brave as he'd ever been, he thought. "Did Raven happen to mention what we'd spoken about this evening?"
Erik frowned in confusion. "No."
"Well, then." Charles looked up, meeting Erik's eyes. They were still that lovely pale shade of grayish-blue, appropriately metallic. As ever, Charles couldn't read anything in them. "This is going to seem irrelevant, but I promise it's not."
"All right," said Erik dubiously.
"Here's the thing. I've only ever been in love once. Now, don't interrupt," said Charles, holding up a hand. Even without telepathy to help him, he could still see Erik's mouth opening to question him. "Like I said. I've done my share of flirting and dating and what have you, but I've only ever really been in love once." He took a deep breath and listened to it rush out as he exhaled. "And...and it wasn't with a woman. And it wasn't with a human."
"Hank, was it?" said Erik in the deadpan tones of the straight man in a comedy duo. "Perhaps being attracted to him is an Xavier family trait."
Charles was startled into laughter. "No, no, it wasn't Hank, though he's a dear friend." Erik grinned crookedly at him, and Charles huffed out another laugh before steeling himself for the next bit. "Do you want me to...do I need to say who it was?"
Erik's grin faded. "No. No, I think I've got it." He bit his lower lip, looking as vulnerable as Charles had seen him since they'd parted ways. "I didn't know you were...."
"No reason you should, since I never mentioned it. Now, you don't need to worry. I'm not going to...to hit on you, or bother you about it or anything. I don't expect anything of you, and I'm not a pervert."
"Never thought you were," said Erik in a low voice.
"But I...." He thought of how sad Old Charles had been when they'd spoken earlier, and no bloody wonder. He couldn't bear the thought of himself and Erik, meeting up rarely and mistrusting each other when they did, always getting in each other's way and spoiling each other's plans, more like enemies with a past than friends. And the thought that they might actually try to kill each other was so horrific it went past pain into a sort of terrible nothingness, like a sinkhole or a mask with no face behind it or that moment in Cuba after he realized he'd been shot in the back but before it had begun to hurt. "Look," he said, "All I'd like is for us to be friends."
"Friends," said Erik with a snort. "Charles Xavier, I don't think I've ever met anyone else like you."
Charles tried a smile. "Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?"
"I'll let you know as soon as I figure it out." He sat back down at the table at last and, of all things, reached out to grasp Charles's hand. "You're the best friend I've ever had, and I'd probably trust you more if I liked you less."
"I don't really know what to say to that," said Charles. He barely understood it, distracted as he was by the warmth of Erik's rough and slender hand around his own. He hoped it wasn't a farewell.
"You don't have to say anything." Erik gripped his hand once, tightly, before letting go and standing up again. "Well. I understand that you've gotten some sleep tonight, but I haven't, and it's been a long day. I'll see you in the morning."
"Right," said Charles, blindsided still. "Good night."
"Good night." Erik left the room with one last nod in Charles's direction, and Charles listened to him go up the creaking stairs and walk down the hall, his footsteps not heavy but solid.
Well, he said to Old Charles, I don't suppose you've been listening and can tell me whether you think I've utterly fucked it up forever. I really wouldn't mind having someone to talk to right about now.
Whether Old Charles wasn't interested in talking or had simply checked out to his mysterious haunts, he didn't say anything, and Charles was left to finish his tea alone in the kitchen, nervous but strangely light, as if a burden he had carried for a long time had finally been set down.
**
Breakfast the next morning felt like nothing so much as an extremely awkward family reunion, with all nine of them crammed around the far too-small table. Armando tried gamely to make conversation while Angel stared at him as if she were afraid he'd disappear at any moment. Sean ate like a horse and looked dubiously at Azazel and Quested--Janos, it turned out was his given name--while they looked dubiously at Charles and wondered if he was planning some unpleasant trick for them. Emma responded to Armando's efforts at conversation with cool politeness, sounding like someone's maiden aunt. Erik focused on nothing but his plate; Raven seemed more inclined to steal things off of Charles's plate. Charles had been pleased to note that Raven had come downstairs that morning wearing actual clothes--to be sure, the neckline of her red dress was quite low and the skirt quite short, but still, clothes!
"That's a lovely dress, Raven," he said as she stabbed one of his breakfast potatoes with her fork. Then the thought occurred to him--"Wait. Would you prefer Mystique?" He'd been thinking of her as 'Raven' this whole time, but Erik and Old Charles had consistently called her by the other name.
She gave him a long, studying look before saying, "Nah. It'd just sound weird coming from you." She ate her ill-gotten gains before saying, "I'm getting really good at just doing clothes without changing my shape." Her body rippled somewhat, clothes and all, and the red dress was suddenly the same yellow as her eyes. Charles clapped appreciatively.
Angel tore her gaze from Armando for a moment to roll her eyes at Raven and say, "Show off."
Raven stuck out her tongue in Angel's direction before grinning at Charles. "I thought I'd throw a bone to your stodgy old man ways for the morning."
"My stodgy old man ways are very grateful," he said, stealing a piece of toast off her place in retaliation for the potato. "You look a picture."
"But a picture of what?" They shared a smile. It was an old joke between them.
It's been weird not to have you around this past year, said Raven. It had been years since she'd projected a thought at Charles, and the message echoed, immensely loud, in his head. This isn't an invitation to read my mind, she added firmly with an undercurrent of suspicion.
I didn't take it as one. Charles had almost forgotten what Raven's thoughts felt like in his head. They weren't like other people's; Raven had been the first person to have an actual telepathic conversation with Charles, and his pathetic gratitude at having someone so interested in talking to him, her own eagerness to share her strangeness with another person and to have someone in her life that she trusted, had left a permanent impression in the way his mind received her. Charles didn't realize how long he had been missing it.
I'd never been without you that long, not even when you went away to school. It hurt. Sometimes I had to tell myself I hated you just so I wouldn't go find a pay phone and call you.. Charles wondered if anyone else around them had noticed that Raven's expression hadn't changed at all in over a minute; he wagered Emma Frost had. He was pretty well-shielded as it was, but he reinforced his defenses and tried to picture shields around Raven's mind, as well, so that they could talk in peace.
I'm sorry, said Charles, and then, because it seemed as if mutual confessions of emotion accomplished much more than the calm unaffectedness he often attempted in such situations, he added, I got so angry. I've never been so angry with you in my life, and I hated it. If you had called, I probably would have just made stupid, incoherent noises at you over the phone.
