The constant throbbing of the helicopter's rotors finally dragged Charles out of the darkness. He moved as if to sit up, but a hand pressed to his chest, keeping him down.
"Stay there, Professor," he heard Sean's voice from somewhere above his head. And then, in mock-reproach: "You gave us all a scare."
Charles was instantly anxious. "Moira?" he gasped. His chest felt tight and painful; his heart was pounding and his breath was coming in gasps. And he was freezing.
"She's right here, and we think she's okay, but," Sean paused, "we can't get her to wake up."
"My doing," Charles replied, closing his eyes and putting two fingers to his temple. He couldn't remember his hand ever feeling so heavy. He had to do this carefully, so that she wouldn't wake in a panic, thinking they were still submerged in the truck. Wake up, Moira. Be calm. We've been rescued. He felt her mind stir in response, brightening like a candle touched by flame.
He allowed his hand to drop back to his side, and pressed his teeth together to keep them from chattering. Spoken conversation proving difficult, he switched to telepathy. How is everyone else?
"Hank is flying the helicopter and Alex is up there watching him. I think he's hoping that Hank will teach him how to be a pilot. And…"
A deeper voice interrupted. "And I'm here, too. Getting rather tired of rescuing you, you know."
Startled, Charles craned his neck in the direction of the voice. There was Erik, sitting across from him, wearing the helmet with a just the barest trace of a smile on his face. Of course, the helmet. Reaching out with his mind, Charles sensed Riptide and Angel, but no one else. He met Erik's eyes.
"Raven?" he rasped out.
"Is safe, though I have it on good report that she is furious with me for not allowing her to participate in this little operation."
Something about that statement seemed false to Charles, but he couldn't read Erik to determine the truth behind the statement and was too tired to ask. He shivered, then turned his face back to the ceiling; a position that was more comfortable both physically and emotionally.
"I'm sorry that you're still cold," Sean said. "Hank's got the heater as high as it will go. Your clothes were soaked, but we don't have any dry ones or blankets. Erik's jacket was the best that we could do."
Startled, Charles touched his chest and found that his shirt and lightweight wool jacket had been removed, and Erik's leather one was laid over him. This was followed by a brief moment of panic before another touch confirmed that he was still wearing his pants, though they were damp and sticky with salt water.
Three times, Charles thought, as he stared up at the ceiling of the helicopter. Three times in the past three weeks he'd passed out and then woken up somewhere else. It was getting to be a distressing habit.
It was dawn when Hank set the Chinook down in a field next to a private airport not far from Atlanta, Georgia.
"Now the hard part," Hank said. "Let's hope we can find a pilot who's willing take us to New York without asking too many questions."
Alex had yet to unbluckle himself from the co-pilots' seat. "Why can't we just take the helicopter?"
Hank rolled his eyes. He put his index finger up. "One. Because we're already low on fuel, and I doubt the Army is going to let us fill up on one of their bases." He put up another finger. "Two. Because they probably have aerial patrols out looking for us, right now. If they spot us, they're going to shoot us down."
"I get it," Alex interrupted.
Hank put up one more finger. "Three. It's stealing. And it might sound silly, but as much as I like this particular bird, I don't feel right about keeping it. Okay? Now we'd better move quickly. The transponder will eventually lead them right here."
Moria's CIA identification, along with a generous amount of cash, proved sufficient to arrange a private flight to New York; though more than a few people at the terminal stopped to stare at her rumpled, still-damp clothing and bedraggled hair. Some additional cash convinced the pilot to use visual flight rules only, eliminating the need to file a flight plan. They even managed to secure some blankets and pillows, although a change of clothing was out of the question. Charles ensured that no one in the small airport would remember seeing them after they'd left. By the time the military discovered the abandoned helicopter, they had literally vanished without a trace.
They said goodbye at the Westchester County Airport. The pilot had radioed ahead, so that a private car and a wheelchair were waiting for Charles and his group when they landed. Erik was well aware that Charles had plucked the location of their Montana safe house – and Raven – from Angel's head. So, he made no secret of their plans: the pilot would take them to Montana to retrieve Raven. Once safely away, they would settle in a new location.
Erik found himself having to look away when Hank lifted Charles from the airplane. It was bad enough to know that the telepath was paralyzed, but seeing him carried was somehow so much more painful than even seeing him in a wheechair. It drove home how broken his body was.
Seeing this, Hank growled softly in his throat at Erik. You can't even look at him, he thought. Gripping the handles of the wheelchair, he turned and set off with Charles as quickly as he could. By the time Erik looked back, they were halfway to the car. He flicked a finger, and the chair jerked out of Hank's grasp, turning around so that Erik could look Charles in the face. Hank moved as if to defend Charles, but there was enough metal in his clothing for Erik to push him back with ease.
"You're making a mistake, Charles," Erik snapped. "Haven't the events of the past month taught you anything? We need each other."
Charles wheeled himself the rest of the way back to Erik, searching his face for any sign of the friend he once knew. "Are you sure that I'm the one making a mistake?" he asked. "You don't have to do this, you know, go off to start a war with the entire human race. You could bring Raven back here; in fact, there is room for all of you." Charles' ever-so-dignified façade cracked, replaced by a frankly pleading tone. "Erik, I could use your help in starting the school; in helping Hank rebuild Cerebro. There's so much good that you and I could do as allies."
Erik allowed his imagination to take him back to the mansion, just for a moment. Then he shook his head. "You already know the answer." Charles winced, but he continued. "Allies have a common purpose, a shared goal. But you insist on chasing after an accommodation with humans. You were right when you said that we do not want the same things. We cannot be allies."
