Disclaim: The recognizable characters in this fanfiction were created by Marvel Inc., who owns relevant copyrights to additional material referred to herein. The characters are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. Marvel reserves rights to their copyrighted material, but all characters and situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer.
AN: Been several years, huh? Well, this is shaping up to be a fairly long multi-chapter story with a lot of technobabble. It is a departure form my usual description-laden style and, except for one chapter, it is all one character's POV: Charles.
"Is Newton's graviagitation a natural law?
Naturally not, more likely a crime,
because I didn't ask for it."
Newtons Gravitätlichkeit, Einsteurzende Neubauten
Strict Machine
Professor Charles Xavier was doing his best to not think foreboding thoughts as he waited with his luggage at Phoenix's Sky Harbor Airport. His ride was quite late and there was no reply when he called his contact's phone. He had heard Phoenix's traffic could be terrible, but that didn't put the late arrival out of his head. Even with that, he should have been able to reach the university's driver.
An ill auspice, he supposed, but not one that could outweigh the real benefits of his move. He expected Phoenix's desert climate to be a vast improvement to Blighty's dreary weather. Plus, it placed him an ocean and most of a continent closer to Raven, who had landed a paid internship in Burbank, California.
Though it was Saturday, he was loath to call Raven. His adoptive sister's hours were long and often unpredictable. Instead, he busied himself with the welcome task of rifling his luggage for clothes befitting the warmer temperatures. It amused him to see the Phoenix locals wearing clothes fit for colder climes.
An hour later, Charles had placed a few more fruitless calls to his contact number, bought several magazines from a newsstand, and had finally pulled out his laptop. He was searching for an outlet convenient to his luggage cart to charge the laptop's battery, when he noticed a harried young man with glasses. The tall brunette was holding a hastily scribbled sign that read: Charles Xavier, PhD. The sign was written in black Sharpie on a manila folder.
Smile indulgent, Charles passed the laptop to his left hand and raised his right. "Here."
The young man, all gawky long limbs and youthful awkwardness, sighed visibly and approached swiftly. "Thank God. We thought you might have taken a cab or something. I'm sorry you had to wait. Darwin's car was stolen while he was paying for gas and his phone was inside. We didn't know he wasn't on his way, because he didn't have any of the numbers for the university memorized."
"I see," Charles replied, content to let the young man ramble. "Is he alright, this Darwin?"
"That's right, you probably know him as Armando Muñoz." The young man nodded, breathing coming under control from his frantic search. "Oh yes, it wasn't at gunpoint this time."
A frown appeared on Charles face. "Did you say gunpoint?"
Folding the manila folder backward so Charles' name was obscured, the young man shrugged slightly. "Don't worry; it isn't common. Car thieves don't usually use guns; only the amateurs do."
"Car thievery," Charles said, lowering his laptop, "is beginning to sound common here."
"It is. Phoenix is number two in the nation for car theft," the man's smile was somewhat apologetic. "And number one for motorcycle theft."
The laptop, though a light model, weighed Charles' arm down like an anchor. It hung precariously in his fingers mere inches above the terminal's floor. "Is that so?"
"Are you okay, Professor Xavier?" the man asked, a crease forming between his blue eyes. "Really, it isn't that bad! You haven't seen Darwin's car. If you saw it, you'd understand; it has a lot of popular upgrades. It's a good thing he doesn't have college debt or he'd never be able to afford the insurance. He's like—like—a target for this sort of thing!"
Fingers clenched on the laptop's flat corner, Charles hauled his hand back up and rested the fragile equipment protectively against his chest. It was unclear whether he was protecting the computer or himself. He summoned a brilliant smile to cover the unease that had clenched his heart at the mention of motorcycle thievery. With any luck, he could gloss the moment over.
Charles proffered his free hand. "No, I'm not worried, just tired. Please call me Charles. I don't think I caught your name?"
"Oh," the young man's concern for Charles vacated in favor of the prior insecure awkwardness. He took Charles' hand quickly. "No, I didn't—I didn't give you my name. Hank McCoy, but please call me Hank. I'm doing my doctorial work while assistant teaching in the physics department of the university."