Raven laughed, and Erik looked strangely at her. It seemed as if Azazel and Armando had finally gotten a conversation going, about politics, which was nice. It distracted the rest of the table from Charles and Raven. Maybe it wouldn't have worked between us even if you liked girls, Raven said. You never were good at talking about stuff.
No, Charles agreed.
Do you have a boyfriend? Her voice was elaborately casual. You'd still call it a boyfriend if it were two guys, right?
Charles just barely restrained himself from doing something immature like rolling his eyes at her. Yes, he said, in between learning how to get dressed again and starting a school for children with super powers, I got myself a boyfriend. We go out to dinner every night and then go to the theater on the weekends.
You should. The firmness of it surprised Charles. You shouldn't have to hide.
He could feel himself flush and covered it up by stuffing his face with toast. Well, none of us should have to hide, in a perfect world. When he looked up again, Raven was smiling at him, soft, as Charles hadn't seen her smile in years. Her smile gave him the courage to ask, Is it all right, then? Do you think we can just be brother and sister?
Probably healthier that way, she said, helping herself to some more orange juice from the carton in the center of the table. Give me some time, but yeah, I think I can handle that. I got over loving you. I can get over hating you, too.
Wonderful, said Charles, and he reached over to pat her hand as he might have done a year or so ago. She snorted but let him.
"All right," said Erik, pushing his chair back from the table. "Enough chit-chat. Let's get down to business."
Charles could get down to business with the best of them, so he took his hand back from Raven, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and met Erik's hard stare full on.
The jist of what they hammered out was this: rebuilding Cerebro wouldn't be done in a day, a week, or probably even a month, and the Brotherhood couldn't spend an indefinite amount of time fiddling with telepathy amplifiers; they were quite busy with...something. Whatever they did, which Charles was not going to be allowed to know. They were, however, interested in helping. So Charles, Sean, and Armando would go back to New York to begin the work, finding the space and getting the plans together and getting the contractors to build a room, either in the basement or as a side-building. Erik and Raven and possibly some of the others would come up to the Institute in January, while the children were on winter holidays, and they would get as much of the work as they could done then.
When the term started up again, the faculty would continue to fine-tune while the Brotherhood obtained any specialized equipment or parts they might require. (Charles decided it was probably best not to ask whether these things would be obtained legally or not.) When Cerebro was finished and it had been tested to both parties' satisfaction, Charles would train Emma on how it worked and they would gather recruitment data. Should the Brotherhood require further data at a later time, they would request permission to come to the school to gather it, on the understanding that Charles would grant such permission, barring extraordinary reasons not to do so.
Probably they would quarrel over just what "extraordinary" meant. Probably Azazel and Janos, who still didn't trust Charles as far as they could throw him, would raise various objections when it came to doing the actual work. Probably unforeseen troubles would disturb the equilibrium between their groups in the days to come. For the time being, though, both parties were satisfied and Charles was quite content.
Their airplane tickets were for early in the afternoon, so as soon as they'd discussed every detail to death, it became necessary for Sean, Armando and Charles to gather their things and get back on the road in an efficient manner. It went quickly, as they hadn't brought much, and Angel and Raven were willing to help them carry the few things they'd brought. It was surreal, really--Charles's last memories of Raven were wretched blurs of pain and regret, while Sean and Armando both had extremely ambivalent recollections of Angel, and yet, here they all were, exchanging pleasantries and handing each other suitcases. If Charles had been anything of a writer, he thought the whole thing might have made a funny short story à la James Thurber.
Charles wasn't much use carrying things to the car, unless Erik were willing to ferry him up and down the stairs as needed, so he sat on the porch and watched his sister and his first recruits have their little reunion. It was a shame Alex and Hank hadn't been able to make the trip, he thought. His left leg twitched and he rubbed at his calf and knee. He really was going to regret all this cramped traveling, he thought.
It was at that point that a mind abruptly winked into existence, and Charles jerked back in his chair so hard he thought he might have pulled something in his neck.
From behind him, Erik's voice said, "Well. If I ever need to distract you, I've got a pretty good idea how to do it."
Charles wheeled himself around almost frantically to see Erik, standing in the front door and holding the helmet in his hands in front of himself.
"Erik," said Charles, and then, like an idiot, he couldn't think of anything else to say. Erik's mind was like--it was like the sun had suddenly appeared in the middle of the night. Even through Charles's hastily-deployed shields, he could feel the other mind's presence and warmth. Charles didn't remember Erik's mind being this overwhelming, but then, it had been over a year since he'd last felt it, and there were precious few other minds out here to distract him.
"Charles," said Erik, twisting his mouth in a wry almost-smile. He shifted the helmet to one hand and reached out his other for Charles to shake. "Have a safe trip," he said.
They shook hands, and Charles nodded, still a bit dazed. "Thanks very much. I'll see you in January, then?"
"January," Erik said. He paused for a moment, peering at Charles as if he had something written on his forehead, before saying, "Charles. I'm not sure that I'm really the kind of man made for...love." He tapped his head, as if in invitation, and Charles peeked quickly, careful not to intrude where he wasn't wanted or overstay his welcome.
He liked to think he'd learned something from the first go-round with Erik.
Erik's mind now was like a labyrinth of carefully-constructed metal corridors, but in the first room Charles came across was this: I don't mean with you I don't mean because you're homosexual (That means nothing to me and I don't think the less of you for it) I mean because there is only so much I can lose before there is nothing left and I have only now started to find things I do not wish to lose.
Charles pulled out. "I understand," he said, and it wasn't hard to find a smile for Erik.
"Of course," said Erik. "I've been known to be wrong about that sort of thing before." He squeezed Charles's hand once more before turning and going back into the house, sending Charles down the steps with a flick of one hand. He hadn't gone three or four steps before he put the helmet back on. It was like dousing a bright fire in Charles's mind, but Charles found he had no complaints.
The car was ready to go. While Sean and Armando exchanged stilted farewells with Angel, Charles looked up at Raven. "You'll write this time, won't you?"
Raven shrank down--not into a child, but into a perfect, miniaturized version of herself--in order to look Charles in the eye. "Yeah," she said. "I think we've got a P.O. box--I'll send you the address."
"Good," said Charles. "I owe you a birthday card."
She laughed. "Sure, you're only, what, three months late. Is it okay if I just give you two presents on your next birthday?"
Charles reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I'll see you in January--I'll just count that as an early birthday-slash-late Christmas present."
