Here's one of the biggest Charles and Erik moments in the book. Lots of character revelations in this one. Enjoy!
Chapter 25…
The other mutants had left hours before. Planted on the edge of Charles' bed, Erik shifted his gaze between the unconscious man beside him and the machine on the opposite side of the room.
The main processors were rigged back in place. All the circuit boards had been installed; the main power cord was plugged into the ceiling. Only a few resisters were missing and those would take just minutes to hook up once the other mutants returned from the mainland. By tomorrow morning, Cerebro would be ready for use.
To everyone else, it was a weight off their shoulders. To Erik, however, it was like someone's arms were around him, squeezing him to death. He was the one who had to deal with Charles, to whatever extreme that definition would demand. He couldn't delegate the task to anyone else. Whatever Erik might do from necessity, someone like Riptide or Azazel would carry out for the sheer enjoyment.
From the bed, there came a groan. Erik drew his attention away from Cerebro and watched as his friend gradually found consciousness again. When his eyes flickered open minutes later, Charles' gaze bumped into Erik's. A frown instantly formed on his friend's face.
"Get out," Charles said, his voice cracking like he'd just eaten gravel.
Gently, Erik grabbed Charles' cuffed left hand and lifted it into view. "It's still a few hours until sundown," he explained and with his power, uncuffed his friend's wrist. "You need to get up—move around."
Charles yanked his arm away.
"That was a foolish thing you attempted today," Erik went on. "Did you honestly think I'd allow you to grab a hold of the teleporter's mind?"
"I was hoping to be away from this place before you made it to me."
"Always the optimist, it seems."
Insult contorted Charles' features. Tugging at his bed sheet, he covered himself up to his neck as if that would protect him. He rested there for a few minutes, obviously permitting the drugs to free his mind.
Pressing his lips together, Erik gestured a hand towards Charles' wheelchair beside the end table; under his power, it glided towards the edge of the bed.
"Here," Erik said. "Getting up should help."
Charles remained motionless like he was sleeping with his eyes open.
"Don't be stubborn." Erik reached out a hand.
Wrenching his arm away before Erik could close his fingers around it, Charles sat up. Clumsily, he grabbed the side of his wheelchair, and began transferring himself over. Erik kept his hands away but guarded in case Charles began to topple. Heaving his body into his chair, Charles took a moment to steady himself.
Feet crooked on his footplates, Charles sat upright. The drugs made his eyes appear unfocused; nonetheless, as he rested his hands in his lap, he still managed to glare.
"All right," he said and gestured to the cuffs. "Now, you can get out."
Sliding the handcuffs off the mattress frame, Erik held them in his grasp and then nodded towards the bathroom. "Go ahead. I'll wait here."
"No. Just put on the damn cuffs and then leave me be."
Erik shot a glance at the bed and then Charles. "You'll be stuck in your wheelchair all night."
"Then I'll be stuck in my wheelchair all night."
Dropping his head, Erik felt his stomach knot. It was so idiotic—Charles' relentless pride. And for what? Erik didn't even know. He wouldn't return until tomorrow morning, when he'd install the remaining components for Cerebro. And then…
"It's all falling into place, Charles," Erik said. "By tomorrow, the machine will be finished. You know what happens then."
"Yes, it's painfully obvious."
Erik gripped down on the cuffs. "Apparently not, my friend. Not when you continue to refuse us such a simple request."
On those words, the knot in Erik's stomach tightened. It was pointless—so utterly pointless. All of it.
"You're a stupid man," Erik hissed. "This will happen with or without your consent. Whatever pride you're attempting to hold onto, it's damning you. For the love of God, simply let it go."
"Don't," Charles snapped back. "Don't you dare blame me."
"You're doing this to yourself. The sooner you understand that, the sooner I can take you—"
"I said don't!" On Charles' face, his eyes were as sharp as spears, his jaw clenched tight enough to break teeth. Any grogginess from the drugs seemed to have vanished like a speck of dust in the wind.
Seeing that face, Erik paused.
"Don't you dare turn this on me," Charles snarled. "Don't you dare act as if I'm to blame!" He pointed a finger at Erik. "All of this—from the moment you took me from my home to where we are now—has been your doing. To the endless hours in this God-forsaken place, to your brotherhood, to those!" He jabbed his finger towards the handcuffs. "All of it has been nothing more than examples of your unyielding selfishness and pathetic justifications for such!"
"Charles—"
"No! I don't want another excuse. I'm sick to death of them!" Rage flared red on his face. "You believe I don't know what's to come? I know damn well, Erik. I've had nothing but time to think about it!"
Then, Charles gasped; the fury across his features shaded into a deep, agonizing dread. He gripped his fingers to his armrests as if all the emotions in him were too much to bear. Witnessing that, the anger inside Erik cooled; he placed his hands on Charles' wrists.
"None of that matters," Erik explained, trying to keep his voice even. "Do you understand? However this happened, it doesn't change what's occurring now."
