AN: The chapter title is again from "Rivers and Roads" by the Head and the Heart
"Oh, you're absolutely going to hate it." A brilliant grin, a book pressed into his hands. "Beyond words. I can't wait to see how mad it makes you, you're going to froth at the mouth and yet you're going to be so wrong. It's The Hunger Artist, page 32, and it's a work of art. Come to my room when you're done?" Twelve leaned up on his toes, pressing against Erik, and brushed his lips slowly across the corner of Erik's lips. "You owe me a rematch for last night's game, too. I'm still pretty sure you cheated." He pulled back, long fingers brushing across Erik's wrist, sending warm and happy streaks rocketing through Erik's chest as his touch always did. "Good night, Erik. I'll see you soon."
The buzzing of a phone, disrupting and shattering Erik's dream, leaving him reaching up and out for someone who didn't exist. Erik held still, inhaled slowly, and then exhaled and looked up at the ceiling as he lowered his hand slowly, trying not to destroy everything around him for having the audacity to wake him up. At the same time, maybe it was a blessing. If the dream had continued, maybe he would have seen Charles die again. At least their last real conversation had been a positive one, at least it was a peaceful note to end the dream on. They'd talked about chess and books, and they had kissed. It had, honestly, been a perfect summary of their relationship.
He had heard Twelve use Erik's name again, which was wonderful and painful at the same time, as everything about Charles was, now. Erik rarely utilized his real name anymore, he'd dropped it nearly six years ago. Sometimes it felt like he would forget who Erik Lensherr was, like he was just the hunter, pursuing his quarry across the globe. Sometimes he almost forgot for a moment that he hadn't always been this person, this creature, that he was now.
Erik tried not to think about Charles, tried to pretend that he, Erik, hadn't existed before he had stumbled, bloody and half-broken, into the nearest Russian town from the manor. Erik was lucky that he had lived with Ten for so long; he was able to at least communicate with the people there, who hadn't known any other language but Russian. He tried not to think about Charles because with his beautiful face and gorgeous voice came the pain and realization that Erik had been responsible for his death.
After seven years, it hadn't stopped hurting. The frequency had decreased, of course. Erik no longer woke from screaming nightmares every night, gasping frantically for the bloody body on the table while every piece of metal around him destroyed itself. He no longer thought about Charles every time he saw an old book or a classic novel. He didn't spend his days grieving any longer, didn't shy away from absolutely anything that would recall even the slightest echo of the boy he had lost.
He did think of him daily, though. In tiny fragments that he never sustained. The taste of tea, for example, was painfully reminiscent of their days together, and he refused it now after the first disastrous attempt. He hated the scent, too, and avoided it whenever possible. The color blue, in certain shades, always stung. Chessboards, of course, were avoided at all costs, and libraries were equally painful, and were shunned. When you tame something, it is irrevocably changed, he thought every so often, and part of him hated it with a ferocity that he couldn't bear.
Why had he met Charles, if he was merely going to die? Why had Erik touched him and loved him if he was going to be taken away? What was the point of any of it, other than to teach Erik that love was a game best left unchallenged?
Erik loving people got them killed. He understood that now in a way he hadn't been able to grasp when he had been with Charles as a teenager. He had been too optimistic. He hadn't understood that peace and happy endings had never been meant for beautiful monsters. He'd killed Charles, he'd killed his mother, and his actions had gotten Eleven and Ten killed, as well.
Erik rolled over, banishing the thoughts, pushing them deep into his mind like submerging stones, and checked his phone as he pulled on the control and discipline that had gotten him through the last seven years. Work. Work was good, work was real and solid and was an excellent way to quell the ever-present swell of rage and bitterness in his chest. There was a text from Mystique on the screen, announcing that Erik needed to call her and get the details on a new job she had lined up for him. Erik felt himself smile a little, settling back into his bed. She was an excellent contact and regularly got Erik the best contracts, ones that led him toward Shaw. Maybe this would be one of the more promising leads. She had a network that he'd never had access to, and it had paid off a few times, Erik barely missing Shaw by a few hours. He sat up and typed back an affirmative, short and clipped.
