WritingisaGroovyMutation – Goddamnit. You'd think that if I set aside the time to research a realistic antibiotic for them to use, I could have set aside enough time to which Stryker we were dealing with. I suppose I'll just have to make it AU then. I am changing the son's name to Jason. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

Duchess – (1) As for Scott's eyes, I definitely realized that it had some horror-movie connotations, but it really just seemed like the logical thing to do to me (which perhaps is why I am no longer welcome in the surgical suite of the hospital where I work...). It just seemed to me that if I were imprisoning someone who could unleash a wave of destruction by opening his eyes, I would make damn sure that his eyes stayed shut. It was either sutures or a hot glue gun. (2) Yes, it is two kisses, but it wasn't a very nice kiss. In fact, it was a very unpleasant kiss, so I'm not sure whether you want to count it. I can assure you that Charles does not.

luffyforpresident – (1) You should skip work to read fanfiction. If I don't cause at least one person to become unemployed, I have failed as an author.

(2) I actually disagree with you about Erik's reaction to Charles being unconscious. They knew going in that this could exhaust Charles. Erik knew that Charles was not dead or dying, just completely spent. Imagine watching a love one collapse after running a marathon. You're concerned, sure, but you're not overcome with emotion about it. Erik was much more affected by seeing a young mutant held in captivity, experimented on, and mutilated, as well as by the competing pulls to follow the plan vs. hunting down and killing the man responsible.

Erik was in fact very emotional, though he showed his emotions in arguably abnormal ways. First, instead of sharing a bed with Charles, he chose to sleep on a cramped tile floor. Second, immediately after seeing Scott's eyes sewn shut, he grabs Charles by his hair and kisses him in a frankly aggressive manner. It's not clear exactly what emotion he was experiencing or exactly why he did both of those things, but I would argue that both actions were undeniably expressions of distress.

To Everybody – (1) Thank you for all of the reviews! They make me happy and stroke my fetid ego. (2) I'm asking you guys to trust me on the Raven situation. I've actually had this planned for a while.

When the group had returned to the mansion the prior night, only Lyle had been awake to greet them. His face and neck had been awash with hundreds of fly wings, all beating frantically in different directions, but he had nonetheless offered them reheated pizza and remarked on how similar the Summers brothers looked. Less helpfully, he had shouted, "Sweet holy mother of fuck!" when they had removed the towel from Scott's eyes to replace it with sterile gauze. Charles had noticed a shy smile from Scott when Alex snapped back, "What are you talking about? You look like fresh roadkill!"

As everyone had staggered off to bed, Charles provided Scott with a mental map of the mansion. It wasn't enough to let him navigate with confidence, but it was a start. Then the boy had asked about the rules of the house, so Charles made up a few on the spot ("Don't touch anything in Hank's lab without permission," "Try not to startle anyone," and "Make your bed every morning.") in the hopes that a little structure would be reassuring. By the time Alex led his brother upstairs and Charles wheeled himself to his room, Charles had completely lost track of Erik. He scanned the area while he unworked his shoes. Ah. Erik was on the grounds. Well, that probably wasn't a good thing, but it could wait until morning.

Before he fell asleep, Charles had thought to himself, "I'm going to see if I can do something about that stutter." Then he heard the echo, the little voice chuckle, This sounds like one of those plans of yours that ends very badly.

Erik had returned to the mansion by the morning and Charles could feel that his mind was not calm, but his face was and his voice was. They discussed the evidence, the plan, with cool logic.

"We do have to address the sutures soon," said Charles. "I've been reading the minds of opthamologists on the matter, but since none of them have ever seen a case like that, I essentially have to guess based on their previous experience. I think the main concern is that the stitches could be irritating the eye and damaging it."

Erik nodded. "How long have they been in?"

"Scott thinks he was taken on February 20th and was given some kind of general anesthetic, but he doesn't know how long he was out for. The assumption is that they did it as soon as they got him."