"You're such a cornball, Charles." She leaned over to wrap her arms around his neck. Her scales were rough against his face, and he imagined that his stubble was rather rough on hers, but neither of them pulled away.
"You're all right here?" Charles said softly. "You're happy, right?"
Raven breathed out, leaving a warm spot on Charles's collar, and pulled back so she could look him straight on again. "Yeah," she said. She had innumerable faces, and Charles had practiced reading a lot of them, but he liked to think that her true face was the one he could read best, and that he could see the truth of her words in the steadiness of her eyes and the thoughtful set of her mouth. "I think so. You?"
Charles nodded. It was a bit like when Alex and Sean had left for college, he thought. Painful, but in a good way. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I am."
"You ready to go, Professor?" asked Armando hesitantly.
Raven grew again to her regular height and stepped away, going to stand over next to Angel in front of the porch steps. Charles nodded. "Yes," he said. "I'm ready."
When they'd gotten out of sight of the safe house, Armando sighed in relief and said, "I gotta say, that went a lot better than I expected it to."
"I guess," said Sean. "That Azazel guy still freaks me the hell out, though."
Charles tuned them out and listened to the growing rush of minds as they got closer to the city. His own mind felt strangely empty, despite the warmth of his emotions, as if a small corner of it had been hollowed out. Old Charles was silent the entirety of the drive, and then the entirety of the flight. Maybe that meant something. Maybe it didn't. It seemed that everything over the last few days had been grand and significant, but some things--the flat airplane soda, the sound of a small child laughing two rows behind Charles, Sean and Armando's friendly debate about whether Johnny Cash could sing or not--were comforting in their smallness. Charles settled into his seat and pictured Moira and Alex at the airport, waiting to pick them up. He was ready to go home.
THE END
Notes:
The title comes from Charles Dicken's "A Christmas Carol." Which I guess makes Old Charles the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.
The Buchanan mentioned by Hank and Charles is Joseph Rodes Buchanan, a physiologist in the nineteenth century who's credited with coining the term "pyschometry." From his Manual of psychometry: the dawn of a new civilization: "We should bear in mind, that all the co-operations and correlations of mind and matter, are intrinsically wonderful, but are governed by definite laws, and that these laws, when discovered, must seem, at first, no less wonderful and mysterious than the nature of the mind itself." Buchanan seemed like the kind of author that Charles (this version, anyway) might have sought out when trying to understand his telepathy scientifically.
In Boston, Armando and Charles are (very vaguely) discussing the events of June 11th, 1963, when Governor George Wallace of Alabama protested integration in the door of the University of Alabama, and June 12th, 1963, when WWII veteran and civil rights activist Medgar Evers was murdered.
"Message to the Grass Roots" was a speech Malcolm X gave at the Northern Negro Grass Roots Leadership conference on November 10, 1963. The bit Armando quotes is a bit that goes, "You don't have a peaceful revolution. You don't have a turn-the-other-cheek revolution. There's no such thing as a nonviolent revolution."
Yasuo Takiguchi is based on the Marvel character Yuriko Takiguchi. Since it's my understanding that Yuriko is generally a woman's name, besides already being Lady Deathstrike's name, and since about the only thing he had in common with the Marvel character was that they were both robotics engineers, I decided to go ahead and rename him. Alicia Downing, Rachel Argosy (aka Rhapsody), Cessily Kincaid (aka Mercury), and Barnell Bohusk (aka Beak) are Marvel characters I found while hanging around on Wikipedia; Jennifer Honey is from Matilda by Roald Dahl, but come on, she'd be a great choice to teach young mutants!
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
In the middle of the night, Charles was awoken by a thought, and he sat straight up in his bed. It took a moment to remember where he was; when he did, he turned his head to take comfort from the sight of Sean, who'd fallen asleep despite his best intentions. In the room across the hall, Armando, too, had given into the exhaustion that came from travel and the tension that came from meeting with the Brotherhood. In fact, as far as Charles could tell, there wasn't a soul awake in this house, or for at least ten miles in any direction.
The thought must have come from inside, then.
Old Charles? he asked tentatively.
Old Charles didn't tend to show himself as an image very often--both of them were too well acquainted with mind-to-mind communication to need the illusion of a face. But suddenly, it was as if they were sitting across from each other, and he was staring into Old Charles's familiar weathered face.
This is quite nice, he offered. This illusion. I didn't know you could do this. Is it only with me?
One corner of Old Charles's mouth quirked in a self-deprecating little grin. *I can't actually do this,* he said. *You're still partly asleep--your subconscious is supplying most of the imagery.*
Do you know, my psychology professors would have had a field day with us.
Old Charles's smile grew a bit, but he said nothing. Charles took the opportunity to study his future self's face. It was a shame about the hair, he thought, and wondered when he'd start to lose it. He put less stock in personal appearances these days, and perhaps a receding hairline would even make him look more dignified, but still. From the fact that Old Charles still pictured himself in a wheelchair, Charles guessed that doctors wouldn't cure paralysis in however many years he had left to live. Well. If he had to grow into a bald, paralyzed old man, he supposed there were worse ways to go than to become Old Charles.
*I've always thought I knew myself rather well,* said Old Charles, startling Charles out of his contemplation.
Hmm?
*As I said. Between the understanding of others' minds from telepathy, and the psychology degree and all that...I thought I knew myself.* It was strange to see the rueful expression on Old Charles's face. For so long, he'd been only a strange, inexplicable voice. *But coming here, talking with you....* He sighed. *I think I've become more bitter than I realized, over the years. More set in my ways.*
Well, that's old men for you, said Charles, unsure.
Old Charles nodded. *Yes, I suppose so.* His eyes lost their focus, staring at something that must only have existed in an unfamiliar corner of Charles's mind. *It's so strange. I remember almost every day that I spent with Raven. But I had forgotten the feelings that went with the memories. The love we bore each other. It was easy to forget, in the end.*
Charles reached across the undefined divide and grasped his older self's hand. It was only a psychic projection, he knew, a figment of his imagination reaching out to a ghost that haunted his mind, but he hoped it was still capable of offering Old Charles comfort. The earlier encounter with Raven had left him feeling softer and more exposed than usual. That's dreadful, he said. I'm so sorry.
Old Charles covered Charles's hand with his own. *Thank you, my dear boy,* he said, the distant expression changing once again into a smile. *If death is inevitable, this isn't a bad way to spend the afterlife, I suppose.*
Do you think this is what happens when everyone dies? asked Charles. Do you suppose we just go over and over again to certain points in our lives, rewrite time and all that?
