Shingo the Pest – You are too clever for your own good. Please proceed with declevering.
Schnebz – I've been trying to stick to songs I know so that both the title and the song make some sort of sense in the story and I just don't know very early Pink Floyd stuff.
RiverRose19 – I was saving White Rabbit for a drug-themed chapter, but now it looks like there won't be one. Alas.
It didn't take telepathy for Charles to see that Hank was surprised by his sleeping arrangements, so thank god that Hank was the sort of person who could focus on what was important, what was relevant.
Charles could hear his mother chuckling dreamily over a quip in a magazine.
He pressed his fingers to his temple, felt the vein there throbbing thick and steady. "Their minds are...outside, still on the grounds. They're alive, they're...confused, frightened, excite-"
A loud, strange sound from rain-soaked ground outside, squeaking and creaking and rumbling. (It would later be described by Lyle as comparable to "God Almighty breaking wind.")
Erik leapt from the bed pulled back the blinds, Hank right behind him as they stepped out onto the balcony. Charles half-watched through Erik's eyes as he went about transferring into his chair.
An enormous maple and a scrub pine were uprooting themselves from the ground. Though it had no face, the scrub pine managed to look disappointed at its station in life, whereas the maple was striding forth on dozens of confident roots.
Ahh! I've got birds! They're itchy!
No fair! How come I'm the small one?
The scrub pine suddenly collapsed; in the same moment, an aspen shuddered to life.
That's better! Now I'm the biggest!
Erik was beaming. "Marvelous."
The following scenes occur over a period of several weeks. Think 'montage'.
"Hank," said Charles, "about this morning."
"Oh, oh that." Although there was no visible change in Hank's appearance, he was clearly blushing. He shook his head, collecting his thoughts. "You don't need to alter my memories. I assume you've kept this private because you want it to be private."
"I appreciate your discretion."
"But for the record, Charles, I'm happy for both of you."
Pavel had obviously done some baking. That was the only possible explanation, though it clearly did not explain very much. There were two plates, each piled high with cookies. The one on the right was labeled "Snickerdoodles." The one on the left was labeled "POISON."
Charles looked at the plate full of snickerdoodles, then at the plate of poison, then back to the snickerdoodles, then back to the poison. This process was repeated several times before Charles eventually, cautiously, reached a hand toward the snickerdoodle plate.
Behind him, a stopwatch clicked. "47.6 seconds," said Hank. "Write that down."
Charles looked over his shoulder to see Pavel hunched over a clipboard.
"You are the fourth person to come in here and spend greater than 30 seconds puzzling over his options." Hank grinned. "It doesn't seem like a terribly difficult decision."
"Are the poison cookies actually poisoned?"
"I haven't a clue; Pavel made them. I could not, however, pass up the opportunity for such a fascinating experiment in situational psychology."
Erik entered the kitchen to see two plates of cookies.
Erik turned around and left the kitchen.
Charles was convinced that, had his brain been able to flourish, Erik would have been some sort of mathematical genius. Even with the years of malnutrition and missed schooling, his capacity for mental arithmetic was astounding. It wasn't just a simple matter of being a human calculator, though. He saw patterns in numbers, that's how he did computations. He saw the patterns in numbers as easily as most people saw patterns in wallpaper. Erik had told Charles once, in an uncommonly sentimental moment, how as a child he had drawn up a field of numbers in his mind – it was Pascal's triangle, Charles realized – and looked for patterns in it until he was calm enough to sleep.
Charles had hoped that Erik would consent to teach maths – the biggest hole in their curriculum. Hank would teach all of the sciences. Sean was managing with history. Charles himself chose to teach the humanities – English primarily, but philosophy and fine arts as well. When Charles suggested it, Erik was doubtful.
"I teach combat skills."
"Yes, but you have other talents to share. Another option would be teaching foreign languages."
"I don't know...normal math."
"I wasn't aware you had to teach normal math."
Erik attended Education sometimes, sat in the corner and observed, said nothing. When they were discussing Huckleberry Finn – Charles selected the book because it possessed relevant Civil Rights themes and because its vocabulary level was low enough that no one would be embarrassed – Erik opened his mouth as if about to speak, but he still held his tongue.
"Now read it aloud."
"Why do I have to?"
"I'm sorry; perhaps I gave you the impression that this was optional?"
Abigail frowned and looked down at her paper. "I don't want to."
"I am, of course, already aware of that. Now read it aloud."
Abby pressed her lips together tightly. She could already feel her cheeks beginning to burn. "Freak means not normal." Now her mouth was all dry. "Normal means how the majority of people are. Most people have shadows that stay with them and just move the way that they do. My shadow doesn't do that, so I'm not normal, so I'm a freak."
