Chapter 3: The Laboratory
Erik finally found it within himself to go down those stairs to the first basement and see Charles. For too long he had swam in overwhelming guilt, distracting himself by going to New York and extricating himself from the rancor of the mansion. The too-familiar interactions that used to give him a sense of belonging was a loud ringing ball of confusion now, with the children uncertain as to how to approach him, or anyone from Shaw's team for the matter.
He brought them here, and he left them to their own devices, without knowing the possible consequences. When he came back to the mansion, he was hit with an unexpected surge of relief—that Riptide had not summoned a vortex blasting one of the parlors off the building, or Alex had not lost control of his powers and seared holes through the roof. Hank must have been doing a commendable job of keeping everyone from killing each other.
He would deal with them later—there were more pressing matters after all.
The hall turned right and Erik followed through it, never breaking stride. That is, until he reached the lab, and he stopped just short of anyone being able to see him through the open doors, his eyes widening a fraction.
No, Erik thought, his head shaking in bleak realization along with his thoughts. Please, no. The sound was clear, distinct, telling. It couldn't have been anything else. If it had been someone else but Charles, everyone would have been down here. No, Charles was alive. Charles was awake. Erik's ribs ached, his heart threatening to burst.
Crying.
It was a stubbornly held-back series of sniffles, so not unlike something Charles would do. And why hadn't he caught his bearings and straightened himself? Charles would never be caught dead at a low point, without fixing himself somewhat.
The cold, pointed side of the helmet that brushed Erik's cheek just as he tried to peek inside answered it for him. Right, I am wearing this thing. Erik got a good look at the other man—lying prone on the bed, his upper body elevated by a number of pillows—Charles had one arm slung over his eyes to cover them, as the small, trembling gasps escaped from his slightly open mouth. Erik was most simply devoured by a ravenous guilt, and an urge to do something, anything, to stop the gut-wrenching sound.
He decided to take the helmet off, and lay it all out there. The presence of Erik's mind so suddenly close in proximity to Charles' made the professor freeze mid-gasp, dropping his arm and searching for the person who had intruded.
"Erik," Charles breathed, "you're back." Charles made quite a show of wiping his eyes with hands and pyjama sleeves, looking for all the world like a very young boy.
"Charles," Erik responded, walking slowly, tentatively towards Charles' gurney. Charles shouldn't be cooped up like this, surrounded by sterile lab equipment and daunting technology. He belonged in a lecture room, or a podium, or a parlor with tea and chess, for crying out loud. Not like this, not like an invalid whose hope had been torn from him. Not crying. Never crying. Erik didn't think he would ever get the image of a broken Charles Xavier off his mind, ever, unless Charles himself tore it from him.
"I feel very silly now, for not putting into consideration Shaw's helmet—or, is it yours, now, my friend?" Charles half-exclaimed, half-asked. Erik could only nod.
"How?" Erik asked, hollowly.
Charles tilted his head in confusion for a moment, wondering what that very vague question intoned. He never really rubbed away his tear tracks, and the way his crystalline blue eyes caught the light along with the tracks tore Erik asunder.
"I survived? Hank told me that Janos was a very accomplished surgeon, and fixed me right up," Charles said, his voice cheerful as ever. At Erik's lost expression, Charles supplied, "Riptide," for him.
No. "No, how—how could you still call me that?"
"I'm sorry?" Charles said, and it took him a second, going back to what he had said, to figure out what Erik had meant.
"You mean—oh, Erik," Charles said suddenly, his voice descending to a gentle whisper. "Erik, you are still very much a friend of mine—no matter what circumstance dictates."
Erik reeled back and almost wanted to run away, a stupid sort of heat threatening to prickle where his eyes were. He kept shaking his head.
"I won't pretend to know why you're treating me as such, Charles, not when—not when I've done this to you," Erik said, gesturing hopelessly at Charles' legs. What was indicative of the consequence that arose from Charles' being shot in the back was in the room with them, sidled against Charles' bed—a rather ornate, silver-crafted wheelchair.
The subdued, silver-flecked teal of Erik's eyes were miserable. Charles placed his hands on his lap, feeling sad.
"I'm so very sorry, Erik."
"Sorry?" Erik snapped, and for a hair's moment the metal in the room buzzed in anticipation, but Erik held himself in check just in time. One of the machines hooked to Charles could very well be supporting his very life at the moment, and causing things to vibrate might not be productive. Charles had flinched at the sudden tone of his friend, and looked away from the man.
