This chapter is marginally happier than the past three have been, but it does have a depressing and very intense ending.
This is chapter is probably my favorite one because of the first half of this. I hope you enjoy it half as much as I enjoyed writing it.
The Perks of Being a Telepath
Chapter 7: Incredulity
The third time Erik saw Charles after the Cuban Missile Crisis was in a bar three months after their last meeting. The most shocking sight of all was the fact that Charles was walking.
It was close to midnight and it was raining once more. Why it always seemed to be raining whenever he was around Charles was beyond Erik.
He had just left another CIA base and had once more been thwarted. They had lost Riptide—he had been shot and killed before the mission even truly began. Mystique had been hurt, too, trying to protect Erik.
Why did everyone he care about always get hurt trying to save him? First it had been his mother, then it had been his wife and daughter, then Charles, and now Mystique.
Was the world purposely trying to make sure he lost everyone he cared about?
It was with that miserable thought that Erik had left an injured Mystique, a shell-shocked Angel, and Azazel to go in search of alcohol and a way to forget the fact that they depended on him for survival and he had let them down.
Well, he was actually in search of Charles, but his conscious refused to admit to that. Especially after their last two meetings where Charles had practically kicked him out of his life.
The bar's name was forgotten amongst Erik's dark, spiraling thoughts. He was vaguely aware of the fact that he was still dressed in his cape and helmet—which had appeared sometime between his last meeting with Charles and the CIA mission gone wrong—if only because it served to earn him strange looks as he entered the bar.
Fortunately for him—not that he knew it—it was Halloween and he was merely written off as a strange adult male with an obsession for dressing up.
The bartender didn't say anything as he handed over Erik's beer, nor did he say anything when the bottle cap unscrewed itself on its own accord. Bartenders were trained not to notice things like that.
A loud, obnoxious, British voice filled the bar—though the words were completely lost to Erik, it seemed to be some sort of joke, for a lot of the occupants laughed.
He turned, wondering who the hell would be this boisterous on such a night—Erik ignored the fact that it was possible no one else knew orcared about his failed mission—and almost dropped his beer in surprise.
Standing on top of a table, with a large glass tube full of beer in one hand, was none other than Charles Xavier.
Erik could do nothing except stare.
Charles seemed oblivious to the fact that Erik was there as he once more addressed the crowd with a grin. Erik could feel the waves of giddiness and excitement pouring off them—no doubt exacerbated by a drunk telepath.
Charles asked something that Erik couldn't make out over the screaming crowd and the pounding rock music, but the crowd's noise grew in intensity in response.
Erik watched with guarded amusement as Charles put the large glass tube—yardofale, Erik's mind supplied—to his lips and began to chug.
It was so far removed from the mental image of Charles that Erik had been clinging to that it was almost as if it were another person. In fact, had Erik not known that Raven—Mystique—was at home with a broken leg, he would have sworn it was her impersonating Charles.
Charles, much to Erik's growing astonishment and to the crowd's growing excitement, finished off the beer with a yell of triumph. He hopped off the table, grinning widely, and accepted the admirations from his crowd.
He was still grinning as he walkedto the bar, having not yet noticed Erik.
"Barkeep, I'll take another one, please!"
His British accent was more pronounced than Erik ever remembered hearing it and he seemed to be swaying slightly on the spot.
"I think you've had enough, son."
Charles sighed dramatically and the crowd behind him shouted their disapproval. Erik was hardly surprised—Charles always did know how to get people to follow him.
Placing a hand on his temple, Charles adapted a look of concentration. Erik was almost tempted to laugh.
"Here you are. And it's on the house, too."
The bartender had a glazed look in his eye as he handed over the next round of beer. The crowd's excitement grew.
"Don't you think that's cheating?"
Charles froze halfway between grabbing the yard from the bartender and turned to Erik. His eyes were comically wide as he took in the sight of Erik sitting at the bar next to him.
"Erik!"
Of all the greetings he had been expecting, Erik definitely hadn't been prepared for a bear hug and a huge, drunken grin.
"Charles, what are you doing?"
"Drinking, Erik. Duh. I thought that was obvious."
Erik turned to the bartender, who obviously came back to his senses long enough to take the yard of beer away from Charles once more and dump it down the drain with a shake of his head.
"How many has he had?"
"Two like this one since I've been here. I don't know how many he had before I arrived."
Charles was grinning and swaying as he looked at Erik with unfocused eyes.
"You look funny in that hat."
Erik sighed. Where the hell was Hank or Sean or someone capable of dealing with Charles when he was drunk?
"You are more than capable of handling me, Erik, and that is an i-i-invitation."
Charles hiccupped, not noticing Erik's stunned look. Not at the gay innuendo—Charles flirted with everything that moved (or, at least, he had)—but at the fact that he had so obviously read Erik's mind.
"I am hica telepath, stupid. And I resent your implicationhic. I hic do have standards."
Erik raised an eyebrow, deciding to hide his growing surprise behind cynicism.
"Really, Charles? You have standards?"
"Yes hic I do. And it would behoove you to know that your sarcasm is highly unappreciated."