*I don't know, Charles.* Charles wondered, not for the first time, how old Old Charles really was. He seemed more tired than usual. *I don't know whether it would be a positive hereafter on a larger scale or not. Driving us all around in circles, pointing out all the places we went wrong....* He made a face. *I suppose it's a good thing, that you've been granted the opportunity to prevent some of the mistakes that I made. But at times I grow frightfully jealous of you. All the time that I wasted--you may well be the one who gets to enjoy it.*
And what then? asked Charles, less irked by the other Charles's jealousy than sympathetic. If I do get to enjoy all that time, well, won't you have enjoyed it, too? What with our being the same person, and all.
*I don't think so.* Old Charles shook his head. *When you grow to be my age...I don't think you'll be me at all.*
Charles frowned. What becomes of you then? Does your universe cease existing altogether, or does it go on while you're stuck in mine?
*Another excellent question,* said Old Charles, leaning back a bit in his wheelchair. His expression clouded for a moment, and Charles had the wildest urge to read his mind. It cleared after a moment, and Old Charles patted his hand once more before releasing it. *Don't worry about me,* he said. *I think you've got an exciting future ahead of you. I've been happy just to be a witness this time around.*
You don't get bored?
*Not at all. I do a great deal of thinking while you're busy with other things. Going over the past, thinking of things I might have done differently...I had an idea I've been pondering--at one point, it seemed unethical to me, but now, well. In the grand scheme of things, it seems less problematic than it once did to me.*
I shudder to think of what you've got in mind, Charles said, raising his eyebrows.
Old Charles laughed. *You needn't. Perhaps it's a decision you'll never have to face. You've changed so much already.* He hesitated, folding his hands in his lap. *Remember that you're not as alone as you think. You can ask for help. You don't have to make all the decisions yourself, and in fact you shouldn't. I think I forget that, sometimes. In the future.*
Lord, how can you possibly forget? Between you and Moira and Armando and Hank and all the rest of them, I'm amazed I get to make any decisions at all.
Old Charles laughed again even as his image dissipated, and Charles was abruptly ejected from the void and dropped into full consciousness, to the drafty bedroom in northern Illinois. He sighed. Evidently, Old Charles had weightier matters to ponder than, oh, the hereafter and the time-space continuum and the future of their lives. To be fair, being in this house had given Charles some preoccupations of his own. He had a sneaking suspicion he'd get no more sleep that night.
As quietly as he could, he pulled his wheelchair closer to the bed and maneuvered himself into it. Raven had said they had tea; he probably wouldn't be able to make himself any in their kitchen, but if they hadn't placed it too high up, he could at least see for himself what sort they had.
To his complete and utter shock, he wasn't the only person in the kitchen when he arrived. Erik sat at the table, his fingers steepled together on the table and that absurd goddamned helmet still on his head.
"Good Lord!" Charles exclaimed before remembering to lower his voice. "Do you actually sleep in that thing?"
Erik smiled wryly. "You assume I've done any sleeping tonight."
"An obviously false assumption." Charles wheeled himself closer to the table. It seemed the Brotherhood had enjoyed a roast of some sort for dinner; the smell still lingered around the counters and table. A teapot stood on the stove, while a mug, an old or empty one to judge by the lack of steam, stood in front of Erik's hands. "Well. Since you're awake anyway, could I trouble you for a cup of tea?"
Erik huffed out a laugh. "Since I'm awake anyway, I suppose." He pushed his chair back from the table and stretched, the movement causing his silly red shirt to ride up. Charles forced his eyes away to Erik's hands as he filled the teapot with water and put it back on the stove. This was not a notable improvement.
"I take it you had a productive talk with Mystique," Erik said over his shoulder. "She spent the rest of the night unsure whether to laugh or cry."
Charles hoped that was a good thing. "Mystique?" he said. "Not a Betty Friedan fan, then?"
"Hmm?" asked Erik with a frown.
"The Feminine Mystique? Book that came out this past February? It's about, oh, women's lib, and societal expectations for women and whatnot. The titular feminine mystique is this sort of widespread cultural norm making women feel they have to be housewives." Erik's baffled frown didn't dissipate. "Moira recommended it to me. It's quite interesting, actually--I should get Raven--Mystique, I suppose--a copy. I missed her birthday this year."
The frown was now more of a scowl. "Is Moira still at the mansion, then?"
"The school, yes. She wasn't for a while." There wasn't really any point in explaining about the memory-wiping thing, was there? Probably not. "She's back now, though. She's left the CIA, you know. She's been applying to graduate programs in biophysics, and helping out in the labs and with some administrative business around the school."
"Biophysics." Erik nodded slowly. "I see. I suppose it's a great help to her to have a doctor of genetics around. And a mutant, to boot."
"Mm-hmm. Less than you'd think, though. I suspect Moira's intellectual interests are altogether more practical than mine."
"Ah." Erik's mouth had flattened into a thin line. "Well. You still make for a nice couple either way."
Charles almost choked on his own spit. "Moira? And me? You must be joking. We wouldn't suit each other at all, and besides, she's dating the physics instructor."
Erik's expression didn't change, but some of the lines around his mouth lightened. Charles wasn't sure what to make of that--his carefully-studied understanding of facial expressions and emotional reactions tended to fall apart around Erik. "Which reminds me," Erik said, his voice still cool. "Miss Frost tells me you have several human instructors at your school."
"If by 'several' you mean 'four,' then yes."
"Why?"
Charles studied Erik's face. Once, he thought he'd been able to say the right thing to Erik at least part of the time. It hadn't ended well, though. "Well, I could tell you that Hank and I have very little experience teaching in the humanities, and that I don't know the first thing about teaching small children, which would be true. I could also tell you that the mutant population is as of yet only a sliver of the adult population of the United States and that of that sliver, only the tiniest of fractions is made up of qualified teachers--and I think I've hired them all--and that would also be true."
"But those aren't the real reason?" asked Erik, tilting his head slightly. It made him look a bit birdlike.
"They're real enough," said Charles with a shrug. "But honestly, I think it's also that I don't consider myself to be something separate from humanity. I'm not building a school so my students can spend the rest of their lives hanging about my house, I'm building it so that they can find a place for themselves in the world outside. They can't do that if they can't interact with humans and humans can't interact with them."
"And how have they accepted their mutant students?" The teakettle whistled; Erik removed it from the stove with a quick movement of his finger, cutting off the sound before it could wake anyone else.