"Yes," Charles just said. "Please don't take the blame upon yourself. We were in over our heads, Erik, every one of us, thinking that we will leave the very frontiers of a starting nuclear war unscathed. It was so very optimistic … So very—me, I guess," he smiled fondly, "if what you and the children always think about me is to be accounted for. I guess too much time spent with me in the mansion has rubbed off the positivity on you lot."
Erik was floored. He prided himself—like every other prisoner of war—as a very resilient, hard-honed man for surviving the camps at his age back then, when he resorted towards making survival an absolute priority, no matter what happened. To see Charles approaching this—this debilitation in such an unflinchingly hopeful attitude was incomprehensible to him.
He just might have very well survived with me, had we been in the camps together.
It was a different sort of resilience, so unlike his own, one that thrived with effortless, unsinkable hope.
"I don't," Erik started, shaking his head in incredulity. I don't know what to do with you, Charles Xavier. He heaved a heavy sigh and tried not to feel so guilty in Charles' presence, and took a seat next to the young invalid.
"How are you feeling?" Erik finally asked, fixing his attention towards Charles and Charles only.
"I'm faring well," Charles sighed. "I'll be stuck in a wheelchair for the time-being. It's uncomfortable, but it's better than dragging my feet around. Imagine me trying to grapple my way up the stairs in this mansion," he joked.
Erik could tell by the way Charles hesitated, and the way multiple expressions tried to battle for dominance in his face that he was really dampening the severity of his case.
Erik nodded slowly, his face returning to its usual cool stoicism. Charles cheerlessly noted how there was a hint of resignation and moroseness in that expression, now.
"Erik, this isn't permanent, no matter how brutally honest Hank and Janos put it," Charles muttered. "I'll work through this, someday."
Erik's eyes darted to meet Charles' own, and they held each other in regard for a moment. Erik nodded—a firm jerk of the head that told of serious determination.
"You will," Erik asserted. "I know you will, Charles."
x
"So, have you talked to Erik?" Sean asked. He and Hank were in the kitchen, preparing food for eight. Angel, as it turned out, had had enough of mutant life, and had returned to her hometown, condemning all of them to hell for putting her through it all, especially the CIA, who recruited her into their stupid mutant division, and Alex, for singeing off part of her wing and making her unable to fly for a while.
"As much as I could have managed," Hank said, pausing. "Which is, to say, not much," he admitted.
"But did you get anything?" Sean questioned, looking up from the onions he was chopping and fixing an insistent gaze on the furry mutant. Hank shrugged at him, and resumed searing some steaks.
"I think so. The presence of Azazel and Riptide bothers me, still, but Erik—along with Raven—"he seemed a bit bitter at having to say her name, "—assured me both that they would not be causing any trouble. They're just as lost as we are, Erik says. With no real direction in life but what Fate deals them."
They were silent for a while, contemplating on the new development. They were preparing a basic meal, one with potatoes, onions and carrots, and steaks and gravy.
"What's going to happen to us, then?" Sean asked, quietly enough that Hank almost stopped himself from answering what seemed to be a rhetorical question.
"Charles wishes to continue on with making this a school, but he still isn't sure what Erik wants," Hank said as quietly. Another steak seared beautifully, and he was already on to the next.
"I say we confront him," a voice from the door adjoining the hall said. The two teens turned to look, finding Alex leaning against the countertop, his white shirt soiled with some grease. Alex had taken it upon himself to maintain any of the mansion cars, just in case they needed them.
"I agree," Sean said, looking at Hank hopefully.
"As long as it doesn't involve violence, I think that we should, too," Hank said finally, after holding Sean's gaze. "Though we can't overstep our boundaries. This school idea's always been Charles' and Erik's. And the both of them are in very sensitive positions at the moment, what with Charles being incapacitated and Erik—well, Erik causing it, indirectly."
"Whatever. We'll sock him in the face if he decides to run off on us," Alex said offhandedly, grabbing a glass from a cupboard and filling it with drinking water, just after washing his hands clean of grease.
"I'll scream him to death," Sean said simply, smilingly.
Hank began to feel hopeful. Maybe things were not as hard as they seem they would be, now.
v
Note: Chapta 3 oveerrrr. Whatcha think? Review on this why don'tcha? I'm beginning to love how this is turning out. Mind you I was watching First Class while typing this, and was very much filled with Cherik feels in the beach scene, where Erik has Charles in his arms. 'I want you by my side' GAH isn't that just the icing on the fandom cake?