Good. I'm outside your door with the details, hurry up and let me in, she replied instantly. Erik repressed the initial wave of irritation and stood, pulling on a turtleneck and jeans. He straightened his hair out of pure reflex before he went to the hotel door and opened it, looking every bit the cool, collected mercenary and not the man who had woken up begging to touch someone he had lost.
Erik moved frequently, both because he felt an aversion to staying in the same place for too long and because he didn't want to be found. He had made enemies here and there in his career, and if he was going to fight with Shaw, Erik wanted to be the one with the element of surprise. Somehow, the moving never stopped Mystique from finding him. Of course, she could tail Erik every day for all he knew; her mutation made that more than a possibility. Erik hadn't had it confirmed until now, however, that she had already found this flat.
She wasn't really a threat, however, and getting jobs was better than not. Better than sitting in one place and only hunting Shaw, with no money and no additional leads. At least some of her jobs gave him chances to refine his abilities and practice techniques that Erik wouldn't have otherwise. Other jobs gave intel to the true target. It was a good deal, working with her, and she was one of very few people that he did not actively dislike.
"How is it that you found my place already?" Erik didn't move away from the doorway, raising an eyebrow. She was wearing one of her favorites today, a femme fatale-style bombshell with a sharp cut of inky hair and striking blue eyes. The color was painful, almost too close to- Erik redirected the thought process. He was done thinking about him today. Work.
She smirked at him. "Please. I'm good at what I do, Eisenhardt. Isn't that why you keep me around? I never lose you, not for long." She brushed past him and stepped inside, glancing around. "Do you use pieces of metal to float shit around and unpack faster?" she asked idly. "I've always wondered. Not that you have much to unpack."
"No." Erik watched her, still not really liking anyone in his space. Mystique usually didn't irritate him as much as most people simply because she seemed to have accepted a long time ago that Erik would never have interest in her and wanted only the most cursory of work relationships. "What's the job?"
"An assassination," she noted, pulling a file from her bag and tossing it onto my table. "Delaney Durante, he's a socialite in New York. The contract is just for quick and clean. Bonus points and money if it implicates his staff in any way." She sat at the table as Erik pulled the file over and flipped it open. She began tearing into a bagel as she waited, and Erik ignored this roundly, just glad that she hadn't brought tea with her this time. She often drank Charles' favorite, the one he had been most excited about when the kitchen stocked it. Earl Grey is wonderful, he had assured Erik. But English Breakfast hits the spot no matter the brand. I have had some truly terrible Earl Greys, but never a bad English Breakfast.
Erik shoved the memory away forcefully. What was wrong with him today? Right now, he could blame Mystique's eyes, which were just too close for comfort. At least her hair wasn't brown and curly, that would have killed Erik where he stood.
Erik focused on the folder again. Work. The man in the photo was young and handsome, with an arrogant cast to his face that a lot of the socialites had. There were details on him in the papers below, but Erik waited rather than diving in. It was easier to just allow Mystique to rattle off the key points first.
"He's going to be at a party tonight for New York's finest, rubbing elbows and winning over rich bitches. You know the drill." Her eyes tracked him for a moment, then, "But this is precision, Eisenhardt. There are to be absolutely no civilian casualties here. I will take the contract myself if you aren't one hundred percent sure that he can be your only kill of the night."
An odd stipulation. Normally it was a given that Erik would only kill his own target; he didn't exactly have a record for accidents. It had only happened once in six years, and that had been a total freak accident where someone literally had run across the room for a different reason and Erik hadn't moved the missiles in time. Part of him was offended by this order and its commanding tone, while the other part of him simply took it into account and processed the underlying meaning beneath her words.
There was someone at the party who she wanted to live. Someone she knew, perhaps. Erik didn't know much about her personal life. He didn't even know her real name. Normally that would be a point of personal challenge and failure for him, but... It was hard to track someone who constantly swapped her identity out for a more convenient one. She had only slipped up and revealed something of herself one other time, upon meeting Erik, when she had said, You aren't the only one who has a score to settle with Sebastian Shaw.