"Nice to meet you, Hank," Charles said. "I don't think we're in the same department. How were you selected to pick me up?" He let go of Hank's hand and stowed his laptop and power cord back in their case.
Hank shrugged, "Darwin had my card in his wallet; I don't think he ever got around to putting my number in his phone. I left as soon as he called."
Charles found the statement about Hank's number not making it into Darwin's phone sad. He could see it, though. The young man was as tall as he was awkward. There was a deeply unsettled feeling about Hank that most young people had outgrown by his age. His insecurity was oddly endearing, but Charles suspected most of Hank's acquaintances didn't have the patience to endure it. At least not long enough for the young man to relax.
"Thank you for coming," Charles smiled. He already planned to feed the young man a steady course of encouragement.
Smiling back, Hank ducked his head in acknowledgement of the gratitude. "Let's get your bags out to the car."
The two resituated Charles' luggage on the baggage cart and guided the burden out to the parking lot. Charles spent the short trip to Hank's car trying to calm his nerves. Part of damage control, he told himself, would be to gather information on the subject. Even if he didn't want to confront the issue, it would be for the best.
Charles could smell the parking lot before the automatic doors slid apart for them. The smell of exhaust was a little different from what he was used to in England; the fuel had different additives. When the doors opened, the scent intensified, but so did the wind. The air carried a scent of dust in from the desert, but Charles found the intense dryness of it more noteworthy.
In the parking lot, Charles frowned at the sight of several motorcycles taking up a single space near the entrance. There were an equal number of sport bikes and cruisers. His heart heaved in his chest at the sight of an older model sport bike with red paint and plastics. He was going to have to get acclimated quickly; the issue was no longer content to be ignored.
Hank led him to a sensible beige Toyota Corolla and began fishing out his keys. Charles noted the car was an automatic transmission. Perhaps ease of operation was more important to the young man than fuel efficiency and the joy of driving. Charles couldn't find it in himself to make the same sort of trade off.
"Good to see your car is still here," Charles joked. "And a solid little car at that."
Another tentative smile formed on Hank's face. "Reliable and never stolen. I try to park next to expensive cars as a passive form of theft deterrence."
A small chuckle escaped Charles at the thought. "That's brilliant. I'll remember that once I get a car leased for the year."
"Darwin told me to do that," the younger man said, his smile gaining strength.
Once the luggage was stowed and the baggage cart returned, Hank started up the car and they were on their way. It wouldn't be long, he told himself, before he could get a closer view of the desert city than the airplane had afforded him.
Charles waited until they had pulled out of the airport and were on the highway before casually making his foray into the uncomfortable topic of Phoenix's motorcycle density. "So, number one with motorcycle theft. Is that due to the population of motorcycles in Phoenix or the population of motorcycle thieves?"
"Both," Hank returned. "Phoenix is home to a couple technical schools that train automotive mechanics, including one that specializes in motorcycles. Most of the students come from out of town and many decide they like the weather here. Especially the motorcycle students, since they can ride all year round if they like.
"That's where things go south. Elementary economics: with so many motorcycle techs saturating the Phoenix market, the cost of labor plummeted, because it outstrips the demand. So, what do you get when you take a bunch of motorcycle techs with school loans to pay off and give them minimum wage jobs working on bikes or working on the line at In-And-Out?"
"Bike thieves?" Charles ventured, looking out his window at the desert landscape. The presence of saguaro cacti fascinated him. They dotted the landscape; bristling green figures in an ocean of dry orange earth. The barren landscape was a departure from England and the East Coast. He found a lonely sort of aesthetic within the arid lands as they sped along the highway.
"That's my theory," Hank nodded, oblivious to Charles' observation of the landscape. "I mean, I think a lot of the techs probably have problems already, trying to pay off their bikes. Those Harley Davidsons are really expensive, you know?"
"Harleys?" Charles' thoughts stuttered for a moment; he hadn't been thinking of cruisers at all. "Oh, yes, I suppose they are. So most of the thievery involves Harleys?"
Hank shook his head, "No, there's probably even more sport bike thievery."
Carefully, with as much control as he could manage, Charles put forth the question that he was the most interested in, and dreading, having answered. "Are there quite a bit of motorcycle gang shenanigans, then?"
