1/3ish, I think.
There are workbooks.
This, it seems, is the answer he has been missing all of these years.
Instead of training ruthlessly for his eventual revenge against the man who iruined his fucking life, he should have been filling out workbooks on dealing with emotional trauma.
Or so was the subtext of the speech that Martin, a sickeningly sympathetic grin plastered across his stupid face, gave to welcome the new members of the group.
Also, what the actual fuck was he doing here? (Aside from the obvious court order) These people- were soft, and damaged and he- look, whatever his worker might think, he's not fucking broken, okay? The shit that Shaw did didn't break him- he was like iron ore exposed to fire, purified until all the useless shit runs off and what remains is hard, and strong, and unbreakable.
(To be fair to Dr. Frost, the fact that, immediately after he had told her that, he had mentioned that he used to pretend that he really Iwas/i metal, probably lent some credence to the good doctor's opinions regarding his mental state.
That, and the fact that Erik still sleeps with a knife under his pillow, and it's been four years since he applied for emancipation and won.)
Christ, it's not like he killed him or something! (Granted, that had been the intention, but the cops didn't have to know that.) In the end, all he's done was given him a concussion and a broken jaw- Shaw had done far worse to Erik, over the years.
Also, he shouldn't be here because these people are scared of him. Not that he blames them. He's kinda scared of him, too.
They try to hide it, some better than others, but, the truth is- Erik is big, and strong, and clearly capable of bashing your skull in. It's probably why the one partner he ever attempted to tell the stories behind his scars reacted with such suprise- because to them, he didn't look like a victim, because he fucking iwasn't/i.
He survived, and he's alive, and relatively sane, and only occasionally gets drunk off his skull, or beats someone up in a bar fight, and they were usually asking for it.
It makes him furious that people equate him with the assholes who harmed them. Because Erik Lehnsherr is many things, and nice isn't one of them, but he would never- will never- hurt a fucking child.
These people are pathetic, anyway. Now they've come to the part of the meeting where they share. How sweet. They talk about flashbacks, about court cases, about advice for dealing with triggers. (Not that he cares, but that thing about the mint, he'd have to look into that.)
He's stopped looking at the speakers, preferring to doodle incredibly detailed schematics for a robot (as soon as he was done his fucking community service, he was going to university. Dr Frost claimed that lving well was the best revenge. As far as Erik was concerned, she could go fuck herself, but there was probably some truth to that.) in the corner of his workbook, sickeningly titled From Surviving to Thriving.
Then, he hears a new voice. Like him, it had been silent the entire time, but unlike him, it so clearly shouldn't be here. The voice is posh, and English, and reeks of old money and clotted cream. It shouldn't even be in the 21st century, let alone in the basement of a fucking Anglican Church in Queen's.
"Er. Hello, everyone. I'm Charles, and, to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure if I should even be here. I'm fine, really. I've dealt with this all my life on my own, I don't see- but that's neither here nor there.
"I was- well, you know how it goes. I suspect it's rather a cliché story, and not one we need to get into now. The point is, I left home 6 years ago, when I was 16, and I haven't looked back. It- it didn't affect me, not as it seems to- I mean, everyone has nightmares, foods they won't eat, places on their bodies they don't like touched. That's normal.
"Anyway, I left, and I tried," his voice scratched like sandpaper, "I tried to bring my sister with me, but she wouldn't come. So I- I had to leave, you understand, I couldn't, I was going to die there, I- sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. That was silly of me. What I meant to say is, I left, and Raven- my sister- she wouldn't speak to me after that. I haven't heard from her in nearly 6 years.
"Then, a few weeks ago, the," his voice broke again. "Sorry, I'm being childish, I'll stop. The police knocked on my door, and told me that R-rav-Raven was dead, and that she'd left me her child to care for.
"My- my housemate h-had made it apparent to me that, um, some things I think are normal, aren't. Which- where does that leave me? I-I don't know how to take care of a kid. What if I'm like my parents? What- what if I fuck it up? I don't know what you're supposed to do, how in the bloody hell am I supposed to know if I fuck it up?" He stopped. and visibly collected himself.
"Anyway, that's why I'm here, I guess. To figure this out."
There was applause, and murmured words of empathy throughout the group.
"Thank you for that, Charles. I'm sure I'm not alone when I say that I am glad that you found us, and that I hope we can help you find some of the healing you need." Martin smiled. Someone should get the man an injured kitten to take care of, or something.
Charles made a desperate, half-choked sound that might have ben a giggle or a hiccup.
He stood. "Excuse me, I'm sorry, may I be excused for a moment? I think I need some air."
He rushed out of the room, hands fumbling with a cigarette packet.
Erik follows, making no such apology.
Charles, it seems, either does not see him or does not want to, because Erik is not more than four or five metres behind him, but he does not look back. Instead, he half-runs out the door, and does not stop until he is leaning, face-first, against the filthy brick wall.
His left leg drags slightly behind him, as though it can not quite bear his weight, and Erik would quite like to kill someone now, thank you very fucking much.
Charles breathes, trying and failing to get himself back under control. He fumbles with the cigarette package-once, twice- finally succeeding in removing a cigarette.
He does not jump when Erik approaches him, does not start with fright. Instead, there is a slight, sharp intake of breath and a subtle tensing of the shoulders that tells Erik his presence has been noted.
Charles attempts to light his cigarette, barely-repressed tremors jumping like spiders through his pale, delicate fingers. Less than three seconds after he finally succeeds, it is extinguished by the cold November wind.
"Oh, fucking hell," Charles mutters. "This just isn't my day, is it?"
He turns to face Erik. "I'm terribly sorry, my friend, but you wouldn't happen to have-"
Wordlessly, he hands him an already lit cigarette.
