Gears
The faces on the map haunted him.
He thought of them while he took the train, secure in the small pocket of empty space that other travelers left around him, as though on an instinctual level they felt the threat he posed to them.
He thought of the faces while he planned his next move, meticulously and thoroughly, leaving nothing to the clumsy hands of chance.
He thought of them while he had his rare interactions with other people, scanning their visages for any sign that they knew of the secrets he sought.
He thought of them while he ate his silent meals in cold hotel rooms and foreign lands.
He thought of them as he laid in his lonely bed, willing sleep to come claim him.
And when sleep did come, his dreams were of the men on the map.
The faces consumed him.
But soon, oh, so tantalizingly soon, he would be the one consuming them.
The thought almost always brought a smile to his face - the only time he allowed that particular expression across his handsome features.
From the window, there was a fantastic view of the elegant skyline and historical buildings.
If one looked out and down, there was an even better view of the city. Children and mothers, wrapped against the air's chill crossed the streets, hurrying to one entertainment or another. Bankers and business men strode purposefully, expensive briefcases in hand, and disappeared into the echoing halls of their workplaces. Vendors called out their wares and police men with friendly faces patrolled up and down, watching their small fiefdom for any sign of trouble.
The street below the window was bursting with life and color.
He did not see it. Any of it. For him, there existed only the map and his quest.
Many of the faces had already become "x"s by the time he reached Geneva. It did not grant him peace, or even real satisfaction. Those "x"s had deserved their deaths, but really, they were only a means to an end.
The end. The only thing in this squalid world that mattered. His eyes sharpened on the one face that wasn't a photograph. That man would never leave official photographic evidence of his existence. That face he had had to draw from his memory. Memories that would have given him enough fuel to take out an entire city block.
Now, he hardly regarded the "x"s, as the fires of his obsession grew hotter, leaving little room for anything but the small pencil sketch of the most looming face of all.
The Herr Doktor.
Or, as he was currently know, Sebastian Shaw.
"Sebastian Shaw, you say? Why now, that is intriguing."
Charles pushed his thick, flopping dark hair out of his eyes. Raven teased him mercilessly about the scattering of gray in his forelock, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle.
He observed his friend out of the corner of his eye, waiting to see her reaction to the reporting agent's news. She sat uncharacteristically still on the small settee that she had insisted be crammed into his tiny office, even though it was already bursting with his desk and books.
Her poker face had most certainly improved; he wouldn't have been able to tell her excitement if it weren't for the fact that one of her eyes had become its natural yellow color.
Right then, it was probably time to get the CIA out before she turned blue. She never could help herself when she got excited.
"Thank you, as always, Agent MacTaggert. We will, of course, take the case."
Startled at his abrupt acceptance, the auburn-haired woman rose slowly from her comfortable leather chair; the only other piece of furniture besides Raven's sofa and his own desk set-up. Charles felt that her surprise would not be confined to her mind, and his expectations were not disappointed.
"That's it, Professor? Usually you argue me to the ground over the necessity of investigation, what your compensation will be, how you need higher security clearance, anything and everything. Now you just say okay? What is it about Shaw? What do you already know?"
He took a moment to school his face, looking out the diamond paned windows of his study to the wide blue sky, unclouded for once. He owed Raven an apology; it seemed that he was to be the one who exposed their over-interest in Shaw.
Shaw was a boogey man in all of their investigations; he left behind only recollections in those who had seen him and lived to tell, but no actual tangible proof.
Charles had sensed the presence of an unknown and unstable variable from the first investigation MacTaggert, who for some reason had heard of his research and actually believed in it, had come to him with.
It wasn't until the third case, that he figured the variable was actually one entity, and he didn't get a name until the fifth. But once he had it, Charles was on the scent.
Working with the foreign government was still proving useful in his search for the elusive Shaw, so he would like to keep on with agent, but the professor and his friend had their own personal reasons to find the man. And he would find him, government support or not. But still, it would make things much easier to have the Americans' probably extensive file.
He looked back at the agent, who was watching him with sharp eyes. A sigh longed to escape from his lips. Everything would be so much easier if she were not so smart or intuitive. From their first meeting, when she had shot down his infallible pick-up line in the local pub and dragged him headlong into her world of espionage, he had understood perfectly how she had become the only currently serving female in the CIA.
Rubbing his fingers along his temple in an absent gesture that wasn't absent at all, he spoke aloud, "We did haggle, I was detached and drove a hard bargain and you were, once again, quite frustrated with me. You'll be sending the report on Shaw immediately."
MacTaggert's face had gone blank when he started speaking. Now that he was done, a small scowl appeared in the tension between her perfectly shaped eyebrows.
"Really Professor, the CIA is only operating for the good of the people. You would think that you would respect it a little more. I'll be sending over what we've got on Shaw immediately, now that you've so graciously agreed to look it over."
By the end of her speech, her voice dripped acid. As though she had decided that she could no longer be in the same room as them, the agent stood abruptly, pointlessly adjusting her unrumpled suit and with a curt nod to Raven, exited the room. Outside, the two men in navy flanking the door left with her, following like particularly menacing ducklings. Charles looked over at Raven, who smiled back at him, no longer bothering to hide her glee.
