1. Regarding time and point of view, I play with it. It is my toy. However, if you are confused...it is basically six months before the "present time" of the mid-sixties. Moira and Alex are featured. And it's angsty.
2. Regardless of what Hoodoo thinks, I still need her as a beta reader. So, there. :)
3. Thanks for hanging in there, readers. I know it's long and arduous. But I'm keeping to a time table that allows me to write and to have it beta read.
4. Sorry for my shoddy formatting last week.
5. I own nothing.
Moira felt at odds with herself. The CIA left her a message at her apartment in Langely. At first it was ever so polite but as time went on the messages became more and more clipped, angry and demanding. They had no idea where she went but took a guess as to where she might have been. Moira wanted to report back to the CIA but Charles was clearly blocking her attempts.
This wasn't the only reason why Moira was at odds. Not once but twice Charles had called her by Erik's name while in the throes of passion. While the first time could have been an accident, the second time Moira's doubts began to creep into her head. When she voiced these doubts to Charles she was met with a wall of defensiveness that was too high to breach.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Charles said frostily, his accent more pronounced than it had been. It stopped Moira short and she fell silent as Charles went back to his genetics journal pointedly ignoring her. He did not notice when she slipped out of the room a few minutes later and went to cry in their shared bedroom.
The rebuilding of Cerebro was a long and arduous process, even with Hank's impeccable schematics, plans and endless lists. The truth of the matter is Charles and company is simply low on manpower. Back at the CIA, Hank had a cadre of people who built it for him. Now, at Charles' estate there is only him, Sean, Alex, Moira and Charles and even with four perfectly capable people, Charles knows that they will need more…able bodied people.
No one knows quite how bitter and angry Charles is that he cannot help with the rebuilding of the machine. No one knows how completely and utterly useless he feels. No one knows how resentful he is of the others. No one knows how much he missed Erik. (Moira probably knew this. Damn her observant soul.)
He didn't try to explain and no one asked him to.
In the end Charles used his gift to convince migrant workers to build and complete the massive structure in the sub-basement of the mansion. And then he convinced the same workers to forget what they did, who they saw and where they were located. They were paid handsomely, of course; Charles would have it no other way.
And as he wheeled himself into his study, Charles could not help but feel a sense of relief and pride of what they had accomplished. After the destruction of the original Cerebro, Charles quietly mourned its loss. The brief time he had spent searching for other mutants was one of the best times ever in his life. The other times, naturally, was spent in Erik's company, but Charles chose not to dwell on those times. And if he did, Charles' hands would often twitch thinking about the bottle of whiskey hidden in his desk.
To know that there were others out there, others that could potentially change the course of human and mutant history. He was giddy, excited and truth be known, scared. Charles had no idea what happened to the original list he came up with after the CIA headquarters was destroyed, but he had no doubt that if Charles was looking for mutants then the CIA was also looking for mutants.
He simply had to find them first.
"Professor, um…can I talk to you, privately?" Alex said to Charles the day before he was due to try Cerebro for the first time.
"Of course, Alex," Charles said and put his stack of papers down. "What can I do for you?"
Alex shuffled around on his feet while he tried to find the words. He looked at the massive amount of books behind Charles (knowing full well that this was only a fraction of the books kept in the library), out the window, around the room before finally settling his eyes on the kindly man sitting in front of him. Alex often wondered how exactly he came to be living in Charles Xavier's massive home. But he was always eternally grateful, if a little uneasy from time to time. Alex had never known someone as kind and caring as Charles Xavier but Alex suspected if pushed, the Professor would not hesitate to use his massive telepathic abilities against someone.
He knew this was probably not the case before being accidentally shot in the spine.
Alex finally sat down and put his head in his hands. Charles wheeled around to his side and gently laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"What is it?" he asked softly. Alex knew that Charles could just read his mind but Alex knew the professor was much too ethical to do so…at least in certain situations. Alex got the feeling that Charles was not always so…moral.
Alex swallowed his nervousness and said, "I…could you see….if….if my brother is still alive and well?" Alex finally said, still not looking at Charles.
Charles blinked biting back surprise. He honestly did not remember that Alex Summers had a brother and all of a sudden, Charles Xavier felt very very guilty indeed. He and Erik did no favors recruiting these…children…into helping them fight a war. (No, not children. They ceased to become children when Shaw attacked them.) They had effectively stripped them of the rest of their innocence and childhood. (Again, I must respectfully disagree.)
"Of course, Alex," Charles said immediately and warmly. "Could you tell me about him? Do you perhaps happen to have a picture of him?"
Alex's shoulders loosened as the tension drained from him. He leaned his head in his arms hiding his face away from the man who took him in and was rapidly becoming like a father to him. Alex knew full well that without Charles he would have rotted away in jail for a very long time. Something in Alex tipped and he did not know how, but somehow he ended up in Charles' nerveless lap as he cried his sorrow out. Alex vaguely felt the older man caress his hair and murmur soothing things to him. It had been a very long time since anyone had given him comfort and this was a vaguely unsettling feeling.
"May I?" Charles asked quietly. Alex did not need to see the wiggling motion that Charles made with his fingers. It was habit with the man, even if he truly did not need to anymore and it made Alex smile a tiny bit.
