Charles held Maddy's disconcerting red gaze steadily, his gentle mental focus holding her awareness of the power coursing through her veins in check. He was still slightly aghast at the force of it, had to work to stop his own mind getting caught up in the joyous anarchy of sensations Madeline was in thrall to with a pint of human blood in her. And I was prepared, Charles thought wonderingly. That first time, what must it have been like for her… He gave Maddy a reassuring smile.
"Ready?" he asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow. She gritted her teeth, nodded.
"Let's find out."
Charles winced, her choice of words conjuring up a painful ghost. It has been an afternoon much like this one not so long ago, when Charles had stood on this terrace with another powerful mutant, trying to help him get control of his powers. Only days later, he and Erik had been fighting side by side, working in the perfect synchrony that had been theirs from the moment they had met – until Erik had chosen to abandon Charles, to put that helmet on. He should have known then and there that whatever it was they had been building together in the days before Cuba was doomed, fractured beyond repair.
But we did repair it, a small, stubborn part of his heart insisted. We could have made it work, we could still make it work if he'd only let me in… Charles tried to quell the thought. He should be concentrating on the matter in hand, on helping Madeline control her powers, not daydreaming about Erik Lensherr. He nodded to her, and then fractionally released his restraining influence on her senses, allowed her to feel the full force of the power in her. She stiffened, gasped, her pupils contracting in shock and then dilating in pleasure. Charles held up a warning hand.
"Madeline. Remember what we talked about. Take control." For a moment, she looked like she was going to spring over the stone balustrade and disappear off into the grounds. Instead, she took a deep, shivering breath, then wrapped her hands tightly around the cast iron of the garden chair she was sitting on. The curlicued metal groaned quietly in the strength of her grip, and leaves of the weathered green paint flaked away, fell onto the terrace. She was quivering with tension, but she was in tenuous control of herself. Charles beamed encouragingly.
"Good. That's very good. Now see if you can relax into it a bit – what did that poor chair ever do to you?"
Very slowly, she unclenched her death-grip on the seat of the chair. She had shut her eyes, and Charles spoke soothingly to her, talked her through releasing each muscle in her body one by one, allowing the power to inhabit her, not overrule her. She softened in the chair, opened her eyes.
"How do you feel?" Charles asked. She smiled tentatively.
"Good. Like – not so raw, you know? I can still feel how strong I am, but it's like – potential, rather than imperative. Like the difference between being a bullet and being the gun."
Charles winced inwardly. The simile was extremely effective, but unfortunately chosen given her audience. He nodded.
"That's good. The thing to do is to identify that feeling of potentiality, of balance, to use it as your base point for exploring your power. When you feel it taking you over, return to that place. You can go a long way from it, but you have to know what and where it is to get back there." She nodded eagerly, stood up. She tipped lithely into a handstand on the balustrade, then froze, eyes closed, concentrating on holding back the surge of power, directing it, taming it to her purpose. She slowly rose up onto her fingertips, her body straight as a lance in the air. Charles could sense how easy this physical feat was for her - the effort lay in not just throwing cartwheels the length of the terrace, just for the sheer joy of doing it. Instead, she lowered herself methodically back onto her palms, then rolled her body down to sit cross-legged on the flat flagstone. She looked at him, a nascent triumph in her eyes.
Charles girded himself, carefully unscrewed the cap of the thermos he had with him. He saw the triumph turn instantly to blank focus, watched as Maddy's body went rigid at the smell of blood. The lash of the hunger in her rocked through his mind as it did through hers, and he instantly clamped down her instinct to pounce. She froze in his power, chest heaving, eyes wild.
Have to, have to, have to-
Madeline, listen to me. You can control this. Remember that place of balance. You are the gun, not the bullet. Remember that, reach for that.
He felt the desperation in her warring with her will to self-control. After an interminable struggle, she met his eyes, shook her head urgently. Sadly, he resealed the flask, released her mind. She curled instantly into a defensive ball, breathing through her mouth to avoid the lingering aroma of blood that through his own nose he couldn't even faintly detect, but which for her filled the air like thick smoke. He could feel the shame and disappointment radiating from her.