Charles took a moment to admire his control before answering, "Quite well." Erik spoke as if he expected the worst, but then, many people did, so as not to be disappointed, and Erik had far more reason than most.
Erik smiled thinly. "And they're all like us are they, the students? With invisible mutations, ones that wouldn't cause a stir in polite company?"
Charles raised an eyebrow at him. "Erik, I'm not sure what exactly your experience with polite company is, but I can assure you that telepathy does, in fact, cause a stir. You try your floating teakettle trick at a cocktail party sometime and see what it gets you." Erik laughed at that, a short, sharp bark that still lifted Charles's spirits unaccountably. "Besides," he continued, "about half the students I have now haven't got invisible mutations at all. I've one I think you'd like to meet--her body's made of liquid metal. She can squeeze herself under doors. It's fantastic; she's almost as good at eavesdropping as I am."
"Quite an accomplishment indeed." Erik seemed to have relaxed some as he poured one cup of tea for Charles and then another, presumably for himself. His smile now was the toothier, more genuine one, a sign of humor rather than scorn.
"I'm sure Cessily would be pleased to hear you say that." He took a deep breath over his tea, taking in the warm steam. Perfect on a cold night. "So. Did your meeting go well this evening?
Erik shrugged, elaborately casual. "Well enough. I think you're likely to receive the assistance you've asked for." He sipped his own tea quietly and didn't meet Charles's eyes.
"Ah. Excellent." Charles wondered that Erik didn't feel the need to elaborate his answer more than that bare-bones statement, but it was likely he'd get more details in the morning. "If I might ask another question?"
The line of Erik's shoulders tensed. "Ask away."
"Do you honestly wear that helmet all the time? I would think Miss Frost would object." Charles certainly did. It was very odd indeed to pick up nothing, with no efforts at shielding at all, from a person sitting right in front of him. It made for an unsettling blank spot in his senses.
"Not all the time, no," said Erik flatly.
What did that mean? That he only put it on when Charles was about? As hurtful as that thought was, Charles didn't think that could be it--Erik had been wearing the helmet in the CIA's surveillance photos. So...did he only put it on when he was thinking especially important and private thoughts? When he was feeling emotions he didn't want anyone else to see? "All right," he said. "I actually thought I'd bring it up since--well, if you really are going to help with Cerebro and recruit from New York, your helmet might pose a practical difficulty."
"What, do you mean on planes?" Erik smiled, again that thin, sharp smile that wasn't really a smile at all. "I actually don't find myself going through airport security much at all these days."
Charles decided not to touch the questions that that raised. "That wasn't actually what I meant." He took another sip of his tea. "Only--there's a fair chance that some of the mutants you meet will be like me and Miss Frost. The fact that there are, in fact, at least two telepaths means there are probably more as well. One of my teachers, Miss Argosy, has an ability that resembles my own talent for mental manipulation; if it works on the same principles as telepathy, it's probably blocked by your helmet as well."
"Charles, what are you getting at?"
He looked down into his mug. "Well. I suppose I'm curious as to how you'll explain to them why you feel the need to keep something around to block telepathy and not, oh, teleportation, or controlling the weather, or what have you. What distinction do you make between the distrust and fear they'll get from humans and the distrust and fear they'll get from you?"
Erik set his mug down, the lines of his face harsh in the dim kitchen light. "Charles."
"I mean, I don't blame you," Charles went on, feeling stupid and inarticulate. "Everyone's got a right to privacy, after all. I suppose. Well, anyway, if they want privacy, I'm happy to give it. But from the perspective of ideological consistency, why would telepaths want to join a group that's interested in the pursuit of mutant liberation but doesn't trust its telepathic members?"
Erik shoved his chair away from the table and turned away from Charles, busying himself with something on the counter. "You are not a member of this group," he said.
"No," said Charles, deflated. "I suppose not." For all he knew, Erik trusted Emma Frost implicitly, invited her into his mind all the time. Stupid. He couldn't claim offense on behalf of all telepaths when the only other one he knew seemed to work with Erik with no problems.
"And while we're on the subject of ideology," said Erik, who was still facing the kitchen window, "what will you tell your students when a human outside of your walls hurts them? That no matter what's done to them, they have to forgive it with a smile on their face? That anything they should do to prevent themselves from being hurt again is worse than the original crime?"
Now Charles was lost. "What?"
"'Revenge will not bring you peace.' That's what you said, isn't it?" Erik turned around, glaring at Charles. "That's what this is all about, isn't it? You're angry that I wouldn't let you manipulate me into not killing Shaw."
"Manipulate--no, of course not!" Charles hadn't even thought of that, the way Sebastian Shaw had died. He'd been trying not to.
"And this is why your school is bound to fail in its purposes," Erik continued as if Charles hadn't even spoken. "The human world will trample your students under its feet, and you'll let it. You can't take both the side of the oppressor and the oppressed, Charles--you think it's fair, but it isn't, and it's how the oppressors gain power time and time again--when the good and the evenhanded people care more about fairness than justice."
"I'm glad you killed Shaw!" Charles shouted, and then immediately covered his mouth. "Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get so loud. I hope I haven't woken anybody."
Erik shook his head as if in disbelief, staring through narrowed eyes at Charles. "You're... glad."
Charles nodded and said, more quietly this time, "Yes, I'm glad. He was a sociopathic megalomaniac, and I don't believe for a second that anything but death could have stopped him. He'd probably have sunk the world in nuclear winter if he'd been allowed to go on. Just because I don't go about strangling people with pipes doesn't mean I'm a complete idiot."
"But then...." Erik frowned."Why...."
Charles had hoped he would never have to speak of this. He could never forget it, but he could tuck the memories away, put them where he wouldn't have to look at them. He'd always been a coward that way, though--sometimes you had to lance a wound, and sometimes you had to tell people the truth, regardless of how it would make them or you feel. "Look, Erik," he said, "I don't know why you thought I was directing you towards where Sebastian Shaw was hiding if not so you could kill him. But when--in the end--when you took the helmet from his head--it hurt."
Erik scoffed. "Don't be absurd. It doesn't hurt you not to be able to read somebody's mind. I have been working with a telepath for about a year now, you'll recall."
"No, you bastard, but it bloody well does hurt to have a coin shoved through your head!"
"I didn't--" All the color suddenly drained from Erik's face, and he swallowed slowly, looking like hit hurt him to do so. "You felt that?"