"You'd like to believe that, wouldn't you?" Charles came back. "That none of it matters. How we came to be here—none of it matters!" He thrashed his arms.
"Charles, stop!" Erik held tight to the other man. "You're going to hurt yourself."
"Look at me!" he screamed. "Look at me, Erik!"
As the full impact of Charles' words struck him, all the air escaped Erik's lungs. In his wheelchair, Charles stopped lashing out. His eyes were fixed on Erik; the anger in both could have boiled the ocean surrounding them. But it wasn't just anger. The other man's lips began trembling. Tears welled up in his eyes.
Reluctantly, Erik lowered his gaze to Charles' legs. They laid lifelessly in the wheelchair, the limbs much thinner than they should have been. On the footplates, Charles' feet rested crookedly—unnaturally. As dead as the rest.
Erik swallowed hard, the gravity of it all crashing into him.
"Do you have any idea what you've taken from me?" Charles asked. "And for what, Erik? Why? Tell me…please. Because, from here, all the excuses come to the same conclusion. That I'm forever trapped in this wheelchair because of your endless need for revenge!"
Erik closed his eyes. "That's not what happened. It was an accident—"
"It was no accident! What you did—what you were attempting to do—was no accident! You were trying to murder thousands of men!"
"What was I supposed to do, Charles?" Erik opened his eyes again. "They tried to kill us. Or have you forgotten that detail so easily?"
Erik steeled himself, ready for another comeback from the other man. But only silence answered him, and as Erik focused on his friend, the frustration inside him crumbled.
From Charles' eyes, a set of tears fell. The fury had fled away. "And you saved us, didn't you?" he whispered. "Do you believe I've forgotten that? I know that, Erik. If you weren't there, we'd all be dead. I know that."
Charles allowed his words to linger. He had meant them. There was no denying what would have happened if Erik hadn't been on the beach that day, and Charles wasn't one to omit such things. But the gratitude didn't last. As if on its own, the kindness on Charles' expression hardened to stone.
"But then, you had to turn the missiles around," Charles continued. "You couldn't help yourself, could you? It wasn't enough that you stopped them—that you proved to everyone we couldn't be killed so easily. You had to make certain the humans paid for their act of betrayal. And now…now I'm here!" He slapped his armrests. "I don't need your prison, Erik—I'm forever sitting in mine!"
Charles hesitated again, clearly waiting for a response. When Erik didn't offer one, Charles' lips curved into an unpleasant grin. "Oh, that's right. When someone has wronged you, they deserve your vengeance, yes? But when you're the culprit, you have every justification in the world, don't you?" His grin dropped. "Let me ask you this—every single person you've hurt or slaughtered, they deserved your wrath, didn't they? Then, tell me, Erik…what have I ever done to you to deserve this?" Charles glanced down at himself.
Standing inches from the other man, Erik didn't even open his mouth. He kept his eyes to Charles as the other man glared at him, the rage in his friend's eyes making him almost unrecognizable.
But then, Charles' expression caved. The anger collapsed like it couldn't support itself, and in its place, a wave of pain cloaked his features. Another set of tears streamed down. He shut his eyes. Lifting his right hand, he cupped it over his mouth like he just drank poison and was suddenly feeling the effects.
Erik remained trapped in place, all the words Charles had spoken eating away at his insides. He had known them all, but to hear his friend say them…it was a revelation Erik knew he never wanted to confront.
Then, Charles dropped his hand. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes glazed over like he was too tired to focus them. "Everyone believes not walking—that's the worst of it. That it's all of it. But it's not. It's just one thing of a thousand others." Charles set his hands on his lap, the fingers digging into his thighs. "I simply want to feel something. To know my body is still there. That it's still mine. But it's not…it's not anymore."
Charles lifted his head. His face, so filled with emotion seconds before, was blank. "It's funny," he mumbled. "All those things you never consider…like sweating. I can't sweat below my injury. Can you imagine that?"
Swallowing hard, Erik replied, "No."
"And children," Charles continued like he was talking outside of himself. "I never gave it much thought, truth be told. It's not that I didn't want children; I like children. I simply thought I had all the time in the world to…decide."
He grew silent, then, staring up at nothing, eyes unfocused and without a speck of fight remaining. And Erik suddenly realized that blank, emotionless expression was far worse than any anger that had plagued his friend's features just a moment before.
"May I ask you something?" Charles finally muttered through the quiet. "If you can't bear children—if you can't even...make love to a woman anymore—are you still considered a man?" He released a weary laugh. "Or is the definition truly that forgiving?"
As swiftly as it emerged, the laughter faded. Then, another pair of tears slid down Charles' face. He breathed as if the air was venom to his lungs; the noise was soft but somehow still managed to engulf the room.
After a minute, the sobs quieted. Charles wiped at his eyes, the redness across his face calming. Then, he grabbed the rims of his wheelchair and rolled away. He wheeled past the kitchen, towards the bathroom. The door opened and then closed, and there was silence.