That made this command very interesting. Erik didn't really care about the intricacies of Mystique's life- she liked her privacy and he liked his. Their once-a-month contact meeting was more than adequate. But it was still interesting. "Fine," Erik said, inclining his head now and pushing it away. "I won't touch anyone else, just him." He looked at the picture of the target, committing it to memory. "He sounds like a shit anyway."
Mystique laughed, standing. "You say that about everyone," she remarked, "But you're very right about it this time. I'll wire over the money once he's dead. See you later."
Erik lifted a hand and flicked a finger, opening the door for her. "Enjoy the party." He wondered briefly if he was expected to ask about her weird insistence on not hurting anyone there, then ignored it. She was private about her personal life. If she wanted to mention what she was freaked about, she would. Erik didn't care. All that mattered was that he had a mission to concentrate on.
Erik lifted his little metal spheres, spinning and twirling them in complex patterns back and forth. Finesse and control. Those were things that Shaw hadn't taught him, but things that were integral to his life now.
Control. Control the anger, the bitterness, the pain that he was sublimating so fiercely from the dream of the memory of the boy with blue eyes. He could get through this. They were getting closer to finding him every day, and until then… he had a job to do.
Erik stepped into the manor and repressed the immediate distaste that rose. It was pure opulence, lavish decorations and shimmering price tags everywhere. The women were bedecked in jewels, the men in tailored suits they had clearly poured money into. It looked far too much like a place that Sebastian Shaw would be at home in. Shaw had been well-bred too, with lots of money. The manor had been beautiful and opulent, although in disrepair. He seemed to have sensed that the mutants in his 'care' would have destroyed anything truly nice just out of spite and rage.
Erik took a glass of dark wine off a waiter's tray without looking at him, scanning the ballroom and making his way across the floor. He didn't see Durante yet, which left him to further glower at his surroundings.
None of it was for their own enjoyment, it was all because they wanted their neighbors and friends to be impressed about how much money they had. Insanity, the hungers of humans. Mutants were so often more concerned with just surviving.
Erik's fingers slipped into his jacket's pocket, found the silver ball there. No missed shots, no jammed guns, no possible escape. Even a bulletproof vest wouldn't protect someone once Erik had decided to end them- his aim was perfect and he didn't need momentum. As assassins went, he was perfect. Had that been Shaw's endgame? An assassin?
Erik scanned the room as he took a drink of the wine. He wanted to get this done quickly and go back to the hotel. He had no interest in socializing or pretending he gave a damn about any of these people or their so-called causes, so he didn't want to attract enough attention that anyone would try to start a conversation with him.Trivial worries, human issues, and none of them on the scale of things he had experienced.
Mutants were known in the world, but most of them hid if they could. History had shown, quite clearly, that humans fought and killed anything that frightened them. Countless mutants had been hunted, lynched, murdered for the fact that they had been cursed with the misfortune to be born. Nowhere was safe while the humans held all the cards.
It was Shaw's ideology. He knew that. He was aware of it, loathed that it lived in his bones like cancer. He'd rather purge all traces of the man from him. The fact that he would agree with Sebastian Shaw on anything was disgusting. But Erik had been in the world for the last seven years. He had seen the news. He had seen the anti-mutant protests, as if it was something that could be simply given up. He'd seen the footage, the lynchings, the court cases. Shaw, as despicable and tyrannical as he had been… hadn't been fully wrong about the humans.
It was Kafka's name that caught his attention first as he stewed in his anger, a group somewhere to his left chattering animatedly. It was a group of four, one in a wheelchair with his back to Erik. He took a moment to appreciate the chair- it had a fair bit of metal in it- and then realized abruptly that it was Durante standing there, Durante who had said the name.
