Disclaimer: I don't own anything including Wanted (2008) or X-Men: First Class (2011)
AN: Haha, I know I shouldn't be working on two Wanted/XFC fills at the same time but couldn't help it. This is for a prompt on the kink meme where this fic goes under the title HE CAN BEND BULLET TRAJECTORIES WITHOUT POWERS. It's a hopefully more cleaned up and extended version of the chapter I've already posted on the meme. Hope you all enjoy. Updates will probably be a bit slow going though.
AN to those who read TSACX: Trying to aim for a completely different tone (possibly style or is that just me?) and slightly different characterization of Wesley since in this fill Wesley IS Charles and not another fun crackish personality altogether so if you liked that, you might not like this fic. But I could fail altogether at making the stories a bit different so it may well not matter anyways.
...
Wesley feels it as he packs his life away, as he stows his broken typewriter to the side, as he crates the old furniture his ex didn't want and he couldn't quite bring himself to part with, folds jeans and a few sets of suits and ties he will never wear again, feels as every motion he takes, every moment that passes brings the sum that is Wesley Gibson's life closer to being but four dusty boxes in an attic. He can't help but feel dissatisfied with this resolution. There is a great, big, gaping nothing in his chest that is neither the peace nor vindication he expected, that having avenged his father or killing Sloan had not filled and has stayed with him ever since he first shot his father. But, Wesley knows there is little that can be done for it.
Besides, Wesley had already been gone long enough – his sister he left behind had been so terribly alone without him – and he had already achieved the control he'd set out for in the first place, credit to an organization of killers. No more hearing cries and screams of nightmares not his own at night, no more accidental knowing of the hate and scorn disguised behind façades of bright eyes and happy smiles, no more worrying about killing his sister from thinking about her too much. The life that had revolved around the fear, confusion, and the not-my-thoughts of his power was in his hands once again.
Wesley Gibson had served his purpose and was no longer needed. Charles on the other hand was.
His father's jacket and guns are the last to go and Wesley has to pause as he gripped the fine, leather material. He's tempted to keep the memento that is his father's jacket, he really is. The bloodstains, after a bit of work, had finally come off and the rips and tears, evidence of his final encounter with the Fraternity, had all been lovingly patched and sewn. He could tell Raven it was a souvenir from his travels, or even more scandalously, the half truth that his father had given it to him just before he died, and she would be none the wiser of what he had done.
But Wesley shakes his head, no, and grips the material tightly as if to imprint the memory of its texture in his hands, before that too is folded away. If he desires at least the slightest semblance of peace, Wesley must first let go of his past.
The guns on the other hand are locked without a second thought, he only holds off putting them away long enough to be sure that: yes, he'd taken out the magazines and yes, the barrel was empty. Guns had no place in the presence of his sister or in the quiet of the Xavier household – well quiet now that the bastard pair of Markos were gone. Which reminds him, Wesley thinks regretfully with a sigh, there will be no place for that either: cursing. The worst Raven could ever hear from him would be 'groovy'.
There isn't much time for mourning his small loss before Wesley senses the buzz of Raven's mind as she swiftly progresses up the stairs, home faster than he had anticipated, and the last of the locks are hurriedly clicked in place. Just in time too, for when Wesley turns around, it's to face, "Charles! I've missed you so much. Where have you been all this time?"
This is Wesley Gibson ending his own life.
"Exactly where I needed to be, Raven," he says and it is Charles Xavier that holds his sister in his place as she cries tears of joy and relief.
...
Charles is the closest to peace he has ever been, despite all the trouble his newfound mutant family causes: Erik pushing children out of third story windows, Raven's newfound rebellious faze, Sean's goal to be the Guinness record holder for most windows broken, and Alex and Hank's outdoor practice, now that Alex has a means to control his powers, and the subsequent police investigations – who the telepath sends back off on their way with a thought. Or perhaps it is for it, he can't help but think fondly.
It is unfortunate however, that no peace can last forever and that near-peaces such as his are no exception.
Charles is carefully expanding the field of his powers, testing their limits and exercising them because he knows he needs control over his ability as much as the children, if not more so, and as he slowly closes his eyes there is a nexus of white lights in the dark of his lids that rush up to greet them. Each light fluctuating in intensity, a sign he knows corresponding to the intensity of the emotions felt.
Erik, predictably, catches his attention first as he is the brightest of them all carrying an old rage and a newfound serenity. Currently he is taking a jog around the grounds. Sean, whose light takes a hazy quality, is in the middle of a rather...passionate dream. Meanwhile Hank and Raven – or is it Hank and Alex? Charles can never tell without a closer 'look' – are like binary stars, their emotions flickering about in typical, teenage capriciousness. Outside, so most likely Alex trying out the suit again, Charles finds himself automatically checking for cops and disgruntled authoritarian minds alike.
It is when Charles turns his mind's eye to what he assumes is Moira and Raven in the sitting room that it happens. The light of their minds disappear and in their place blackness. He stomps down on the instinctive panic. Just his mind playing tricks on him, Charles reasoned. Not like it never had before.
But no, Charles is in control now. He has to be, now more than ever with a man like Shaw on the loose to whom he already lost one child too many. And no matter how many minds he checks, at least a good mile out from the grounds, none of them are Raven's. Moira, on the other hand, is only now returning to the mansion.
'Moira,' he projects to her, waiting for the ping of recognition that couldn't come fast enough before continuing. 'You haven't spotted Raven around have you?' he can't help but ask. He already knows the answer of course, is dreading it, but it helps delay the onslaught of worry and anxiety and she could be dead's – because for a mind to shut itself away from him like that, it could only mean that they were... – if only for a few moments.