"Hells Angels and Vagos come to mind," Hank replied, "but I think that's just something between gangs." Charles was relieved to see the young man take no special notice of his question. The answer itself was a bit of a relief; the gangs sounded cruiser-related.
"Vagos?" he queried. "I've not heard of them."
"Having been in England so long, I don't know why you would," Hank shrugged. "I don't know much about them, either. I think they're involved in meth amphetamine production and distribution."
"What about speed tribes," Charles pressed, picking his words carefully, "does Phoenix have any of those?"
"Speed tribes?" Hank looked perplexed. "I don't think I know what that is."
"Sport bike gangs," Charles clarified. "I don't know the proper terminology."
"Well, it's certainly an accurate title," Hank nodded. "Is that what they're called in Britain?"
"No," Charles confessed, trying for sheepish. "I got the phrase from a book somebody loaned me years ago."
"Oh, okay. Well, to answer your question: yes. You should ask Darwin more about it when you meet him. You can even ask the sport bike people that do tricks in the university parking lot on Sunday mornings. They'll be there tomorrow. Darwin's invited me to watch, but it isn't something I'm interested in."
Charles shook his head, "I don't think I'd care to watch, either. A bunch of hoodlums doing wheelies? That sounds far less interesting than my research."
It was the right thing to say. To his left, Hank's eyes crinkled with a sudden grin. "I totally agree."
Thankfully, the university wasn't far removed from the airport, but the traffic was sluggish all the same. Despite his fascination with the desert terrain, Charles dozed most of the way to the school, only waking when Hank tapped his shoulder hesitantly.
"Professor," the young man said, "we're here. I know you're tired, but security has to get you set up. Somebody from your department will meet with you on Monday and show you around."
Charles rubbed ineffectually at his face. Traveling had been tiresome, but he felt wearier than the trip could account for. Noticing a few motorcycles in the parking lot, one of which was chained to a light pole, he guessed why. He really didn't want to revisit the troublesome past, though he had the courage to do so.
"I hope they aren't taking my photo today," he sighed, getting out of the car and stepping into the relatively warm air. He stretched his arms over his head, trying to straighten the cumulative kinks in his back. A wind was picking up, blowing dust and tiny yellow flowers across the asphalt from trees clustered near the building.
"I'm pretty sure that's what they're doing," Hank replied, staring at a suitcase in the car's backseat. "Why don't we leave your luggage in here for now? I'm not sure if they have you in a hotel tonight or somewhere off campus. Darwin should be back before long, but if he isn't, I'll give you a lift."
"There's an apartment off campus for visiting professors," Charles returned, dragging out his laptop case. "You know, it is positively inhuman to force a person to submit to security photographs after almost ten hours of travel. I've had my fill of escalators, moving walkways, baggage carts, nosy customs agents, and criminally deficient airline legroom."
"That's understandable," Hank said, though he didn't sound as if he sympathized. "Just try to make a good impression on the security personnel. Maybe they'll let you retake the photo."
The security team did no such thing. It was as if Charles' vast charisma worked in the opposite direction with the group. The more charm he exuded, the more annoyed the security officers running the equipment became. When he was finally given his security tag, he stared at the photo distastefully. Surely his lips weren't that dark, nor his cheeks so pasty, nor his eyes so… colorless. The likeness was only his in outline, and barely that, as the printer had softened what sharp lines his jaw and chin boasted.
"That's a terrible picture, Professor Xavier," said somebody that wasn't Hank from his side.
"Isn't it?" Charles snapped, his temper flaring. "How small-minded this so-called security team is. And rude. I shouldn't think that taking horrid pictures of staff would make up for all the childhood years of being last-picked for sports."
The other laughed smoothly, "I think you're just tired from your trip and taking it out on the locals."
Charles looked up and to the side at his new guest. "And I suppose your photo was better?"
The thin young man brandished his tag at Charles. The photo was so dark that the only feature Charles could make out was the white of the man's eyes. Rather than the photo, though, the name beside the dark photo was of note: Armando Muñoz.