"Marvelous work. After last time, I thought she'd scalp you for sure if you hesitated to accept a request. Turns out she'd love to scalp you either way."
He couldn't help but to pull a face, thinking of the fierce American. Contrary to what MacTaggert thought, he did respect her and her work and hated having to tinker with her mind. But if that's what it took to get what they needed, he would do it again and again.
"Yes, well, I rather like my hair, so she'd do better to refrain."
"Oh yes, my distinguished gray professor. Wouldn't be able to pick up the co-eds scalpless, now would we?"
Raven drew near and ruffled his hair fondly. He hastily attempted to comb it back down with his fingers as she walked across the warm, if threadbare, rugs strewn about the cool wood floor.
"I'm going to go eat something before we sit here all night going over reports. Need anything?"
"You're always hungry aren't you? You must have fabulous genes to eat like you do and stay so thin."
In the doorway, she stilled. "I don't know that fabulous is what I'd call them, but sure, at least I don't have to be a fat freak too."
His heart dropped. Goodness, even if he was a telepathically gifted being, he could still manage to step on emotional landmines.
"I'm sorry, Raven. You know I didn't mean that and you are most certainly not a freak."
She didn't turn about, but he knew her well enough to guess that she would have that small tight smile on her face, the one where she was telling herself inside to toughen up.
"Yeah, I know. But I'm still going to eat all of those cookies you thought were hidden in the upper cabinet."
"What? That's not fair! You stay away from those, you, you scamp!"
With a flounce and wicked giggle, she was gone.
Damn, those were the last of the biscuits too. He supposed it was a fair price to pay though to have her laugh again.
Thinking about her, his head began to ache and his long fingers pinched the bridge of his nose. When had it become so hard to navigate things with Raven, his unblooded sister and only true friend?
Maybe it was puberty, something long past for him (thank God), but still current for her. It seemed to him that she aged far more slowly than he, so it would stand to reason that she was only now entering that horrible hormonal state. The one where you obsessed endlessly over your looks and how others perceived you.
His headache became more acute. A teenaged super girl on his hands. Just splendid.
As if he didn't have enough to do already between giving lectures at the University, performing his own genetic research, and doing collaborative investigations with the CIA. He frowned and wondered yet again how a man of his prodigious talents had ended up this way; cramped in a small university-provided flat and constantly bombarded by American intelligence requests while the academic world largely thought him a quack. Oh, he had his teaching job to be sure, but that resulted from his step-father's influence far more than from the school's desire to have him on-staff.
In another life, it might have crushed him to be mocked for his dearest work – investigating mutations of human DNA leading to another species – but luckily, he lived this life. This life where he knew with certainty that the mockery he received was in error. He knew his research and theories were correct because he had living proof. It looked at him in the mirror everyday, a differently evolved human being – a mutant.
He didn't much care about showing other academics that they were wrong, but he wanted more than anything to know about the mutations because the more he knew, the better chance he would have of finding others of his kind and bringing them together. To let each of them know that they were not alone, that they were special and that they could all exist in support of each other. Like he and Raven, the only other mutant he had met, did.
He imagined them all in perfect harmony, not only with each other, but with mainstream society - humans. All that mutants and humanity could achieve together was almost impossible for him to imagine. But he believed that both species could, and should, help one another; each doing good for their community, solving the problems of the world, and coexisting in mutual acceptance.
All utopias failed, he knew that, but his vision wouldn't die. It was, quite simply, what he lived for.
Raven reappeared, carrying a tray with a steaming pot, two mugs, and the tin of biscuits. He pushed his earlier thoughts from his mind and greeted her with a quizzical expression. She smiled at his raised eyebrow, taking it for the question it was.
"I thought I should be kind to you in your dotage. Besides, we should have a mini-celebration. Soon we might have the key to finding others!"
He peered at her sternly.
"We musn't get our hopes up. He may not even be who we're really looking for."
At the disappointment in her expression, he felt himself soften.
"But he probably is, since I'm never wrong. Thanks for bringing vitals." He paused and touched his temple again, listening to a frequency audible only to him. "We're going to need them when we get the report in three…two…one."
They heard the sound of the mail flap clicking back into place and muffled steps speeding away.
"Show-off," Raven muttered, but she went to retrieve the mail with a smile.
She came back with a middling thick file. It landed on his desk with a satisfying thud.
"Tuck in, Charles."
His expression was wolfish.
"I intend to."
It wasn't until some hours later that he finished.
"Raven?"
She popped upright, clutching an afghan about her and scattering the papers that she'd been reading. Her mussed red hair shone in the light of the small fire in the grate, making her head appear to be aflame.
"Yeah?" she asked crossly.
He did so hate slang, but for now, he would overlook it.
"Fancy a trip to Miami?"
This is my first X-Men fic; I saw the movie and it just would not leave me alone. I had to write this story. I don't normally like AU, but it's pretty much the only way this story will logically work.
Care to tell me what you think? Pretty please?
(I promise it will get slashier, if that entices you at all...;])
(Why yes, I am pretty much shameless.)
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