So when, connected to Moira's mind, Charles feels her lips form the answering words, "No, I've been out all morning on business with the CIA. Why?" before she remembers she should probably have said that in her mind and half-forms the thought for Charles, 'No, I've been out-', he has already anticipated the answer and plans accordingly, responding: 'If everyone could meet in the dining room.'
The thought this time is directed to the entire household, and it takes all Charles much labored for control not to let his anxiety slip into the thought as well. There is a small hitch, what with Sean still being asleep throughout the whole ordeal, but Charles resolves it by having him simply sleepwalk to join the other boys whose curiosity he soothes with a vague promise for answers, 'In due time'.
Just...much later when he's calmed the fuck down, Charles thinks to himself. And that thought most of all betrays exactly how not fucking calm he is, temporarily falling back onto the crutch that was purely Wesley. It is the non-existent weight of the guns at his side that had characterized the last months of Wesley Gibson's life that ground him to Charles more than anything else in the absence of Raven.
'And what of you, Charles?', Erik asks suspicious, sensing that this was more than a simple meet over training schedules or a lecture on how to not catch the gentlemanly police officers' attentions. 'Aren't you going to join this little get together of yours?' This time the inquiry is accompanied by the slight tug of Charles' wrist watch.
Charles spared only half a thought towards how remarkably precise Erik's use of his power was, the control with which he wielded it almost enviable, instead focusing on heading towards the sitting room where he last felt Raven's presence. 'There's a matter I must investigate first,' Charles explained.
He supposes he should be charmed when Erik's immediate reaction is, 'I'll go with you.' And he truly is, but the other man's concern is misplaced and Charles tells him exactly that, 'I can take care of myself better that you would expect, my friend. It is the children that need looking out for.'
Besides Charles isn't sure what to expect, which is an unusual feeling since Sloan and the exception of Shaw's attack, and isn't sure of what danger that awaits them. At least going alone he would only be endangering himself, Raven as well if she was still in the mansion but at least then it would only be her had to look after against the unknown threat. And if Charles really needed to, he could always send a quick mental message for help after the threats been assessed, confident in his own abilities to at least buy some time before they reached them. In the worst case scenario, this is the only thing he would be able to do for them if that message for help becomes a warning to get away.
'The children can take care of themselves,' replied Erik with some resignation.
'In time my friend, but first they must learn control.' And that is the end of it. Only it's not because Charles is sure Erik was going to follow him regardless, and quite possibly with the hefty arsenal metal pots and pans from the neighboring kitchen pantry in tow, for which Charles had the others go to the dining room in the first place.
He must make the investigation fast then and, if necessary, eliminate the threat to his family one way or another. If not with his powers then perhaps the decorative rapiers they'd mounted on the wall over the floral pattern sofa Raven so adored, because with a sense of urgency Charles realizes it is not the absence of minds he 'sees', but rather, it is the blackness of a telepathic dead zone which his powers cannot touch.
What most people do not know – except as silly myths and superstitions – is that on some level, all minds are interconnected. In Charles' mind's eye, these connections are represented as fine strands between the white lights of emotions. Too thin to let the influence of his powers traverse on or differentiate the exact relationship by which the connections were tempered, whether they were wife, friend, son, or hadn't even met at all – though Charles suspects that if only he had more control they could. Would be terribly useful in making a man disappear, the side of himself he locked away in the attic would think – but there enough to be visible, and to Charles, the world within the range of his 'sight' is covered in them.
Except the sitting room, in which no threads of thought seem to pass.
Charles is barely winded from his quiet dash to the sitting room and breaks right before the open door and nothing with no little trepidation. It is only after he sneaks a peak of Raven – alive, healthy, and okay – smiling curiously over the edge of the opening that he lets out the breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding back and finally lets some of the tension slide off his shoulders.
"I'm sorry, but I think you've got the wrong address. No one under that name lives here," floats Raven's voice around the corner
"Are you certain?" replies a man. Mid to late thirties, Charles would wager, with a faint accent he couldn't quite place and rasp that spoke of one cigar too many. "I'm sure the head of the house would know. What does he go by again? Oh yes, Mr. Charles Xavier. Oh wait, wait! No, I got that wrong. It's professor now isn't it?"
"Not exactly, he has to teach first," says Raven awkwardly, repeating Charles' own words to the mystery man. Not scared, but a little weirded out, Charles noted. Then she hadn't been threatened outwardly at least.
"Of course," replied the man.
There is a shift of someone getting up before Charles hears Raven's voice again, "Maybe I should go get Charles for you."
"No that won't be necessary, my dear. He'll be on his way soon enough."
Even without his telepathy, Charles knows this is the man's cue for him to enter and does so, bracing himself against the sudden silence in his head. "Speak of the devil," the mystery man exclaimed in mock surprise. The sly smile and eye towards the door only Charles could see, as it was turned away from Raven, told him that the other knew Charles had been behind the corner the whole time, "We were just talking about you. Mr. Xavier, I presume?" The stranger held out a hand.
"Yes, that would be me," replied Charles easily enough, playing along and shaking the proffered hand with a sinking suspicion in mind. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage though as I have yet to catch your name," Of all the worst-case scenarios Charles had imagined, this had not been one of them.
"Names aren't easy things to hand out. You of all people should know that, Mr. Xavier." Charles thought he'd left this all behind him. "But you can call me 'Sloan'." That isn't even the worst of it.
Of all the worst-case scenarios Charles had imagined, this had not been one of them. But it very fucking well should have been.
"Charles, who's Wesley Gibson?" asked Raven.