Indignant, drunk and so very, very Charles. There was no other man on the planet who could be completely wasted and be ever so proper about insults.
"You hic say that like it's a bad thing."
"Don't you think it's past your bed time, Professor?"
"No. I'm a grown man who has a PhD in genetics. I think I can decide when it is my bedtime or not. And whether or not I need another drink."
He said this pointedly to the bartender, who merely ignored him. Erik figured that was probably a good thing.
"You are being singularly unhelpful, my friend."
It was the first time Charles had called him a friend since the Cuban Missile Crisis. Erik pretended like it wasn't that big of a deal.
"I'm doing it for your own good, Charles. I highly doubt Hank and Sean will want to deal with your hangover in the morning."
"They won't be witness to it, for I have no plans of returning there."
This surprised Erik, perhaps more than Charles' newfound ability to walk or to read his mind through the helmet.
"What?"
"Don't pretend you didn't hear me when I know you understood me perfectly. Daftness doesn't suit you, Erik."
"Why aren't you planning on returning?"
"It's full of nightmares and darkness and shadows."
Erik's eyebrow inched higher at Charles' profound, if slightly childish admission.
"You have never mentioned that before."
"You never asked. Of all the time we spent together, you never asked. You were obsessed with becoming more powerful, with killing Shaw, with starting a war with the humans… You never did ask about anything that didn't give you more information about your enemies."
"It's been keeping me alive."
It's been almost getting you killed.
Erik wasn't sure if that was his memory, Charles' memory, or Charles' thought—or all three—that floated through his head.
"I may be drunk, Erik, but that doesn't mean I have forgotten what's happened between us."
Charles suddenly sounded the very opposite of drunk as he sat down on a barstool next to Erik. Up until that point, he had been leaning casually against the bar, as though it had been the only thing keeping him from face planting.
Which, it probably had.
Erik sighed.
"I wasn't expecting you to be here."
"Nor I you. Yet here we are."
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Erik took another sip of his beer, while Charles played with the bottle cap on the counter. The metal bender was the first to break the silence.
"What—what did you mean, the mansion is full of nightmares?"
I thought that was only my life.
Charles closed his eyes, clenching his hand around the bottle cap until his knuckles turned white.
"You are not the only one with a dark past, Erik."
Erik studied Charles' face—really studied it, for what felt like the first time—and noted that despite outward appearances of youthfulness and buoyancy, Charles looked no better than he had their first meeting after the Cuban Missile Crisis. The dark circles underneath his eyes were darker, his face was gaunt, and his hair—his ridiculously long, usually well kept hair—was shorter now, and not as neat as it once had been. His clothes were different, too. He had foregone his black slacks, long sleeved shirts, and cardigans in favor of a pair of jeans, a short sleeve v-neck shirt, and a black button up jacket. He wore boots instead of his usual loafers.
The change was frightening. It was as though the sky had suddenly been changed to red or the sun had disappeared or something else completely drastic.
"Don't be ludicrous, Erik. Changing my clothes isn't going to cause the sun to burn out."
"You cut your hair."
Charles almost smiled.
"Why are you here, Erik?"
Diversion. It was an art form Erik had perfected.
"You didn't answer the question."
"Nor did you."
"I asked first."
"And you think I'm childish?"
They glared at each other in a battle of wills only one could win. Finally, Charles sighed and looked away.
"Hank has been experimenting with Cerebro again."
It was surprising information that had nothing to do with anything Erik had wanted to know.
"It does."
"Stay out of my head."
The words were flat, but without any real heat behind them.
"My telepathy is a little out of control at the moment. I apologize in advance if I unduly read your mind. Alcohol and Cerebro have adverse effects on my control."
"I thought you couldn't read my mind with the helmet."
Charles ignored him. Erik took the helmet off.
"Opening myself up to that many minds at one time… it's invigorating, to say the least. And wonderful. I imagine the only think like it would be lifting a submarine with nothing but your mind."
Erik heard the pride behind Charles' tone—which was surprising to say the least.
"I do not hate you, Erik. Nor am I angry at you. Not anymore."
Erik couldn't doubt the truthfulness in Charles' voice, which surprised him almost as much as the other things about Charles.
"You were talking about Cerebro."
He hadn't meant to sound harsh, but Charles' words had brought up so many emotions that Erik didn't want to deal with at the moment that he decided a change in subject would be the best.
"Now who is dodging the question?"
Charles had the beginnings of a smirk on his face, though the expression didn't reach his eyes. He sobered again.
"It's also like a drug—I will admit to getting high off the power it has."
Erik tried and failed to imagine a high Charles.
"Sean claims it's quite scary."
"Sean is scared of everything."
"Yet he still managed to jump out an airplane and into hostile waters."
Erik took a huge swig of beer and waited for Charles to continue with the story.
"Drugs, like alcohol, serve to strip away at anyone's control. It's why you shouldn't drive or try to rob the CIA when under the influence."
Erik rolled his eyes at the irony.
"Are you trying to lecture me, Professor?"
Charles let out a chuckle.
"No. God knows that you wouldn't listen to me anyway."
Behind his humor was a stark depression that made Erik wince with the strength of it.