"That's most certainly less than 100 words. Read it again."
Abby gulped. "Freak means not normal. Normal means how the majority of people are." She really wished Professor Xavier would stop staring straight at her. "Most people have shadows that, you know, stay with them and just move the way that," she sighed, "the way that they do. My shadow doesn't do that, so I'm not normal, so I'm a...freak." Her voice caught on the word freak.
"Read it again."
Scowling, Abby read it again, blinking back tears. This was wrong! This was humiliating!
"Read it again."
"Read it again."
"Read it again."
Abby was crying in whole now, the sort of crying that involves big gasps for air and pathetic mewling noises. "My shadow doesn't do that, so I'm not...I'm not normal, so...so I'm a...I'm a freak!"
Charles patted the seat beside him. "Sit down, child. Things get better from here."
Charles took some delight in reminding Erik that he was really just a man underneath all the power and determination.
Erik was squared off against Alex in another pointless argument about something inconsequential.
Erik, thought Charles, give it up now, and I'll "forget" to take my muscle relaxants tonight.
Why would you-? Erik's thoughts turned a corner. Oh. Ohhhh.
"Do what you want, Alex," said Erik. "I don't care anymore."
"Scott's not stuttering so much," said Raven. "You wouldn't happen to know how that happened, would you?" She raised an eyebrow.
Charles smiled, turned his head to the side. "I didn't fix the stutter exactly. I just made it possible for him to fix it."
"That sounds suspiciously like fixing it."
"Did you know he spends an hour every morning – and since this is Scott, it's exactly an hour – practicing saying words without stuttering? It wasn't terribly effective. I simply altered his oral-motor programmatic learning circuits to be more receptive to his efforts."
"And he didn't even try to kill you?" purred Raven sarcastically. "Well, it was clearly worth it, then."
"Professor," said Hank, "I need to run some calibrations on Cerebro. Are you free this evening? It shouldn't take long."
"You know, I don't think that this is a good night for it, Hank. I'm sorry. I just have a lot of paperwork to take care of."
Sean was spending every moment of the day training, almost entirely apart from the others. More often than not, he slept on the grounds or stayed out all night.
"Where's Sean?" asked Erik.
"In my day, we respected our elders!" hissed Pavel, standing tall and jabbing an indignant finger at Erik's chest.
"I wasn't even talking to you, Pavel." Erik turned to look at the others. "Where's Sean?"
"In the city," said Alex, "probably ogling that lounge singer of his."
"What's this?" Erik picked up the stack of papers off if Charles' desk. He read the title page aloud. "Broad Typicality at the Karyotype Level of Somatic Cells in a Population of Humans with Extraordinary de Novo Mutations. Respectfully submitted by Charles F. Xavier, PhD."
"It's my first post-doctoral research paper. I still need to retype the references."
Erik sank into the desk chair to start reading. "It says here you worked from nine samples."
"Myself, Sean, Hank, Alex, Scott, Lyle, the twins, and Abigail. All anonymized, of course." Charles counted on his fingers.
"No Petra?"
"True consent to participate involves understanding the procedures and risks. She can't. And I collected and analyzed the samples before Cain and Pavel joined us." He paused. "You were away at the time."
"Ah."
"A war on two fronts, remember? When people confront a new phenomenon, they want to hear from experts. I am doing everything in my power to ensure that they see me as one of those experts."
Abigail paused on her way out of the study and pawed through her purse. "Here's your stupid box back. I got the money out."
Erik and Charles, lying on the bed.
Charles shook his hair out of his eyes. "I really do need a haircut."
"I think you'd look better with short hair."
"How short are we talking?"
"A buzz cut. Maybe a flat top."
"You're joking."
"Not at all. I would find it very attractive."
"Well...I..." Charles' eyes darted from one side to the other. "I'm not sure that..."
A smile and a laugh erupted out on Erik's face. "I really had you going for a minute there!" He mimicked Charles' accent: "Don't make me choooooose!"
A pattern had emerged. It would begin with indistinct auditory hallucinations, laughter, then Charles would know exactly who was laughing. Then he would begin to hear words and sentences, then he would finally begin to see and hear them, until at long last they would act on the world, spending all of whatever energy they were made of on a marginally predictable physical act, after which they would be thankfully silent again.
Erik had encouraged Charles to experiment, to see if he could control what they would do, to find out if he could make their actions stronger by allowing the hallucinations to build up over a longer period of time, but Charles had no stomach for it. Now that there was a way to keep them from getting too intense for too long, they had never bothered with the pills. With Erik to verify that Charles' thinking was sound, schizophrenia could be ruled out as a cause of the hallucinations; with the physical-world safety valve, Charles felt he was reasonably safe from madness as a result of them.