"What else was he able to tell you?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. They weren't going out of their way to share information with him and he was blindfolded the whole time. He confirmed what we suspected, that were definitely syringes used, but he doesn't even know if they were injecting a drug or removing a tissue sample. He described some other procedures, what sounds like an electrocardiograph, electroencephalograph, and lumbar puncture." Charles rested his chin on his hand. "Those are normal medical tests you would give to someone who was ill in order to diagnose them. It doesn't make sense."

"Maybe he's trying to replicate the blasts, create a weapon that does the same thing."

"They're powerful, yes, but based on Scott's description, not necessarily any more powerful than, say, a bazooka or an Uzi. The military already has plenty of weapons that can cause destruction on that scale, so..."

Erik nodded and completed Charles' thought, "So, a new weapon might be a small advantage, but probably not worth the risk."

"Exactly."

Erik opened his briefcase and pulled out the envelope they had retrieved from Stryker's office. He could almost hear Charles saying, 'Well, let's see if this was worth it.' He pulled out the stack of papers, divided it in two, and held one half up in each hand. "Left or right?"

"Left," said Charles, taking a cluster that started with a series of triplicate forms.

They each read intently, not speaking. Charles took notes on a yellow legal pad, but he wrote very little. After some time, they traded halves. Erik asked Charles his opinion, grasping at straws, hoping that Charles had seen something he hadn't..

"It's medical records Erik, for a perfectly healthy nine-year-old boy."

"What about the...ah..." Erik thumbed through a series of laboratory mimeographs, "vitamin D levels? It says slightly low."

"That just means he doesn't play outside much."

"Why give all of these tests to a perfectly healthy kid?"

Charles shrugged. "Maybe his father is a bit over-protective. Maybe he was exposed to a serious disease and they wanted to ensure that he didn't contract it. Maybe he's just not living up to expectations and they're searching for a medical reason why."

"These are the same tests he gave Scott."

"Hmm," said Charles. "That is curious."

"How did you know Jason was his son?"

"When I met him at the CIA headquarters, I was trying to convince him that telepathy was real and I briefly scanned his mind for something to shock him with. I grabbed the first emotionally salient stimulus I could find, which was his son's name."

"And that's all you know about the son?"

"I know that the father feels quite ambivalent about the boy, fearful, protective, disgusted, worried, etcetera, etcetera. And for some reason, I know that Jason Stryker likes grape popsicles, but I doubt that's relevant."

"Why be fearful of a nine-year-old?"

"I found those feelings somehow in relation to the boy. It doesn't necessarily mean he fears his son. Maybe he fears that his son will be injured or killed, maybe he fears that his son won't be happy or successful, or maybe he's having an affair and the boy saw and he fears his son will reveal his secret. It could be anything."

"There was a psychiatric exam in there. Why would they take a normal child to a psychiatrist?"

"The psych exam found nothing wrong."

"Nothing at all. The boy was perfectly normal in every way on every test the psychologist gave. Doesn't that seem odd?"

"No, that seems normal. Erik, I'm sorry but this information simply isn't useful. It doesn't mean we're going to give up on Stryker."

"But now we have no idea what he's doing or why."

Scott could hear the pop-hiss of a can being opened. "Tha-that's beer."

"No, it's unicorn piss." Alex sat on the curb outside of the convenience store.

"You c-can't op-pen that here. There's g-gotta be an open c-c-c-container ordinance."

"See, this is why no one likes you."

Scott said nothing, just idly tapped his fingers against his leg.

"Okay, see when somebody messes with you, you don't just sit there all quiet-like, you mess with them right back."

"I'd...I'd rather n-not."

"It's not optional. It's part of being a guy. Now give it a try."

"Um...you're ugly."

Alex smacked himself in the forehead. "You don't even know what I look like, dipshit."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't. Quit lying."

"I d-do, though. I got your p-p-picture." Scott furrowed his brow. "Well, well not anymore, I-I guess."

"Where'd you get my picture?"

"Father J-James gave it to me. From your f-file."

And you probably saved that stupid picture like it was goddamn gold. Fuck you, kid. Alex crushed his beer can and tossed it in the grass. "Whatever. Get in the car."