"Damn it," she mumbled, burying her face in her arms. Charles wheeled closer, patted her back.
"You will get there. This is just the start. Don't give up on it." She looked up at him, doubt in her carmine eyes.
"Hank thinks this is a bad idea." Charles smiled pensively.
"Poor Hank. He has a brilliant scientific mind, are concerned, but he's got no ability to imagine what it might be like to be somebody else. He sees everything through the prism of his own experience, finds it hard to take the blinkers off. He doesn't want his powers, doesn't want to be different – so he can't understand why you might want your own. Try not to blame him –he only wants what's best for you, my dear. He's extremely fond of you, you know." Maddy blushed.
"I know. And I'm fond of him too – he's like a brother to me." Charles took the hint. He was sad for Hank, but not that surprised – after all, he knew how Madeline felt about Erik. Love like that wouldn't just go away overnight; Charles should know.
He had tried his best to assure Madeline he held no grudge, felt no betrayal – either over her feelings for his former lover, or for the fact they had kissed while Maddy had been under the influence of blood. At first he had been working just as hard to convince himself, but over time he realized it was true. He had been the one to push them together in the first place after all, realizing how alike their experiences were, how much they needed that understanding. How could Charles fail to understand how her feelings had grown, when he was so in love with Erik himself? How could he blame her for what had happened, when he knew just how much she blamed herself?
One of the annoying aspects of being a telepath was that it made it very hard to hold a grudge – if you could feel a person's sorrow, their sincerity, it made it impossible to indulge your own injured feelings at their expense. Charles patted her knee.
"Come on, chin up – we can try again with the blood another time; for now, it's marvelous that you can exert some control, enjoy your powers – in a controlled environment. You're safe here; we're miles from any human beings, and if anyone does come, I'll be here to help you."
Madeline peered up at him from beneath her bangs, smiled tensely. Charles frowned solicitously.
"Still feeling a bit strung out?" She nodded. Charles smiled. "Why don't we go back into my study and relax for a bit with the radio – it's about time for the Shipping Forecast."
Maddy grinned, and the two of them went back through the French doors into Charles's sanctum. Charles poured himself a large measure of brandy as he wheeled passed his desk, and Maddy grimaced but didn't comment. He didn't offer one to her – when she had blood in her, she found normal food and drink disgusting.
Charles approached the wireless while Madeline curled up on the sofa by the fireplace – the late summer had snapped surprisingly swiftly into a chilly grey autumn, and a small fire was smouldering in the grate. Charles pulled up at the hearth and turned the radio on, and both of them smiled as the familiar melody of Sailing By filled the room.
"West Dogger, Northerly veering easterly, 3 or 4. Slight or moderate. Rain or showers, fog patches. Moderate, occasionally very poor-" Suddenly, the soothing voice was cut off. Charles raised an eyebrow, gave the case of the radio a light knock with his knuckles. He was just opening his mouth to say "What on earth-" when a different, serious-sounding English voice cut through the ominous silence.
"We interrupt this broadcast for a special report. A government-run high-security medical facility in the desert of New Mexico in the United States has destroyed, in what is presumed to be a terrorist attack.
"Facts are as yet unclear, although survivors of the attack have reported that at least two assailants 'came out of nowhere', and then 'disappeared', along with several patients at the facility. The US military who responded at the scene have not confirmed or denied any suspicions that the Soviet Union are behind the attack, despite reports from eyewitnesses that one of the attackers was 'Red'.
"A spokesman for the Pentagon said that this was a national security issue, and that the terrorists had access to 'unknown weaponry'. One first response worker interviewed by the BBC described the facility as looking like 'one huge crushed soda can'.
"The attack was swift and brutal, with few survivors – the Pentagon spokesman said that at least fifty government employees were killed in the attack, with a dozen of the facility's patients still unaccounted for. We will bring you more news on this incident as it develops. And now, back to scheduled programming."
This was followed by a sharp beep, and then the previous tranquil voice continued: "Viking in Southwest, moderate becoming good…"
Charles reached out a shaking hand, turned the radio off. He met Madeline's eyes, saw that she had reached the same inevitable conclusion that he had.
"Erik."