"You're creating them," said Erik. "That's my hypothesis."
"You think it's an organic problem, like a tumor? That doesn't fit with their ability to affect the physical world."
"They're not real, Charles." Pawn to d5.
"Of course they're not." Rook to b4.
"Then why do you talk to them?" Knight takes pawn.
A bit frustrated: "I don't know, Erik." Bishop to e2.
Erik moved a knight to c4.
Charles looked at him. "And I suppose you think you know?"
Erik sipped his drink, waiting for Charles to move.
"I don't want to talk with them, if that's what you're thinking." Pawn takes pawn. "I don't."
Erik held his hand out, palm forward, all five fingers spread.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Erik tucked in his thumb.
"Erik, what are you playing at?"
Erik held down his pinkie.
Charles furrowed his brow. It was Erik's turn to move.
Erik brought down his ring finger.
Was this Erik's new arguing technique? Making hand gestures until Charles gave up?
Erik brought down his middle finger.
Charles just stared.
Erik folded his index finger into his fist.
Charles just stared, and his jaw dropped down, because five seconds was enough to make him realize what he had known all along: "I want them to be real."
Erik leaned back in his chair, satisfied. "I suspected as much."
"I don't think they really are," said Charles, "I just...well, what if they are real? I could never forgive myself if I let that chance pass by."
"You have no comfort level with death. You have a preternaturally good imagination. Put the two together..." Erik extended his hand to the obvious conclusion.
"It's not death in its entirety; I just want to talk to Raven once more, tell her I'm sorry for-"
Erik interrupted. "I was listening today when Hank was teaching about experimentation and testable hypotheses. I knew you wouldn't give up your glimmer of hope without a fight."
"How could you possibly test this?"
"You don't know what the Travers boy looks like."
"Yes, I do. He's about 5'3", blue-green skin, no hair, scaly..."
"No, that's what you saw. But you've never actually seen the child, nor have you been within 250 miles of anyone who has, courtesy of his mother's regressive insularity."
"So if he actually looked like what I saw..."
"Then, yes, you're actually seeing the dead. But if he doesn't, then this is just a manifestation of your telepathy. An experiment to test the hypothesis."
Charles looked down, exhaling slowly. Then, with the slightest of smiles. "You're thinking we should take a jaunt down to Texas?"
"Have to test out the new Blackbird sometime."
The Blackbird circled over Texas.
"I'm sorry, Charles."
Charles sighed softly and whispered, "I'm sorry, Raven. I suppose it had to end sometime."
"You're blue!" Pavel clapped her hands.
"I am aware of this fact."
"And furry!"
"Amazement! Astonishment! Flabbergastery!" Hank scratched his chin. "Although I may have made that last one up."
"If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended."
"A Midsummer Night's Dream, Shakespeare."
"I'll have none of your saber-rattling, Mr. Ambassador."
"Indeed." Hank smiles.
Sometimes, when they have sex, it's gentle. They are face to face, though the lights are still off. Fingertips get comfortable, skin relaxes. Charles goes down on Erik, licking and sucking and wrapping his tongue. Erik goes down on Charles for a moment here and there; no one's getting much out of it, physically speaking, but Charles says he likes the visual. They try different positions. Charles talks too much. It's a game and they're winning.
Sometimes, when they fuck, it's violent. Erik makes no provisions for comfort and plunges into Charles with little preparation. Charles is face down against the mattress, sweating more than he has any right to, given that Erik is doing all the work. Charles is not surprised when dried blood comes off in the shower the next day. They agree on rules, yes, about what they can do, but not about what they can say. Erik pulls Charles' head back by his hair and whispers to him with each thrust. He calls him vermin, he calls him swine. He calls him freak, he calls him faggot. And once, only once, he calls him Jew.
Erik sleeps in his own bed for a few nights after that.
But he returns, stoic and silent, because there's a difference between violent sex with a willing partner and violence, and because damnable Charles always understands. Erik pads into the room, sock-footed, in the middle of the night, feeling miserable and exhausted. Charles stirs and smiles softly. "Ah yes, of course," he says as he touches his temple, "go to sleep, Erik."
No Sugar Tonight / New Mother Nature – The Guess Who: American Woman (1970).
This is another one of those songs that was recorded in 1969 and released in 1970. What can I say, a lot of good songs were released in 1970.
We near the end, gentle reader, but I already have plans made for my next fic. It will be madnss.