Three nights had passed and Erik still had not returned to Charles' bed. Erik spoke to him in casual greeting, or when there was a practical matter to discuss. It was clear he wasn't sleeping. His face looked increasingly drawn. His reactions were slowed.

Erik met daily with Hank to begin construction of the Blackbird II. His job was to shape the body out of a single, flawless piece of steel; Hank was convinced this would pay dividends in aerodynamics and structural integrity. The work was slow and exhausting, because Hank's demands were exact and Erik found himself distracted by footsteps and breezes.

Four nights had passed and Erik still had not returned to Charles' bed. Erik found himself wondering about the tensile strength of human skin and how much metal he would have to embed in his body to be able to fly without external support.

Five nights had passed and Erik still had not returned to Charles' bed. Awake was not quite awake and he took a blow from Sean while they were sparring that he normally would have dodged with ease.

Six nights had passed and Erik still had not returned to Charles' bed. Erik sketched the face of every soldier he recalled from the basement prison at Fort Benning.

Seven nights had passed and Erik still had not returned to Charles' bed. Charles broke before Erik did because Charles would always break before Erik did. Charles wheeled himself into the library where Erik was playing himself in chess, badly.

"I don't know why you're doing this, Erik. What is it you want?"

Erik said the only thing that made sense to him. "I want to set the world on fire," he said with the sincerity and confidence of a man who does not quite know what he himself means.

"Sentiments like that," said Charles. "This is why people are afraid of you."

"The humans should be afraid of me. This William Stryker?" He said the name as if it were a revolting species of worm. "He should be afraid of me."

"I'm not just talking about humans. You realize that only..." Charles shifted his gaze back and forth as he tabulated, "two of the mutants living here do not fear you."

Erik's gaze narrowed. It wasn't so much the case that he thought this was untrue as it was that he had never considered it. Yes, he had threatened Alex from time to time, because "tough guy" was Alex's native language and sometimes the only way to fully convince him that a demand was serious, but he had never threatened any of the others. Two, he thought. "You and Sean, then?"

Charles gave a slight, sad laugh and shook his head. "Two strikes," he said.

"Since when do you use baseball slang?"

Charles shrugged.

"Petra."

"That one's correct. You've never offended her personally and I don't think she perceives enough of the world beyond her immediate environment for anything else to matter."

"Lyle?"

"You're grasping at straws. Why does this matter to you?"

Erik was silent for a moment. Then he said, softly, "You're afraid of me?"

Charles spoke slowly, taking the question very seriously. "Yes, Erik, I am."

"I wouldn't hurt you." A quiet blend of conviction and desperation.

"I believe that you...truly believe that." Charles looked over at his friend, trying to decipher the expression on Erik's face. Erik's brow was knitted tightly and his mouth hung slightly open, eyes gazing intensely at an empty spot a few inches from his face. "And I believe there exists a part of you for whom that is true, but you're a man in pieces, Erik and some of those pieces are very determined, very ruthless, very...uncontrolled."

"I wouldn't hurt you," he repeated.

"Erik," said Charles quietly, sadly, "what do you call grabbing me by my hair and shoving your tongue down my throat? What do you call disappearing for weeks and weeks when I most needed a friend?" He sighed softly, then began to speak in a steady, distant rhythm. "What do you call...I know that Raven's death was an accident. In my mind I know that, but in my heart...I just try not to think about it because whenever I think about it, I-" He pressed his thumb and forefinger against his closed eyelids. "Erik, there is something in you, something dark. It was an accident, yes, but if she, or if I, had come between you and Shaw..." He paused, took a slow, silent breath. "The outcome would have been the same, and it wouldn't have been an accident. That's the truth, is it not?"

Erik was silent for many moments before he said, "Yes, that's true."

"And it kills me, it kills me that I brought her into this, that I helped to create that risk, not by agreeing to murder Shaw, but by agreeing to make it slow, to make him suffer. If it had been quick, she never would have...Erik, I hear her talking to me. Every day I hear her and I almost, almost believe it's real, so I just can't think about her, hear about her, talk about her because when I do, her voice gets a little louder."