"Of course I fucking felt that! I didn't stop holding Shaw still for you when you put the damned helmet on--I was in there the whole time. He was strong--it took everything I had just to keep him still. We could have done it another way--we could have knocked him unconscious and killed him while he slept, I could have manipulated him into putting all that nuclear energy of his back in the generator and you could probably have killed him with your bare hands, you could have held him still yourself with all the metal in that room and strangled him with a damn pipe while I stayed out of it. But we didn't, because you couldn't do me the courtesy of waiting after the damn battle to decide you didn't trust me."
Erik wiped at his mouth. He looked a bit nauseated, but Charles had a hard time mustering up to much sympathy. "I didn't--I knew you could see and hear through Shaw, but I didn't know you felt his pain as well."
"Well, Christ," said Charles, "I thought you'd been working with a telepath for a year. Don't you know everything there is to know about the matter?"
It seemed Erik couldn't think up a response to that. Instead, he turned and paced up and down the length of the kitchen, his expression growing darker with every step. Charles had expected to feel satisfied, relieved, something along those lines, but instead he felt mostly drained. He wanted to go back to the guest room and drink the rest of his tea in silence and peace. "I'm sorry," he said. "It doesn't matter now, anyway. We can talk more in the morning." He turned his chair around to leave.
The wheels froze, stopped in place, and then the whole chair whirled about to face Erik so quickly it made Charles a bit sick. Erik was breathing hard, but with emotion, not exertion.
"You see, this--" he said, pointing his finger at Charles, "this is what I don't trust about you. If a man had done to me what I've done to you--shoot me, multiple times, apparently, paralyze me, abandon me, the only time we would ever meet again would be when I killed him. But you come to me with an invitation to your home--a school full of children, no less--and an offer to help me recruit more to my side. You sit in my kitchen and drink my tea and apologize for no reason. Wheelchair or no, you're not a weak man. You could have had your vengeance at any time, but you don't seem interested. Why? "
"Well," said Charles, taking a quick sip of tea to fortify himself. He wished he'd thought to ask Erik for a spot of brandy to pour into it. "I could tell you that I don't blame you--that it was an all an accident, and you didn't mean any of it to hurt me, which I think would be true. I could tell you that getting in touch with you is more or less the only way for me to speak with my sister, whom, despite all the damage we've done each other, I love very much. And that would be true. I could tell you that it's absurd for us to be at odds--it's not like the country's full of groups trying to achieve mutant visibility and equality, as far as I can tell it's just us, and someone had to make the first move. And that would also be true."
Some of the fire left Erik's eyes, and he sagged against the counter, looking exhausted. "But none of those is the real reason?" he said with a weary grin. "It seems we've had this conversation before."
Charles sighed. "That's one thing I have a hard time communicating to people who aren't telepaths. There's almost always more than one reason for why someone does something, and they're all real reasons." He rolled himself back up to the table and set his tea down. His breath felt tight in his chest. This was as brave as he'd ever been, he thought. "Did Raven happen to mention what we'd spoken about this evening?"
Erik frowned in confusion. "No."
"Well, then." Charles looked up, meeting Erik's eyes. They were still that lovely pale shade of grayish-blue, appropriately metallic. As ever, Charles couldn't read anything in them. "This is going to seem irrelevant, but I promise it's not."
"All right," said Erik dubiously.
"Here's the thing. I've only ever been in love once. Now, don't interrupt," said Charles, holding up a hand. Even without telepathy to help him, he could still see Erik's mouth opening to question him. "Like I said. I've done my share of flirting and dating and what have you, but I've only ever really been in love once." He took a deep breath and listened to it rush out as he exhaled. "And...and it wasn't with a woman. And it wasn't with a human."
"Hank, was it?" said Erik in the deadpan tones of the straight man in a comedy duo. "Perhaps being attracted to him is an Xavier family trait."
Charles was startled into laughter. "No, no, it wasn't Hank, though he's a dear friend." Erik grinned crookedly at him, and Charles huffed out another laugh before steeling himself for the next bit. "Do you want me to...do I need to say who it was?"
Erik's grin faded. "No. No, I think I've got it." He bit his lower lip, looking as vulnerable as Charles had seen him since they'd parted ways. "I didn't know you were...."
"No reason you should, since I never mentioned it. Now, you don't need to worry. I'm not going to...to hit on you, or bother you about it or anything. I don't expect anything of you, and I'm not a pervert."
"Never thought you were," said Erik in a low voice.
"But I...." He thought of how sad Old Charles had been when they'd spoken earlier, and no bloody wonder. He couldn't bear the thought of himself and Erik, meeting up rarely and mistrusting each other when they did, always getting in each other's way and spoiling each other's plans, more like enemies with a past than friends. And the thought that they might actually try to kill each other was so horrific it went past pain into a sort of terrible nothingness, like a sinkhole or a mask with no face behind it or that moment in Cuba after he realized he'd been shot in the back but before it had begun to hurt. "Look," he said, "All I'd like is for us to be friends."
"Friends," said Erik with a snort. "Charles Xavier, I don't think I've ever met anyone else like you."
Charles tried a smile. "Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?"
"I'll let you know as soon as I figure it out." He sat back down at the table at last and, of all things, reached out to grasp Charles's hand. "You're the best friend I've ever had, and I'd probably trust you more if I liked you less."
"I don't really know what to say to that," said Charles. He barely understood it, distracted as he was by the warmth of Erik's rough and slender hand around his own. He hoped it wasn't a farewell.
"You don't have to say anything." Erik gripped his hand once, tightly, before letting go and standing up again. "Well. I understand that you've gotten some sleep tonight, but I haven't, and it's been a long day. I'll see you in the morning."
"Right," said Charles, blindsided still. "Good night."
"Good night." Erik left the room with one last nod in Charles's direction, and Charles listened to him go up the creaking stairs and walk down the hall, his footsteps not heavy but solid.
Well, he said to Old Charles, I don't suppose you've been listening and can tell me whether you think I've utterly fucked it up forever. I really wouldn't mind having someone to talk to right about now.
Whether Old Charles wasn't interested in talking or had simply checked out to his mysterious haunts, he didn't say anything, and Charles was left to finish his tea alone in the kitchen, nervous but strangely light, as if a burden he had carried for a long time had finally been set down.