"He's absolutely overrated," he said dismissively, taking a drink of wine. "Before the Law was fine, but The Hunger Artist seemed self-important." He shook his head and Erik examined him, bored of this game already. He needed to find a way to get him quickly, without potentially hitting anyone else. It would be best to wait until he'd gotten away from his friends, for a bathroom break or something of the sort. A public execution was all well and good, but the chaos was always messy afterward and the contract called for pinning the death on Durante's staff. This was almost too easy, no real challenge to it. Erik began scanning for a knife or something he could use from the kitchen, something with staff fingerprints on it already.
"Oh, I don't know," the man in the wheelchair said, his voice soft and carrying a warm, smooth British accent. "I've rather a soft spot for The Hunger Artist."
Erik spilled some of his wine, freezing in place, and fought down the immediate reaction. It had happened before. Once he'd grabbed a man on the street when he had heard him speaking, only seeing freckles and slim shoulders. The eyes, of course, had been wrong, and Erik had been forced to release him, looking and feeling insane.
No, he knew that it was impossible. The voice was just pretty and British, and plenty of people liked The Hunger Artist for some reason. He had reread it since and maintained that it was indulgent and self-important. Durante wasn't fully wrong, but the novella still had fans.The voice only sounded familiar because he had been dreaming of Charles. It was his more than slightly unstable mind playing tricks on him, nothing more.
The silver in his pocket flattened into a disc, swirled into a spiral, extended into a needle, settled back into a sphere. He focused on the shapes, relaxing slowly. He just had to wait until Durante went to the bathroom and then he could leave. He continued manipulating the little sphere, keeping his attention on that to keep his mind occupied and burn off the adrenaline that had coursed through him at the British man's voice. They were in America, so he hadn't been expecting a Brit, either. That always made it worse.
"Come on," Durante scoffed, rolling his eyes as he took a drink of what looked like brandy. "Next you'll be telling me that you still unironically like Gatsby. It's been years, you have to have better preferences than that by now."
"You've terrible taste in literature, my friend, if you don't think that The Great Gatsby is a singular novel of deep worth." But there was no heat in the Brit's voice, only mild amusement, and Erik struggled to maintain his calm, his sphere flashing between different shapes within the cave of his fingers as his normally well-chained emotions struggled to settle.
The game was always fixed, my friend.
It was a common enough term of affection, Erik reminded himself sharply, disgusted by his own weakness and want in that moment. The man in the wheelchair continued, unheeding of the chaos he was causing in Erik. "I understand there's a level of irony in me being monied and living in New York and loving that particular novel, but it doesn't mean that the prose is any less beautiful. I-"
"Charles. Delaney. Can we talk about something other than books?" One of the other men was exasperated, and the man in the wheelchair laughed, the sound warm and kind and oh God, so familiar it sent spikes of pain into Erik's chest before the name registered, the other name. The name he hadn't known, of the man in the wheelchair with the beautiful voice, who liked books and Kafka.
Charles. The earth was rocking under Erik's feet, the little sphere in his pocket curling in on itself tightly. Charles, his name was Charles. The glass in Erik's other hand shattered from how hard he'd gripped it and he ignored the pain and the blood, forcing himself to stop using his gifts because the sphere was abandoned in favor of stripping every screw from the doors and walls anywhere near him.
How was this even possible? Charles had been dead, he'd been dying even when Erik had burst into the torture cell. He had learned more about anatomy in his freedom, had thought back to the wounds. Charles would have bled out in mere hours like that, how could it possibly be him?
Could it be Mystique?
Erik was filled with ice as the thought suddenly struck him, stilling with his eyes on the back of the head covered in soft brown curls. It would be unnaturally cruel of her, because it wouldn't possibly be a coincidence. It would be a choice she was making, a deliberate weapon against him. If it was her, choosing that body, that voice, that face, with those lines… yes, it was deliberate, a carefully-studied disguise.
Rage pooled dark and heavy in Erik's stomach and he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to calm down. He didn't know that was the case. If it was her, Erik would kill her. He didn't need her that badly, not so much that he would overlook this crime of using Charles like a goddamn Halloween costume. He put his still-bleeding hand in his pocket, moving around the room slowly at a prowling pace. He needed to see the Brit's face. The lack of sapphire eyes and freckled cheeks would break it, would explain to him that it was not Charles or Mystique, that it was a common name in England and Kafka was a famous author and it was all somehow a coincidence that seemed unlikely, but stranger things happened, so he'd been told.
