Summary: During their captivity in the Savage Land, Charles and Erik reflect on their shared past, and the origins of Brainchild are revealed. Alternate title: "The One Where Magneto Drunk-Dials His Secret Boyfriend and Then Does Bad Science."

Sometimes When We Touch, The Honesty's Too Much

There's obviously a higher purpose to their capture, as evidenced by the sniveling creature who orders them to be chained to the wall before they can follow in Ka-Zar's footsteps and escape. "The savage is of little importance," he shrieks, rubbing his small hands together. There's something vaguely grotesque about the stout creature's swelled head and stubby limbs, and Charles tries not to shudder when beady eyes rake over both him and Magneto. "They are who the master wants."

"Who is your master?" Charles asks politely. Beside him, Magneto just glowers.

The creature - Brainchild, he told them previously them with a flourish - stamps his tiny, shoeless feet. "Your insolence will be punished!" he promises, shaking a finger at them, and Charles sighs and wiggles his bound arms unsuccessfully. "Yes, that's very informative," he mutters as Brainchild stalks away, and Magneto snorts.

As they watch Brainchild continue to prance around, elated at their apparently long-awaited abduction, a thought occurs to Charles. "He's one of yours," he says suddenly.

Magneto raises a bushy eyebrow. "Pardon?" he asks.

"He's yours," Charles continues. "A mutate. You created him when you first came to this land, yes?" When Magneto looks shiftily away, Charles gets suspicious. "He's sort of strange," he offers pointedly. Finally, he drops all pretenses of subtlety: "What, precisely, was the point of him? Most of the others I understand, but ... he seems sort of, you know. Unnecessary."

"Yes, well." Magneto's voice is clipped and tinged slightly with embarrassment. "Do you remember that night, some years back," he murmurs, unable to meet Charles' gaze, "when I, erm, called you? I was, ah, rather emotional at the time. There may have been some rambling soliloquies involved," he continues, and suddenly, Charles' expression brightens in recognition.

"You mean that time you drunk-dialed me?"

"I did not drunk-dial you, Charles. I'm not one of those misguided, super-powered children you babysit, for God's sake."

"You were rather inebriated, Magnus. There was singing involved. Or rather, the crooning of romantic ballads, interspersed with lengthy proclamations of lost love. You know, if I'm recalling it all correctly. It's been a while."

"In any case," the Master of Magnetism presses on, flushing a little, "I was ... in the process of creating mutates while that incident that you're going to promise not to breathe a word of to anybody for as long as we both live transpired. And ... due to my aforementioned vaguely inebriated state, ..."

"I could practically smell the alcohol through the telephone," Charles interjects cheerfully.

"Due to the aforementioned circumstances," Magneto says again, glaring unhappily, now, "I may have miscalculated some things during the, ahem, creation process of this particular mutate. Some of his genetic components were rather exaggerated," and here, Charles assumes that Magneto is referring to Brainchild's oversized skull, "and others more diminished than I had intended them to be. In this case," he says, nodding at the mutate-in-question, who is currently chastising one of his fellow minions for daring to touch their elusive master's control panel with "unworthy hands," "the results were particularly unfortunate."

"Indeed." Charles eyes the creature again with a furrowed brow. "And what were his abilities intended to be before the culmination of your failed experiment came to fruition?" he asks, seeking confirmation for his suspicions. Judging from the other man's increasingly guilty face, Magneto knows he's fucked. He mumbles something, and Charles' eyes narrow. "I didn't quite hear that, Magnus."

"Rudimentary telepathic capabilities," he whispers. "I was going to teach him to play chess ..." he adds hastily, but Charles' own peculiar eyebrows have already shot clean up to his forehead.

"That ... thing was supposed to be a replacement for me?" They watch Brainchild scamper across the room on dirty, naked, doll-sized feet to reprimand yet another mutate, this time for inquiring as to the master's whereabouts ("He will return when we are worthy of his return!"). "Really, Magnus? Were you planning to have carnal relations with it, as well?"

"Not when it came out looking like that," Magneto blanches. "It was meant to be an homage, Charles!" he hisses when the other man's face continues to darken.

"Yes, well. Perhaps I'll create an homage to you. All I'll need is a scarecrow and a bucket for him to wear on his head."

"There's no need to take your frustration out on my helmet, Charles."

Charles relents. "I'm sorry," he says sincerely. "But," he adds, "Brainchild is gross, Magnus."

"Yes." His voice drops an octave, and Charles has to strain to hear him. "I had meant to, you know, take care of him once I realized what I'd created; but then I woke up with a splitting headache, and by the time I managed to resolve the more immediate issue of being covered in my own vomit, he had already escaped into the jungle. I had hoped nature would run its course," he confides, "but somehow, he's persevered."

"Indeed. And now," Charles continues, frowning again at his companion, "he's joined the ranks of creatures who wish to cause you bodily harm for abandoning them."

"Something like that." At the very least, Magneto has the grace to look chagrined. "I think he likes you, though," he offers brightly.

Charles sighs. "Lucky me," he mutters.