**
Breakfast the next morning felt like nothing so much as an extremely awkward family reunion, with all nine of them crammed around the far too-small table. Armando tried gamely to make conversation while Angel stared at him as if she were afraid he'd disappear at any moment. Sean ate like a horse and looked dubiously at Azazel and Quested--Janos, it turned out was his given name--while they looked dubiously at Charles and wondered if he was planning some unpleasant trick for them. Emma responded to Armando's efforts at conversation with cool politeness, sounding like someone's maiden aunt. Erik focused on nothing but his plate; Raven seemed more inclined to steal things off of Charles's plate. Charles had been pleased to note that Raven had come downstairs that morning wearing actual clothes--to be sure, the neckline of her red dress was quite low and the skirt quite short, but still, clothes!
"That's a lovely dress, Raven," he said as she stabbed one of his breakfast potatoes with her fork. Then the thought occurred to him--"Wait. Would you prefer Mystique?" He'd been thinking of her as 'Raven' this whole time, but Erik and Old Charles had consistently called her by the other name.
She gave him a long, studying look before saying, "Nah. It'd just sound weird coming from you." She ate her ill-gotten gains before saying, "I'm getting really good at just doing clothes without changing my shape." Her body rippled somewhat, clothes and all, and the red dress was suddenly the same yellow as her eyes. Charles clapped appreciatively.
Angel tore her gaze from Armando for a moment to roll her eyes at Raven and say, "Show off."
Raven stuck out her tongue in Angel's direction before grinning at Charles. "I thought I'd throw a bone to your stodgy old man ways for the morning."
"My stodgy old man ways are very grateful," he said, stealing a piece of toast off her place in retaliation for the potato. "You look a picture."
"But a picture of what?" They shared a smile. It was an old joke between them.
It's been weird not to have you around this past year, said Raven. It had been years since she'd projected a thought at Charles, and the message echoed, immensely loud, in his head. This isn't an invitation to read my mind, she added firmly with an undercurrent of suspicion.
I didn't take it as one. Charles had almost forgotten what Raven's thoughts felt like in his head. They weren't like other people's; Raven had been the first person to have an actual telepathic conversation with Charles, and his pathetic gratitude at having someone so interested in talking to him, her own eagerness to share her strangeness with another person and to have someone in her life that she trusted, had left a permanent impression in the way his mind received her. Charles didn't realize how long he had been missing it.
I'd never been without you that long, not even when you went away to school. It hurt. Sometimes I had to tell myself I hated you just so I wouldn't go find a pay phone and call you.. Charles wondered if anyone else around them had noticed that Raven's expression hadn't changed at all in over a minute; he wagered Emma Frost had. He was pretty well-shielded as it was, but he reinforced his defenses and tried to picture shields around Raven's mind, as well, so that they could talk in peace.
I'm sorry, said Charles, and then, because it seemed as if mutual confessions of emotion accomplished much more than the calm unaffectedness he often attempted in such situations, he added, I got so angry. I've never been so angry with you in my life, and I hated it. If you had called, I probably would have just made stupid, incoherent noises at you over the phone.
Raven laughed, and Erik looked strangely at her. It seemed as if Azazel and Armando had finally gotten a conversation going, about politics, which was nice. It distracted the rest of the table from Charles and Raven. Maybe it wouldn't have worked between us even if you liked girls, Raven said. You never were good at talking about stuff.
No, Charles agreed.
Do you have a boyfriend? Her voice was elaborately casual. You'd still call it a boyfriend if it were two guys, right?
Charles just barely restrained himself from doing something immature like rolling his eyes at her. Yes, he said, in between learning how to get dressed again and starting a school for children with super powers, I got myself a boyfriend. We go out to dinner every night and then go to the theater on the weekends.
You should. The firmness of it surprised Charles. You shouldn't have to hide.
He could feel himself flush and covered it up by stuffing his face with toast. Well, none of us should have to hide, in a perfect world. When he looked up again, Raven was smiling at him, soft, as Charles hadn't seen her smile in years. Her smile gave him the courage to ask, Is it all right, then? Do you think we can just be brother and sister?
Probably healthier that way, she said, helping herself to some more orange juice from the carton in the center of the table. Give me some time, but yeah, I think I can handle that. I got over loving you. I can get over hating you, too.
Wonderful, said Charles, and he reached over to pat her hand as he might have done a year or so ago. She snorted but let him.
"All right," said Erik, pushing his chair back from the table. "Enough chit-chat. Let's get down to business."
Charles could get down to business with the best of them, so he took his hand back from Raven, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and met Erik's hard stare full on.
The jist of what they hammered out was this: rebuilding Cerebro wouldn't be done in a day, a week, or probably even a month, and the Brotherhood couldn't spend an indefinite amount of time fiddling with telepathy amplifiers; they were quite busy with...something. Whatever they did, which Charles was not going to be allowed to know. They were, however, interested in helping. So Charles, Sean, and Armando would go back to New York to begin the work, finding the space and getting the plans together and getting the contractors to build a room, either in the basement or as a side-building. Erik and Raven and possibly some of the others would come up to the Institute in January, while the children were on winter holidays, and they would get as much of the work as they could done then.
When the term started up again, the faculty would continue to fine-tune while the Brotherhood obtained any specialized equipment or parts they might require. (Charles decided it was probably best not to ask whether these things would be obtained legally or not.) When Cerebro was finished and it had been tested to both parties' satisfaction, Charles would train Emma on how it worked and they would gather recruitment data. Should the Brotherhood require further data at a later time, they would request permission to come to the school to gather it, on the understanding that Charles would grant such permission, barring extraordinary reasons not to do so.
Probably they would quarrel over just what "extraordinary" meant. Probably Azazel and Janos, who still didn't trust Charles as far as they could throw him, would raise various objections when it came to doing the actual work. Probably unforeseen troubles would disturb the equilibrium between their groups in the days to come. For the time being, though, both parties were satisfied and Charles was quite content.
Their airplane tickets were for early in the afternoon, so as soon as they'd discussed every detail to death, it became necessary for Sean, Armando and Charles to gather their things and get back on the road in an efficient manner. It went quickly, as they hadn't brought much, and Angel and Raven were willing to help them carry the few things they'd brought. It was surreal, really--Charles's last memories of Raven were wretched blurs of pain and regret, while Sean and Armando both had extremely ambivalent recollections of Angel, and yet, here they all were, exchanging pleasantries and handing each other suitcases. If Charles had been anything of a writer, he thought the whole thing might have made a funny short story à la James Thurber.