Timidly, Erik walked towards the dining room table. He sat. Resting his hands on its surface, he replayed what just happened in his mind. Across his body, his skin felt like ice. A cold sweat drenched his face.
Several minutes passed, and then, the bathroom door opened. Charles rolled into the living area again. His hair had been brushed back; his face had been cleaned. He made his way to his bed and then threw a glance at Erik.
"I'm tired. So if you wouldn't mind…" He motioned a hand to the cuffs.
Heaving himself off the dining room chair, Erik lolled back with the handcuffs as the other man settled a hand on the bed and started to raise his body from his wheelchair—
"Stop," Erik whispered.
Charles turned to him, curiosity cast on his expression.
"I want to tell you something," Erik said. "And I need you to listen carefully."
Slowly, Charles sank back into his chair.
Standing tall before the other man, Erik set his jaw. "I'm a killer, Charles. A weapon. It's what I was designed to be and that is the way things are. Nothing will change that.
"And you knew this," Erik went on. "From the moment we met, you knew what I was. I made no secret of it; I made no delusions on the matter. You are the one who so desperately wanted to see more."
A hint of pain wrinkled Charles' face. It was obvious he wanted to challenge Erik's declaration, but either couldn't find the will or the way to do so.
Erik continued, "In the end, however, I will do what is in my nature. I don't regret sending those missiles back to their ships. Those men were pieces of a machine designed to kill us, whether or not you wish to see it."
"Erik—"
Erik raised a hand. "I've killed men for far less offenses, Charles. And each one deserved their fate. I have hurt men—I have killed men—without hesitation, without remorse, and most certainly, without regret."
Then, the hardness on Erik's face broke down. He knelt beside his friend and placed a hand on top of his left armrest. Charles gazed onwards like he wasn't certain what he was seeing.
"I am sorry, Charles," Erik declared. "I truly am. Believe me when I say that I never meant for this to happen. I never intended to harm you. But with all the power I possess, there is nothing I can do to change it." Leaning forward, Erik placed both his hands on Charles' shoulders. "I have wronged you, my friend. And for that, you deserve your vengeance. You deserve your vengeance against me."
Charles tensed in his chair. His breathing was heavy, his face flushing again. After a moment, he whispered, "Do you think I wish to harm you, Erik?"
"No," Erik replied. "That's what makes this that much worse."
Charles' lips parted; he inhaled as if ready to respond, but the words seemed lodged in his throat. Finally, the pain across his face gave way. In its place was a look of helplessness as if suddenly realizing where they were, what had happened and what was to come—and knowing he could neither change nor prevent any of it. He closed his mouth.
Standing up, Erik tucked his hands under Charles' armpits. As the other man set his right hand on the bed again, Erik helped him transfer to the mattress. There, Charles sat on the bed's edge, his legs dangling off the side. The handcuffs in his grasp, Erik crouched down, securing one cuff to the bed frame—latching the other around Charles' left wrist.
"I—I can't help you," Charles whispered as the cuff met his skin.
Erik peered up; Charles' eyes were already there.
"I can't," Charles continued. "I can't, Erik."
The hopelessness on Charles' face darkened into a mix of terror and awareness like an addict suddenly realizing he couldn't give up his drugs. As Erik saw that expression haunting his friend's features, a dark revelation grabbed him.
He'd been wrong.
He'd been wrong the entire time—from the moment he'd brought Charles to the base, to that instant—he had never understood what was really happening. It wasn't Charles' pride that prevented him from helping Erik and his cause. It wasn't that Charles wouldn't help him—he couldn't. He couldn't live with himself knowing that he'd willingly created a mutant army capable of setting off a war.
He'd rather be tortured. He'd rather be dead.
On that thought, a surge of anguish encompassed Erik's body. With a gasp, he lifted his hands and rested them on Charles' arms. Charles didn't react.
"I know you can't," Erik finally said. "I know, my friend. But it's too late now. The others know what you can do, and I…" Erik sucked in a breath. "There is no other option left."
Erik raised his head. He looked his friend in the eye. "Tomorrow, I will force you to use that machine. I'll use any means necessary, and I'll bring you to that point—where you can't take it anymore. It will simply be too much to bear. And you'll concede."
Charles didn't even blink.
With that, Erik squeezed Charles' arms tighter, holding to him as if the other man would fall into an abyss otherwise.
"Then, I'm going to take you home," Erik whispered. "Back to your own life. And you'll be able to live with yourself, my friend, knowing you did everything in your power to prevent this. That you tried everything you could to stop it. You simply couldn't."
Charles sat motionless; Erik could hardly hear him breathing. But then, Charles' hands lifted. He grabbed Erik's arms, holding just as tight.
No more tears surfaced. No more words were spoken. Erik stared at his friend—his brother—knowing that the next day, it would all be over. It would be done. And then, he could take Charles home…or whatever was still left of him by the time Erik was finished.
End of Chapter