"Yeah, my photo is better," the young man chuckled, and then held his hand out to Charles. "I'm Darwin. Sorry I couldn't pick you up on time today."
Charles took the offered hand and shook it. "I'm sorry about your car. Mr. McCoy told me that you had personalized it quite a bit."
The younger man shrugged slightly, "Cars are like relationships, Professor; there'll be others. Best not get hung up on the ones that get taken."
The response pulled a chuckle from Charles. "I like your philosophy. We should get drinks when I'm less cranky. You must know several of the best places to imbibe a little liquor around here."
Darwin flashed a smile at Charles. "I can see you're going to be trouble, Professor. Security team's already got you pegged as the type that fraternizes with the student body."
The roll of Charles' eyes would not ease the team's fears had they seen it. "While student bodies are often tempting, I do have a modicum of professional policy which I strictly adhere to."
"We'll see how long that lasts," Darwin said with mock dubiousness. "Why don't I take you to your apartment so you can rest? The location's pretty good; a lot of shops in walking distance. The school's not too far, either, but a bit of a trek on foot."
"Sounds brilliant," Charles agreed. "Shall we locate Hank and collect my luggage from his car?"
With his eyes shut, Charles couldn't always tell the difference between tuner cars and motorcycles. He did, however, know the very specific sound of an older model Kawasaki ZX6R when he heard it. At least, that's what he thought every time he heard a transverse in-line four cylinder engine with a Yoshimura exhaust pipe.
The motorcycle revving ridiculously in his apartment complex's parking lot at 3AM, was just such a combination. The sound ripped him from his bed and onto the floor in a wretched heap of gasping breaths, pounding heart, and trembling limbs. He huddled a moment on the floor, trying to regain some semblance of normalcy.
He lifted his head and looked swiftly around the room. There was fake hardwood flooring beneath him. White walls all around. Everything spoke of apartment living. This was not the east coast. There was no cacophony of nighttime creatures filling a humid summer's night. Still, Charles crawled on hands and knees to the window and parted the venetian blinds to look outside.
There was no Max Eisenhardt waiting outside for him. Even in the dark, Charles could see the young man sitting on the older model black Ninja was on the balls of his sneakered feet. With his long inseam, Max would be sitting lean and flat-footed. He would have a battered Arai helmet on his head and a flawless Nolan helmet waiting behind him beneath a bungee cargo net.
However, Max had died that horrendous night in August. Charles' step-father had been furious at losing the chance to press charges against the older boy. The accident had been so bad, the authorities said, that there was nothing recognizable left. All Charles had left from that night was terror, laughter, and the sound of an engine.
And the feel of Max's lips pressed firmly against his.
If he'd thought he'd hear the sound of Max's engine in Phoenix, the thought would have promoted the production of a list of pros and cons concerning his visiting professor opportunity. He hadn't given motorcycles any thought when he accepted the offer that took him from his comfortable, and often motorcycle-free, tenure in Oxford. If he were honest, he would have balked, but would still overcome his misgivings in order to be closer to Raven.
Shakily, Charles reached out and shut the window to muffle the enthusiastic revver. He rose up and then fell back into bed. He hoped the Ninja's owner wasn't going to be a frequent visitor. Once ensconced back in the warm safety of his sheets, he took up his phone and typed a simple text to Raven.
There are too many motorcycles in Phoenix. He didn't expect a response, so he pushed his face into a pillow and tried to sleep. To his surprise and vague delight, the phone pinged its receipt of a reply only seconds later.
How many times do I have to forgive you?
"It isn't just you," Charles sighed, "but always once more than the last." Before he could type the response, a new text arrived.
You should get another bike. Legally this time. Then ride the shit out of it until the old memories don't crop up every time you see a red Ninja.
It wasn't the first time Raven had made the suggestion. Usually he disregarded the advice, but this time he nodded to himself. I'll do it, just as soon as I get back to Oxford. Bike thievery is too prevalent to buy one here.
After a few moments Raven's reply arrived. Get something sexy. A Ducati. And two helmets! You will be taking me out! Btw, stop staying up so late on school nights, Professor!
Charles breathed a sigh that was half laughter and set the phone aside again. He was the one with the PhD, but Raven was always teaching himself something new.