Charles wasn't much use carrying things to the car, unless Erik were willing to ferry him up and down the stairs as needed, so he sat on the porch and watched his sister and his first recruits have their little reunion. It was a shame Alex and Hank hadn't been able to make the trip, he thought. His left leg twitched and he rubbed at his calf and knee. He really was going to regret all this cramped traveling, he thought.
It was at that point that a mind abruptly winked into existence, and Charles jerked back in his chair so hard he thought he might have pulled something in his neck.
From behind him, Erik's voice said, "Well. If I ever need to distract you, I've got a pretty good idea how to do it."
Charles wheeled himself around almost frantically to see Erik, standing in the front door and holding the helmet in his hands in front of himself.
"Erik," said Charles, and then, like an idiot, he couldn't think of anything else to say. Erik's mind was like--it was like the sun had suddenly appeared in the middle of the night. Even through Charles's hastily-deployed shields, he could feel the other mind's presence and warmth. Charles didn't remember Erik's mind being this overwhelming, but then, it had been over a year since he'd last felt it, and there were precious few other minds out here to distract him.
"Charles," said Erik, twisting his mouth in a wry almost-smile. He shifted the helmet to one hand and reached out his other for Charles to shake. "Have a safe trip," he said.
They shook hands, and Charles nodded, still a bit dazed. "Thanks very much. I'll see you in January, then?"
"January," Erik said. He paused for a moment, peering at Charles as if he had something written on his forehead, before saying, "Charles. I'm not sure that I'm really the kind of man made for...love." He tapped his head, as if in invitation, and Charles peeked quickly, careful not to intrude where he wasn't wanted or overstay his welcome.
He liked to think he'd learned something from the first go-round with Erik.
Erik's mind now was like a labyrinth of carefully-constructed metal corridors, but in the first room Charles came across was this: I don't mean with you I don't mean because you're homosexual (That means nothing to me and I don't think the less of you for it) I mean because there is only so much I can lose before there is nothing left and I have only now started to find things I do not wish to lose.
Charles pulled out. "I understand," he said, and it wasn't hard to find a smile for Erik.
"Of course," said Erik. "I've been known to be wrong about that sort of thing before." He squeezed Charles's hand once more before turning and going back into the house, sending Charles down the steps with a flick of one hand. He hadn't gone three or four steps before he put the helmet back on. It was like dousing a bright fire in Charles's mind, but Charles found he had no complaints.
The car was ready to go. While Sean and Armando exchanged stilted farewells with Angel, Charles looked up at Raven. "You'll write this time, won't you?"
Raven shrank down--not into a child, but into a perfect, miniaturized version of herself--in order to look Charles in the eye. "Yeah," she said. "I think we've got a P.O. box--I'll send you the address."
"Good," said Charles. "I owe you a birthday card."
She laughed. "Sure, you're only, what, three months late. Is it okay if I just give you two presents on your next birthday?"
Charles reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I'll see you in January--I'll just count that as an early birthday-slash-late Christmas present."
"You're such a cornball, Charles." She leaned over to wrap her arms around his neck. Her scales were rough against his face, and he imagined that his stubble was rather rough on hers, but neither of them pulled away.
"You're all right here?" Charles said softly. "You're happy, right?"
Raven breathed out, leaving a warm spot on Charles's collar, and pulled back so she could look him straight on again. "Yeah," she said. She had innumerable faces, and Charles had practiced reading a lot of them, but he liked to think that her true face was the one he could read best, and that he could see the truth of her words in the steadiness of her eyes and the thoughtful set of her mouth. "I think so. You?"
Charles nodded. It was a bit like when Alex and Sean had left for college, he thought. Painful, but in a good way. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I am."
"You ready to go, Professor?" asked Armando hesitantly.
Raven grew again to her regular height and stepped away, going to stand over next to Angel in front of the porch steps. Charles nodded. "Yes," he said. "I'm ready."
When they'd gotten out of sight of the safe house, Armando sighed in relief and said, "I gotta say, that went a lot better than I expected it to."
"I guess," said Sean. "That Azazel guy still freaks me the hell out, though."
Charles tuned them out and listened to the growing rush of minds as they got closer to the city. His own mind felt strangely empty, despite the warmth of his emotions, as if a small corner of it had been hollowed out. Old Charles was silent the entirety of the drive, and then the entirety of the flight. Maybe that meant something. Maybe it didn't. It seemed that everything over the last few days had been grand and significant, but some things--the flat airplane soda, the sound of a small child laughing two rows behind Charles, Sean and Armando's friendly debate about whether Johnny Cash could sing or not--were comforting in their smallness. Charles settled into his seat and pictured Moira and Alex at the airport, waiting to pick them up. He was ready to go home.
THE END
Notes:
The title comes from Charles Dicken's "A Christmas Carol." Which I guess makes Old Charles the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.
The Buchanan mentioned by Hank and Charles is Joseph Rodes Buchanan, a physiologist in the nineteenth century who's credited with coining the term "pyschometry." From his Manual of psychometry: the dawn of a new civilization: "We should bear in mind, that all the co-operations and correlations of mind and matter, are intrinsically wonderful, but are governed by definite laws, and that these laws, when discovered, must seem, at first, no less wonderful and mysterious than the nature of the mind itself." Buchanan seemed like the kind of author that Charles (this version, anyway) might have sought out when trying to understand his telepathy scientifically.
In Boston, Armando and Charles are (very vaguely) discussing the events of June 11th, 1963, when Governor George Wallace of Alabama protested integration in the door of the University of Alabama, and June 12th, 1963, when WWII veteran and civil rights activist Medgar Evers was murdered.
"Message to the Grass Roots" was a speech Malcolm X gave at the Northern Negro Grass Roots Leadership conference on November 10, 1963. The bit Armando quotes is a bit that goes, "You don't have a peaceful revolution. You don't have a turn-the-other-cheek revolution. There's no such thing as a nonviolent revolution."
Yasuo Takiguchi is based on the Marvel character Yuriko Takiguchi. Since it's my understanding that Yuriko is generally a woman's name, besides already being Lady Deathstrike's name, and since about the only thing he had in common with the Marvel character was that they were both robotics engineers, I decided to go ahead and rename him. Alicia Downing, Rachel Argosy (aka Rhapsody), Cessily Kincaid (aka Mercury), and Barnell Bohusk (aka Beak) are Marvel characters I found while hanging around on Wikipedia; Jennifer Honey is from Matilda by Roald Dahl, but come on, she'd be a great choice to teach young mutants!