"I never meant to hurt her, Charles. I never meant to hurt you." Erik's eyes were red, though no tears fell.

"I know, my friend. I know."

Erik cupped his hands as if holding something precious. "This is all I know, all I've ever known. This is all that I am."

Charles took the other man's hands in his own. "No, Erik, it's not."

They lay in bed, not touching, but only a few inches apart.

"Who was the second person?"

"Scott."

Erik grinned and rolled onto his side to face Charles. "No, who was it?"

"Scott Summers, on my honor." Charles put his hand over his heart, as if making a pledge. "He has – quite rightly – learned to take the things his brother says with a grain of salt. So while Alex has warned him quite extensively about you, Scott thinks it's all hyperbole."

"That's...that's...amusing, actually." Erik lightly runs his fingers over Charles' chest, barely making contact.

"I quite agree."

Erik lay his head on Charles' chest. "It's nice," he said, "to hear your heart beat."

After many comfortable moments, Charles spoke. "I would like to share a memory with you. My happiest. In return for the very bright memory you shared with me."

Erik drew his head back and nodded.

Charles touched his fingers to his temple.

A young man, or perhaps an older teen, walks down the lane dragging a wheeled footlocker behind him. He holds the footlocker handle in his right hand; with his left, he carries a small suitcase. A few steps behind him is a young teen, or perhaps an older child, who is using both hands to drag a similar footlocker with considerably more difficulty.

"Just a little further," Charles says. "It's on this block."

Most of the building numbers are shadowed because it is late at night, but enough edifices are clearly labeled that Charles can find his way by counting. He drags his trunk up the steps and digs in his pocket for the key. "This is it," he says, breathless with effort and excitement.

Raven is several yards behind, struggling with her trunk, somewhat less enthused than her brother, but the lock clicks and she leaves her trunk on the sidewalk to run inside. Charles smiles indulgently and retrieves it as she calls, "I get the big bedroom!"

"Like hell you do!" he shouts back.

As Charles is dragging their things through the entranceway, Raven emerges from the back rooms. "I thought you said there was going to be beds already."

"There's not?"

Raven shakes her head.

"Well," he says, as he digs through his trunk, draws out a sweatshirt, and balls it up for a pillow, "I suppose we'll just have to rough it for the night."

As Raven puts on her pajamas, Charles removes his most prized possession from his trunk: his very own record player. Objectively speaking, not the best use of packing space, but it is his trunk and his apartment, damnit. He puts on a record and bows gallantly to Raven, extending his hand in invitation. "May I have this dance, milady?"

She takes his hand as Tom Lehrer begins to describe his love of poisoning pigeons. The song is a waltz and it is just as clear that Charles knows how to waltz as it is that Raven does not, so the dance quickly becomes silly and disorganized. It is clear that they both know the song well, because by the end, they are alternating lines with faux-dramatic gesture and flair.

"My pulse keeps a-quickinin' with each drop of strychnine,"

"We feed to a pigeon!"

"It just takes a smidgeon!"

They sing together for the last line, "To poison a pigeon in the park!"

They are exhausted and they are silly and they collapse on the bare floor, ready to sleep with crumpled clothes for pillows and blankets. Charles sniffles.

"All right, all right," says Raven, "you can have the big bedroom."

"Damn straight," said Charles, but a quaver is still evident in his voice.

"What are you so upset about?"

"I'm not," he says. "I'm happy, I'm just...so happy."

"And you show that by crying? God, you are such a girl," she teases, but she flashes him a smile. "What are you so happy about?"

"We're home," said Charles. "We're finally home." He again offered his hand to Raven. She took it, and they slept hand in hand on the floor of the British flat.

Charles' fingers dropped from his face and he looked deeply at Erik.

"I miss her, too," said Erik.

"We're home," said Charles, and they slept, hand in hand.

I Want To Hold Your Hand – The Beatles: I Want To Hold Your Hand (1963).