"Charles-."
"What's done is done, Erik. It is time for you to move on. Like I have. Forgive and forget, as Sean's mother likes to say."
"You've met Sean's mother?"
"She's a truly delightful woman, if not a little high most of the time."
Erik smiled slightly.
"Anyway. Whenever I use Cerebro, I wind up having nightmares. They're not always mine, but they're never pleasant. And my control is always shot, so I always wind up projecting, if you'll remember."
Erik did, quite vividly, actually, the nights at the CIA base and at random hotels before the Cuban Missile Crisis where Charles had overdone it with the telepathic-run machine. It had never been very pleasant, to be having a good dream of his own only to have Charles' own warped conscious get involved. Erik remembered one time where he had been dreaming about finally lifting that damned submarine when suddenly, it had changed to a bar, not unlike this one, where Charles was surrounded by a bunch of mannequins.
"Of course you would remember that one."
Charles, alcohol, and sarcasm were rarely a good mix.
"Your fear of mannequins is your own fault. You are the one with that blasted room full of them."
"And I did my best to get rid of them, though, I guess I'll have to find alternative uses for them now."
Erik wasn't sure if it was his own sorrow or Charles' projected that caused the tears to prick his eyes. He looked away.
"I'm sorry, my friend. It's still a raw memory for me."
"I understand."
They were silent for a few more minutes, while the crowd behind them came to the realization their main source of entertainment wasn't coming back. There was a sudden decrease in sound as the mood of the bar became sober and quiet once more.
"You know, manipulating moods isn't part of a normal telepath's ability."
"And what exactly is the definition of a normal telepath, Charles?"
"I'm still working on that definition. It's for my research paper."
"You're working on a research paper when the mutants and the humans are on the brink of war?"
"Both the humans and the mutants are going to start searching for experts on the matter sooner or later. I might as well be one of them."
"So why do you have the ability to manipulate moods, if it's not part of a normal telepath's ability? And how many telepaths have you studied?"
"Me. And Emma Frost, before she went and sold herself and you to the CIA to the highest bidder. You do realize that's why your plans are constantly being thwarted, right? Because of that diamond bitch?"
Erik really had to remember that Charles was drunk and not purposely looking to give Erik the incentive to hit him.
"And as I mentioned a few months ago, I can feel all of the emotions behind your thoughts. Emma was never able to do that."
"You were always more human then she was."
"I will pretend that wasn't an insult."
"Good. It honestly wasn't meant to be. Now what does all of that mean?"
"I have no idea."
"Wow. This research paper of yours—it's absolutely stellar."
"Your rudeness is not helping anything."
"It's helping me."
"There is that."
They were silent for again. Charles spoke first.
"Could I possibly have some of your beer? As you've seen, I'm not going to get anymore from the bartender tonight."
"I think you've had quite enough."
"Who are you, my mother?"
"Thank God I'm not. I don't want to imagine you as a child."
"I assure you, I honestly was quite delightful."
Erik snorted. Charles smiled and this time, it did reach his eyes.
"Erik?"
"What, Charles?"
"I've missed you."
"I've missed you too, Charles."
Charles collapsed against the closest cinderblock wall, his legs finally giving out. He closed his eyes, shuddering with both cold and pain as his amassed injuries over the past two months finally caught up with him.
You promised me, Charles. You promised me you would get out.
I promised you a great deal of things, I'm afraid.
He tried not to let the memory of the last time he had told someone that take control of him. It had been three years, damn it, and he needed to move on.
Don't do this. Don't you dare give up on me now.
I'm sorry, my friend.
They had almost been caught. It had taken everything Charles had left in him to erase the memories of the guards of ever seeing the twenty-seven fleeing mutants as well as force said twenty-six other fleeing mutants to go on without him.
It had almost killed him to make Erik leave him behind.
But he had to.
No, you didn't, you bastard, and you know it.
My parents were married when I was born.
Charles…
The warning in Erik's mind was clear.
I can't move, Erik. Hank's serum… it finally wore off. For good this time.
I'm coming back to get you.
No. You're free now. They'll catch you if you come back.
Idon'tcare,Charles.I'mcomingbackforyouandyou'rejustgoingtohavetodealwithit.
Don't make me force you.
Goddamnit, I'm not leaving you behind! They'll kill you!
No, they won't. Not for a while, at least.
Erik growled. Charles huffed a sigh.
Raven, Sean, and the others are going to need you, Erik.
They need you more.
High heels clacked on the laminated floor, drawing ever closer to Charles' hiding spot.
I'm afraid that's not going to happen, my friend. But listen to me. You can lead them. They look up to you, Erik. They respect you. Raven and Sean especially. Keep them safe. You're the only one who can.
You're not going to die, Charles.
The footsteps paused on the other side of the corner. Charles opened his eyes.
Hauntingly familiar brown eyes stared back into his own, absent of all recognition.
"Hello, Moira."
A gun's safety clicked off.
Charles was distinctly aware of Erik shouting in the back of his mind as the gun was fired.
His last thought before he sank in to a world of blackness was that he had done too good of a job on Moira.
She had forgotten him completely.