"Oh, thank Christ. Sorry. It's been a hell of a day."
Erik could sympathise. "It's alright. Not a big deal."
They stand in silence, for a while, smoke drifting out into the cold winter air.
Finally, Charles breaks it. "Er, I'm terribly sorry, my friend, but I seem to have forgotten your name."
Erik flicks away a bit of ash. "I didn't give it."
"Not in the...?" Charles trails off.
"They can force me to come here. They can't make me say anything."
Well, he'd like to see them try, anyway. Emma Frost is the first worker in years that he has been unable to make cry.
"Quite." Charles murmurs in agreement.
Erik makes a decision. "Erik. I'm Erik." he extends his hand, and Charles takes it, his rough calluses rasping against the other's smooth, warm flesh.
"I'm Charles," Charles said.
"I know," Erik points out.
Charles winces. "Yes, er, sorry about that. I was a bit of a mess in there, wasn't I?"
Erik shrugs. He's seen worse. This is only the latest in a long line of court/CPS ordered 'support groups' and 'workshops' he's been required to attend. At least this time they hadn't had to do any trust-building exercises.
"Yeah, kind of," Erik says, "But at least you didn't cry. That's something, right?"
Charles nods. "Still, it must have been- I'm dreadfully s-"
"If you apologise to me one more time, I'm going to get very angry, only I swore I wasn't going to get in any more fights, so I'm going to have to punch this wall, and then I'll have a broken hand, and then where will we be?"
Charles gives him a watery half-smile. "Fair enough, I suppose."
"Damn right it is."
With a sigh, Charles finished his cigarette and crushed the stub beneath the hell of his his boot. His mouth pinched up as he looks at the door that will take them back into the church.
Erik rolled his eyes. He wasn't seriously planning on going back in there, was he? Nobody had come out after them, which, as far as Erik was concerned, was default permission to get the fuck out. Besides which, they were adults, technically. They could do whatever they wanted.
"Do you want to get some coffee?"
Charles looked at him with startled eyed. "But-"
"Fuck them. They won't even notice we're gone. Or did you really want to go bakc and talk about feelings?"
A small shudder ran through his body.
Charles mirrored it. "Not particularly, no."
"Then what are you complaining about? C'mon, I know a good place not to far from here."
Good is a relative term. It is small, and damp, and dingy, and the food was abysmal and it smelled like old cigarette smoke- which is ridiculous, because you haven't been able to smoke in restaurants in this city for years, but the coffee tasted like heaven and it was cheap.
"So what do you do?" Charles asked, stirring liberal amounts of cream into his inky black coffee.
"I'm a janitor at Grover Cleveland." Erik tilted his chin, daring Charles to say something about it.
Instead, he nodded. "I teach at Forest Hill. Biology and Physics."
Erik raised his eyebrows. He wasn't very good at small talk, and he knew it, but- "You seem rather iyoung/i to be a teacher."
"'I am neither as young as I look nor as old as I feel', Erik."
Erik was so not touching that one.
Still.
Erik opened his mouth to prod, but Charles stopped him. "What did you mean, they could make you go but not talk? Who made you go?"
Erik rolled his eyes. "The courts. Apparently I am 'emotionally underdeveloped' and 'a threat to society' until such time as I 'deal with my unresolved trauma'."
"I see."
"No, you really fucking don't." Erik spat, suddenly furious. "I tried to kill someone, okay? I tried to kill the man who- who made me this, and I failed, and I failed so fucking hard that they didn't even think I was trying to kill him, which is the only reason I'm not in fucking jail, but I still failed and he's alive and he's out there and he's respected and well-liked and apparently they only have my fucking word against his that anything ever happened anyway, which is ridiculous because-" Erik paused, breathing harshly, and rolled up his sleeves, exposing the harsh puckers of burned flesh, the thin, scalpel-sharp lines of science. "And it's not even like they don't ibelieve/i me, but the statute of limitations has run out, and who'd take the words of a fucking dumb junkie against a doctor anyway?"
He slams a fist on the table in fury, and then- oh, fuck. Because Charles has gone quiet, and small, and strained, every muscle in his body vibrating with anxiety, and has somehow positioned himself with his back against the wall, like a fucking scared dog.
He isn't looking at him- well, that's not true, those fucking blue eyes are tracking his every move, his every twitch, but there is glazed quality to them that Erik recognizes well enough to know that he's not looking at him.
"Hey. Fuck, man, I'm sorry. Charles?" Erik waves his hand fruitlessly. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Charles finally looks at him, his eyes back to their normal state, and he's got this look on his face that makes Erik want to strangle something, self-loathing and anger jumbled up, creating lines of age where before there were none.
He attempts to smile. "Sorry about that, my friend. I zoned out for a moment. What were you saying?"
Erik shakes his head. "It doesn't matter." An idea strikes him, because clearly this conversation is lacking something, and it's lubrication. "Hey- want to go grab a drink?"
Charles raises an eyebrow. "It's four-thirty. Oh, fuck, it's four-thirty! I promised Moira I'd be back-" he checks his watch, "-Now, actually."
"Girlfriend?" Erik asks, casually.
Charles laughs. "God, no. Housemate. Friend. She's looking after Kurt this afternoon- oh God I am in so much trouble-" He shoves a wrinkled ten dollar bill on the table, scribbles something on a post-it note, and moves swiftly out the door.
Erik sinks deeper into the cracked vinyl bench, and fiddles with a dented metal spoon.
The post-it has a number on it. A phone number, presumably.
Ignoring the voice in his head that sounded like Dr Frost muttering words like 'bad idea' and 'co-dependency', Erik picked up the post-it and put it in his pocket with a smile.