So otana earlier was like, "X-Men fandom is just like one giant Mary Sue fest, everyone has hilariously unnecessary powers and nobody ever dies and cliches abound and everything is shiny and nothing ever hurtsss." And I'm like, "ha ha, that is true. I KNOW, I am going to write a story where Erik has nightmares and needs comfort from Charles!" So I did. Sorry.
Summary: Erik thinks the nightmares will go away after the beach. They don't. Title is from Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game," which I know I've already used before for another 'fic, but uh, it just kind of worked a second time, so. Set a few months after "First Class."
What a Wicked Thing To Do (To Make Me Dream of You)
He still dreams, horrible things that leave him panting and furiously brushing away tears in the middle of the night. He dreams that his mother is killed, again and again, in front of him, and he can't do anything to stop it because he can't move a single, stupid coin fast enough, and it's his fault, and he hates himself for that. He thinks the nightmares will stop once Shaw is dead, but then the events on the beach unfold completely that fateful day, and the dreams return, this time painted with the blood of Erik's best friend, and now, his worst enemy.
On this night, he knows he's in the midst of another vision, can tell because Charles is standing in front of him, and Charles can't do that anymore, regardless of how much Erik would like him to be able to. "I loved you, you know," Charles tells him, and Erik smirks ruefully, crouched, on his knees.
"You still do."
"No," Charles intones steadily, and Erik's heart sinks as the other man's face hardens. Suddenly, his jaw is tighter; his eyes, usually so kind, even woeful, always carrying everyone's else's burdens in their depths, glint like ice. "No," Charles says again, and Erik feels his throat tighten. "I did once, of course," Charles sighs, looking off into the distance. "Once, I considered you the most important person in the world. I would have done everything for you. I did do everything for you.
"But things have changed," Charles continues, and Erik looks up at him, the words and Charles' cold, disgusted expression painful to take in. "I've realized how foolish you are; how foolish you've been ever since we met. It was only a matter of time before you went off the deep end, before I was forced to part ways or shut you down more permanently. I still dislike the latter option," he concedes, tilting his head with a small smile, and Erik shivers. "So I've let you go on your merry way, Erik. You don't need me anymore; and I don't want you, so it's mutually beneficial, really."
'I don't want you.' The words echo through Erik's mind. Unwittingly, he reaches up to clutch at his head, and hears Charles tsk. "Oh, really, now," the other man sneers, and the laughing tone in his voice is unfamiliar, but it stings. "Surely you must agree how ridiculous we were to think this would have ever worked. Do you know why, Erik?" Charles' voice is kind, now, and Erik looks up, startled, when the other man bends, leaning in intimately, the way he used to. Then he moves in for the kill: "It wouldn't have worked," Charles murmurs in his ear, "because you break everything you touch, Erik. Everyone you love, everything you try to do, it will all end in disaster, destruction. You will only ever be happy at others' expenses; and even then, it is a temporary bliss, at best. You ruined us; and you will destroy yourself in the end, even without me there to take another bullet for you, Erik." He moves away again, and Erik refuses to look up. Instead, he clutches at himself miserably, shaking, willing himself to remember how to keep breathing, though in truth, he's not sure why it matters anymore.
"I'm sorry," he gets out, and then he wakes up.
He lays in the dark for several minutes, eyes watering, breath coming in short gasps. His heart aches for the one person whose comfort he no longer deserves; but, he thinks eventually as the clock continues to tick the seconds by and he has to resist the urge to rip it off the wall, that doesn't mean he can't just reach out and take it.
The phone rings four times before he hears a groggy, softly foreign voice lilt sleepily in his ear. "Xavier residence, Charles speaking," it says, and suddenly, Erik loses his nerve. "Hello?" Charles says, and Erik can picture him, hair mussed, dressed in his favorite striped blue pajamas, legs prone as he stretches out in bed, but still enough like how Charles used to be, how Erik remembers him when he thinks about their road trip or the too-short time spent training at the mansion, usually only after he's gotten properly soused and no one else is around to see him through the worst of it, for that not to matter all that much. "Hello?" Charles intones again, more lucid now, and Erik can hear the beginnings of irritation in his voice. "Look," Charles sighs, "I know someone is there. I can hear you breathing. I do wish to inform you that I could very easily call the authorities and have them trace the line ..."
Erik swallows. "Charles," he gets out, and is gratified to hear Charles' sharp intake of breath.
"Erik." The tone changes immediately; he can picture Charles sitting up straighter in bed, still clutching the receiver, his brows knit together. "Is something wrong?" he ventures, and Erik resists the urge to sigh. Of course, Charles would only assume him to be calling because he needed something.
"No," he says briefly. "Nothing's wrong. I just ..." What, he thought; 'I wanted to hear your voice'? 'I need you to assure me that you still care, that you'd still be there if I needed you, because I do, I miss you so much ...' He swallows again. "I think I dialed your number by mistake," he finally settles on, and then cringes at how stupid it sounds coming out of his mouth.
Fortunately, Charles is too tactful to point this out. "Ah," he says, and Erik half-expects him to hang up right then. Instead, Charles coughs softly to clear his throat. "Well," he adds, "I hope everything is well, Erik. I believe you should get some rest now, yes? It's a bit late."
"Yes," Erik says, and adds, "sorry."
"No worries," Charles says lightly, and it's so familiar; it'd be so easy, Erik knows, to show up there, to crawl into bed next to Charles, offering himself, offering anything Charles wants in supplication, if only Charles would let him curl up next to his warmth and love, even only for this one night. "Is that all, then?" Charles asks, and Erik clenches his free hand into a fist, knowing that he could be there in mere minutes, and that it's the last place he should be.
"That's all," Erik says, and with a final mental shrug, he manages to shove down the swirl of emotions that keep making him weak; let them all come out in another nightmare, he thinks vehemently. He'll be ready then. "Good night, Charles," he says with finality, taking his triumph where he can get it these days.
The other man's voice is sad. "Good night, Erik," he replies gently, and then adds, just before Erik replaces the receiver on its stand, "Be well."
'I still need you,' he thinks, and then curls back onto his side, his bed distinctly devoid of Charles Xavier, but the other man's presence still thankfully tangible, now, willing himself to slip into a(n albeit) dreamless sleep.