Charles gave him a look that was equal parts sorrow and determination. "If you do something that would cost lives – human or mutant – you must know that I will do everything in my power to stop you."
Erik nodded, but said nothing. It seemed there was nothing left to say. He started to turn away.
Charles broke the silence. "So, we cannot be allies," he said, giving Erik a tentative smile. "But, drinks by the fire, a game of chess – these are the things that friends do. If we cannot be allies, perhaps we could still be friends?"
It wasn't everything that either of them wanted, but it would have to do. Erik reached down and clasped Charles' hand. "Friends."
It was the morning of the next day when Erik, Riptide and Angel finally walked back into the Montana lake house. As he walked in the door, Erik sensed something flying at him. He threw up his hands, but the projectile was made of cloth, not metal, and hit him full in the face.
He pulled it back to study it for a moment. It was a wad of thick, magenta cloth. Then he noticed that Mystique was standing there, naked, blue, and furious.
"What is this?" he asked.
"It's your cape," she snarled. "If you're going to act like a villian, you might as well look like one."
"Where did you … " he started, and then looked around the room. Sure enough, the magenta drapes were now missing from the living room window.
"I'm sorry, Mystique," he replied. "But your power is in stealth, not fighting, and I only wanted to keep you safe."
She swung a fist at him. "You had no right …"
He caught her arm, and continued holding it, pulling her close to him. "Yes, I had every right. I am the leader of this group, and you will listen to me as long as you wish to be part of this group." His face softened a bit. "But as this involved someone close to you, I should have given you a choice, rather than sending you off with Azazel like that. It won't happen again."
Her arm relaxed, and he released it. She walked away for a few steps. Without turning around, she asked, "Where's Charles?"
"Charles is safe at his home, and the others are with him." She didn't react to this statement at all, and he wondered if the news made her happy or sad. Probably both, he thought.
"And Azazel?"
"He said that he would see you as soon as he is able. So, are you feeling better now?"
"A little," she replied. "But I'm still not sure what I'm doing here." She looked up at him with confusion in her eyes. "What are we all doing here? Taking up where Shaw left off?"
Now it was Erik's turn to be angry. "Unlike Shaw," he said, spitting out the name, "I am not planning to start a war on humanity. But we must be prepared to protect our kind by any means necessary. And that preparation is what we are doing here."
He put a hand on her cheek. "Raven, I want to create a world where you never have to hide: where none of us ever have to hide."He thought for a moment, and then wrapped the cape around his shoulders. "How did you make this?"
"I found a sewing kit in one of the bedrooms." She ducked her head in embarassment. "It gave me something to do after I'd broken all of the plates and glasses."
Erik laughed, noticing the destruction in the kitchen. "I'm glad you found a way to be more productive with your time." Then his face grew serious. "I want you to know what this cape means to me. It means not hiding. It means being proud of who we are. And I will wear it, in honor of you." He walked over to the mirror hanging on the far wall. "The color doesn't go with the helmet, though."
Raven grinned. "I can fix that."
Once they were safely resettled at the mansion, Hank mumbled some excuses about 'work to do,' and disappeared into the basement, towing Sean and Alex behind him. He emerged several hours later with a set of blueprints and a shopping list. Meanwhile, Moria had located a phone book, and began looking for a physical therapist willing to work with Charles at home.
Concerned at Charles' wan complexion, one of the therapist's first actions was to prescribe long walks around the grounds. It quickly became a treasured part of Charles' daily routine, regardless of the weather. He would push the wheels until his arms ached, and then Moira would take over. As his upper body strength grew, he was able to take on more of the distance. It also gave him a respite from the near-constant barrage of sawing and hammering in the house, as the boys put in ramps, widened doors, lowered sinks, and removed thresholds.
After about a week, Hank emerged from the basement to present Charles with a new, all-plastic wheelchair.
Alex pointed proudly to the unique design of the spokes. "That was my idea," he said. "Get it – the letter X for Professor X?"
Sean rolled his eyes. "He gets it! And anyway, I believe that the X in the spokes was my idea."
But Charles just smiled, and thanked them graciously. He never thought he'd be grateful for a wheelchair, but he was, not the least because it was a reminder of the affection shared by his strange adopted family.
On one of their daily walks, Charles and Moira stopped to watch Hank and the boys as they tossed a football, chasing and tackling each other in something that only vaguely resembled the actual game. Without warning, Hank looked over and tossed the ball into Charles' lap.
"Throw it back," Hank prompted.
Charles had never played organized American-style football in school, both due to his slight frame and his studious nature. But he had learned how to pass in summertime pick-up games with his friends, so now he gripped the laces and sent the ball sailing back in a near-perfect spiral.
Alex gaped. "Professor, you've got an arm!"
From that point forward, the boys insisted on playing catch with Charles daily, as a warm-up for their more rambunctious games of tackle on the lawn. And if they noticed the color coming back into their Professor's face, his cheeks looking a little less hollow, and the dark circles under his eyes fading a bit – none of them mentioned it.
Given that Erik helped build/rebuild Cerebro in the comics (as a reviewer pointed out), I felt it best to leave their relationship in a place where that would be possible. The story's about over - just an epilogue coming up tomorrow.
In the meantime, there was a very subtle reference to the movie "Titanic" in the last chapter: Charles and Moira's positions were the reverse of Jack and Rose's positions when they were in the water. The movie reference in this chapter was a lot less subtle. Virtual cookies to the first one to spot it :)