A wild X-Men fic appears!

I don't even like X-Men all that much, but apparently I was enamoured enough to write this, haha. I found it lurking in an old folder on my computer and I actually quite like it (or should I say ... I like Erik and Charles) so I thought I'd share :)

Set just after X-Men: First Class.

It had been months. It felt like years; after so long alone, it seemed incredible to Erik that found himself unequal to solitude now. For he was alone. He had surrounded himself with mutants whom he could never fully trust, and whom could never fully trust him. It was a silly picture. He felt even Mystique's yellow gaze, when his back was turned.

And the telepath. How he loathed her.

Some part of him had hoped that, being a telepath, she would innately fill the space Charles had occupied. For, surely, what had gone on between them had less to do with personality, and more to do with mutation. Charles understood him because his mutation allowed him to. But here she was, as much of a telepath as Charles ever was, and utterly insufferable. She was useful, however, and in the moments where he was not wearing his helmet, she did not seem to care what he thought of her.

But then, what had he expected? Something a little grander, to be sure, like a tidal wave of influence, in which the world would be made to see. Tidal waves were proving hard to engineer. His most frequent thought was that the work would have gone along far smoother, and with greater alacrity, if only Charles could have been made to agree.

"We should talk," Mystique said, and Erik glanced sideways at her. She was blue, and beautiful. She was also getting along famously with their new colleagues, and he could not bring himself to be quite so energetic. They had a common goal, he and his allies—they weren't quite friends; he'd only ever had one of those—but they lacked a certain amount of finesse. He longed for a game of chess and brandy that hadn't been stolen.

"About?" he asked, and drained his glass of said stolen brandy.

"About the speeches tomorrow."

He didn't need his crystalline telepath to guess that much. The Human-Mutant Debates. Even the title offended him. Why not Mutant-Human Debates? Why debate at all? It seemed simple enough to him. Humans were inferior to mutants. Therefore—

Tomorrow was a big day, and not only for the speakers.

"I've heard rumors that—" She stopped.

"The faster you come out with it, the faster I can dismiss it," said Erik, feeling impatient, and wondering if there was any brandy left.

"The Professor's going to be there, Erik," she said. "They're trying to keep it quiet, but he is."

Erik's fingers slipped on the glass and only just kept their grip. He did not look at her. He did not look towards Emma, who had surely felt the wave of dread that had swept through him. Not dread of Charles: but, rather, the dread of what he might have to do. Charles would certainly stand in his way. He had done it before. And when he did—

"If he comes," Erik said, his voice entering the room cold and clear, "he shall suffer the consequences. He knows precisely who he faces."

"You think he knows about it? About what we're planning?"

"My dear girl," Erik said to Mystique, an expression very close to surprise on his face, "I thought you knew him better than that."

The helmet felt snug. It bit into his neck a little, at the back, and made him long to take it off. He wouldn't, though. Not for a second.

His people were in position. So too were Charles's people, if he knew Charles half as well as he thought, but his eyes roved the hall looking not for the so-called "X-Men" (ridiculous name) but instead for Charles. The speakers were gathering; soon the time would come.

But the audience was too vast. He could see nothing, could not make a proper search of it without being noticed. Emma nodded to him, and before the speakers could get themselves sorted onstage, Erik had flung out his cloak and strode boldly out before them.

"Hello, ladies and gents," he said, as charmingly as he could. "I'm usurping your entertainment for the night."

Rumbles of surprise and worry rose from the crowd.

"Our message is simple," he continued, leaning into the microphone. "We are not a disease. We will not be cataloged. We will not be enslaved. We will not be made to grovel at the feet on the human race."

"That is not what they are asking, Erik," a voice said. It had been long months since Erik had heard that voice. His eyes swung round, looking for its origin, and, at last, found it. Charles had not even deigned to leave his chair, but sat while everyone else stood, regarding Erik coolly from afar.

"No?" Erik challenged, in as cool a voice as he could manage. "You don't see where debates such as these are leading?"

Charles's hand flexed over the arm of his chair. "I do," he said. "I see very clearly." The chair moved forward—there was a metallic hum of a motor to accompany it. "But what I envisage differs slightly from you, old friend."

And Erik understood.

It was not that Charles would not stand; it was that he couldn't. As the wheelchair drew closer to the stage, Erik fell back a step, and he heard Mystique whisper, "Erik?"

Because she'd known, of course. How she'd known, he didn't know, or care. He knew that she had not bothered to share. He knew that she had let all these months pass while Charles was—was—

Crippled.

The crowd was murmuring. Their faces were confused, perplexed; he was bungling his first public appearance. But a smile was tugging at the corners of Charles's lips, as if he knew precisely what was going through Erik's mind, even with the helmet safely guarding his thoughts.

A moment later, all was chaos. Charles had used himself as a diversion while his X-Men sought out Erik's followers. It was, if nothing else, effective, for Erik had failed the first rule of playing chess with Charles Xavier: assume, at all times, that he knows everything.

It was dark, and quiet. If there was anyone awake, they were not stirring; at least for the moment, Erik was alone. He kneaded his fists against his knees and tried to martial his thoughts into order, but they weren't obeying in the slightest. He could see, as if burned into his mind, the image of Charles rolling forward, and the horrible shock that had gone through him when he had realized that Charles's injury was because of him.

Slowly, very slowly, Erik reached up. He'd been wearing the helmet ever since they'd left the auditorium, although no one ever seemed to think it was necessary at such a distance. They didn't understand Charles. They barely seemed to know him at all, even Mystique, who should know better. They did not understand his goals, his methods, his morals. They certainly did not understand his dreams. But more than that, more than any of that, they did not understand Charles's power.

It was hard to pit himself against Charles and understand that at any moment, Charles could choose to kill him. He had fought Charles's friends and allies: he had hurt them. He was spiraling to ever more gruesome heights. And yet, after every new deed, he returned, took off the helmet, and waited. But it never happened. Wondering whether it was weakness or grace, he could never be sure.

He lifted the helmet off his head, as he always did, and waited. And, as there always was, nothing but silence followed.

You are alone in this, the silence seemed to say. I could kill you—I could speak to you. But I will not.

I did not want this, Erik thought into the silence. You cannot play with one hand tied behind your back.

That is where you are wrong, old friend, Charles's voice said, exploding into Erik's mind like a mortar blast. I can, and I will.

It is not what I wanted.

No, Charles agreed.

Is it—is it lasting damage?

It is permanent, I'm afraid, replied Charles, and managed to sound almost cheerful. There was a pause, and then Charles added in the equivalent of a whisper, I will never walk again, Erik.

And there was nothing but silence.