Alex nodded his consent, settling himself back on the couch. Charles no longer really needed to press two fingers to his temple to read other people's minds (Perhaps, that's a boon due to the loss of my legs.) Alex's frame slowly melted into the sofa as Charles gently picked through his memories. Contrary to popular belief, people's minds and thoughts were not organized in any discernible order. It was chaotic, messy, confusing. It was filled with emotion that deeply colored the thoughts and memories of the person housing them. Nothing was what it seemed in that person's mind. But Charles was a telepath, after all, and therefore more adapt at picking apart emotions, memories and whatever baggage was associated.
Alex, for his part, felt first a gentle and slow intrusion into his head. He vaguely tried to remember if he had felt this sensation before (No, you have not, was the answer.) Alex felt very tired and sleepy all of a sudden. All he wanted to do was lay his head down on the leather couch and to not think (No, I need you awake for a little while longer, Alex.) So, Alex forced himself awake and tried focusing on a clear mental image of his younger brother.
The last time, Alex saw his younger brother, Scott, was eight to Alex's twelve. Their father, Christopher, was an excellent pilot, having earned his due in the US Air Force as a Major. While their mother, Katherine, was a homemaker. Katherine, not being a pushover drove her sons hard but with care, always pushing them to achieve better and brighter things. Scott and Alex had thrived under their love and care.
They had been flying back home to Anchorage, Alaska from a family vacation when suddenly their plane began severely malfunctioning, flames leaping from the two engines at the wings. After many long and tense minutes of trying to right the plane, Christopher ordered Katherine to strap the two young boys together using only one parachute and pushed them out of the dying plane.
"Stay together," Katherine whispered kissing each boy solemnly, tears spilling down her eyes. Alex and Scott nodded mutely, too frightened to speak.
"We love you," Christopher said pulling his family into their warm last embrace. He had done everything he could to save the plane. But once he determined that nothing could be done, Christopher set the plane on auto-pilot and came to his wife's side.
Alex and Scott can only look on in fear as Katherine pushed them out of the plane. Their last memory of their parents was of Christopher holding Katherine as the boys dropped quickly away from the plane.
Alex covered Scott's eyes when the plane slammed into the mountain.
Alex covered Scott's body when they came hurtling into the hard, cold ground.
All Alex could hear were the screams of the wind rushing passed him and his brother's sobs.
Charles saw this memory plainly and clearly, quietly offering Alex his support when the memory played out its end. (No, Professor. There's more.) Charles was surprised by Alex's statement and continued sifting through the remaining memories, which became spottier as the memory played out. Charles grabbed a mental image of Scott before Alex began speaking, gently pushing Charles out of his mind.
"When the rescuers found us, we were both in a coma and unable to speak for ourselves. The social worker in Anchorage thought she was doing us a favor by splitting us up and having different families adopt us. I never had the chance to say goodbye to Scottie. The family took him away while I was still in the coma. Apparently, it's easier to adopt "only children" than it is siblings. God," Alex said banging his fist into his thigh.
Charles flinched.
Alex did not notice.
"I should have been stronger. I should have been there to stop them from taking Scottie away from me. I failed my parents. I failed my brother," Alex said bitterly. His hands began glowing as he spoke. "And I don't even know where to begin. After they took Scottie, it was a while before they found a foster home for me. And apparently," Alex laughed without humor, "I was a 'troubled' kid. Yeah, what gave them the tip-off?" Alex stood up and began pacing Charles' study, not noticing the way his hands glowed ever brighter.
"Alex," Charles said quietly.
"I was being fostered by a family by the last name of Blanding – heh, bland was right – when my powers manifested. I almost killed my younger foster sister. And that's when I ran. I ran hard and I ran long…." Alex stopped and ran a hand through his short blond hair. His hands were glowing more and more ominously.
"Alex," Charles tried again, this time raising his voice.
"But apparently, not far enough. The cops picked me up outside of Seattle, Washington and placed me in jail. Said I was evading police. I was trying to get away from myself," Alex began pacing again. He wanted to punch something or someone. But the person Alex desperately wanted to punch was not present and he did not know if he would be able to get a punch off in time before a piece of metal would wrap itself around his throat and squeezed.
The brightness in the room was almost blinding. And yet, Alex did not see it.
"Alex!" Charles commanded. Alex stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the Professor as if he had never seen him before. "Control yourself before you destroy yourself, me or the mansion!" Alex blinked in surprised and glanced down at his hands.
"Oh, my god!" Alex said and immediately the glowing subsided. He sat down heavily on the couch and noticed the scorch marks on the leather. "Oh, no," Alex moaned and rubbed his head with his hands. "Not again. Oh, please not again. Not again." Alex was now chanting this over and over again. "I didn't mean to hurt her. I would never hurt her intentionally," Alex moaned now lost to what was around him.
"Alex!" Charles cried out, trying to gain the young man's attention. "Alex! You must snap out of this!" Charles' pleas were reaching deaf ears. (Furniture be damned, he's going to kill himself.) Charles placed two fingers against his temple hard and pushed into Alex's mind making him cry out. The vicious memory released its hold on Alex and Alex slumped forward barely being caught by the other man. Charles as gently as possible from him position pushed him back on the couch and wiped the sweat from his brow as his clenched hands started to shake almost uncontrollably. (God damn it, Erik. God damn you to hell.)
Reviews are awesome. Gentle critics are heaven.