It was like being hit with a battering ram.
Charles' eyes were filled with mirth and were the same unbelievably blue color as they had always been. He was older, a man now instead of a boy, his body long and shoulders more broad than they had been before, his jaw stronger though still without any stubble. Was that a good sign, his age? If it were Mystique, basing appearance off of photos or videos, would she be able to age herself like this? Surely not so perfectly, surely there would be flaws there. And if it was Erik's unstable mind finally cracking, wouldn't he look seventeen?
Erik leaned back against the wall so he wouldn't fall over, staring at the man in front of him, still laughing at something one of the other men had said. He was just as beautiful as he had always been- truly, more so now that he was a full-grown man. Charles was gorgeous, with those amazing eyes and that warm, soft, polished voice. His hair was messy and dark, still unruly even in freedom, and the freckles on his skin seemed to stand out more as an adult than they had as a boy. He grinned up at one of the men around him, gesturing with long-fingered hands as he spoke, and Erik caught the hum of metal around his wrist that he should have caught before, but the metal of the chair had thrown him off. It was a bracelet, links of bright and dull chain curling softly against Charles' skin. They were happy to be there, were almost warm and contented, and the two metals chimed together, almost singing. Erik staggered, his lungs suddenly tight.
Charles refused to take one of the cuffs off, claiming cheerfully that it was a good memory, and one he didn't regret. "How often do you get to fly?" He pointed out teasingly, refusing to agree that his 'flight' had been an uncontrolled free-fall aimed toward his death.
It was impossible, so impossible, but it was the same bracelet, the same eyes, the same freckles.
Charles' head was a soft weight on his chest, his fingers hesitant but willing as they held the cuffs out to Erik, his warm body wound around him and against his side.
The room felt too loud, too small.
It's perfect. Truly, genuinely, incandescently perfect. Thank you.
He was still wearing it. There was no mistaking the bracelet. Erik had become intimately aware of it during those endless seconds of falling in the elevator shaft, and in the months after, in the observatory, in the reshaping of it. He had played with those cuffs, that bracelet, had kissed the skin beneath it, had felt the cool metal against his skin as Charles had slept on him, his hand resting on Erik's chest. Erik was a metallokinetic and he knew this alloy, knew the taste of this metal, as if he were identifying his own face.
Mystique wouldn't have known or thought to replicate the bracelet. It would have been nothing to her, and even if she had, it wouldn't be the same metal. And no other Brit named Charles who happened to love Kafka would be wearing it and looking like that.
It was Charles. It was actually him.
Charles' head finally snapped up and turned from the attention of his friends. Was it the repetition of his name that had done it? The memories, the echoed words? Erik felt frozen in place as Charles' eyes sought Erik's out, confused and merely mildly interested at first. Then his expression cleared, wiped clean, replaced with a look of complete and utter shock.
Erik. His voice, his mind, up against Erik's and almost painfully vivid as he stared at Erik from across the room, his wine glass tumbling from his hand. His friends hurried around him, waving for servants to clean up the spill and the glass and interrogating him on if he was okay, but he didn't look away from Erik, his eyes wide and stunned.
Charles. Erik couldn't even smile, the shock still too acute, and something in his head screaming that he had to be insane, that this couldn't be real because it was too good to be true. One of the men touched Charles' shoulder to get his attention and Erik moved quickly as the realization hit him- if other people could see him, if other people could touch him, was he real? Was it real?
Erik moved forward into the small knot of people around Charles, completely ignoring how they protested as he moved them away and apart, and sank to a crouch in front of the wheelchair, his legs refusing to support him any longer as Erik stared up at cerulean eyes and a shell-shocked face. "Hey," Erik said, unable to look away from the irises that he hadn't been able to truly conjure up in memory. They were so much more beautiful than he had remembered. Erik's hands shook and he pressed them surreptitiously to his legs, trying to breathe. If this was real, if he hadn't lost his mind… Charles was right here, in front of him.
"Excuse me," one of the men said, flustered. "Can we help you?"
Erik ignored him wholly, continuing to search Charles' face, committing every tiny difference and change the last six years had wrought. There was tension in his shoulders and expression that hadn't been there before, a certain look of strain on his face. His jaw was sharper, his cheeks thinner, but he looked… so much the same. Just grown into himself.
Charles stared down at him, his eyes wide and almost lost, and then, "Leave," he said numbly. Erik wondered for a horrific split-second if Charles was dismissing him, but then, "Leave," he ordered sharply, voice raising slightly, his hands tightening around the wheels of his chair.
Complete and total silence fell around them, and then gradually, eerily, all the partygoers headed for the door. They began talking to each other softly, chattering happily as if they had just had a wonderful time at a party that had wound down, not that they'd all been commanded to leave mid-celebration. Part of Erik, the part that wasn't focused on the face of the man in front of him, was impressed at the sheer power of this. He had just commanded over two hundred people without blinking an eye, and they had obeyed without pause, without even fully knowing what had just happened. He'd never known Charles capable of such things. The two men were alone in the ballroom in seconds.
Once they were alone, Erik slowly, carefully, reached out to touch Charles' knee. He was in a wheelchair. Of course he was, Erik had seen the spinal damage when he had broken into the room. He had seen what Shaw had done, so this made sense. It had just never processed as a possibility, because Charles had been dead, so he had never considered what would have actually happened as a result of those injuries, had he lived. "You're real?" It was more of a question than a statement, his hand slightly unsteady and his voice not much better.
Charles shook his head mechanically, eyes never leaving Erik's face. "I am. But you… you can't be real," he whispered slowly. "You're… you can't be real. You're dead. And I looked, I looked for a Ringer and they can't be found and the ones who can- not without a body, they said, and the body was-" he broke off, brow creasing in that achingly familiar way. "You can't be real," he repeated slowly, emotions flickering across his face and through his eyes too quickly for Erik to catch, clearly calculating the likelihood that this was a trick.
"I didn't think you were real either, for a minute. I heard your voice, and-" Erik stopped, trying to focus and be able to breathe. He hadn't moved from his kneeling position, and he didn't want to. "Your bracelet. I know that metal, I reformed that metal. No one else could have it, and no one else would know the importance of it. It's you." Erik tried to smile, but still felt shaky and unsteady. "I'm real, Charles. Look as much as you want to, I don't care. I'm real. I can't believe you're real." His hand shook and he willed myself to still. "You're real. He told me he killed you, and I believed him. I'm so sorry, Charles. I never should have left you alone that day, I knew better. I should have known."
Comprehension dawned on that pale, freckled face, and with it, bitterness. "This is cruel even for you," he said with sudden venom in his voice, leaning back from Erik sharply. "What the fuck do you want, Emma? I told you that if I ever felt your mind anywhere near mine again, that I wouldn't be lenient, I told you to leave me and my family in peace, and this is what you do. Do you project the same fucking scene for Shaw? Erik on his knees, vulnerable and happy? Does it do it for him, since you can't? Get the fuck up before I fry you and get his face off, I don't want to see him like this." His knuckles were white on the arms of his chair, his voice shaking slightly with rage or pain, Erik couldn't quite identify.
To be honest, at this point Erik didn't give less of a shit if Charles did hurt him. It was Charles. He was alive. Charles could do whatever he wanted and Erik would be happy in this moment that he was alive. But when the telepath inevitably realized that it was actually Erik, it would upset Charles that he'd hurt him.
Erik moved his hand off Charles' knee carefully and backed up slightly, but didn't look away from his face. "I'm not Emma," he said gently, chest aching at the pain in his former lovers face. "Look. Crack me open and look at whatever you want, I don't care."
He'd find out that Erik was a murderer, but Charles already known that, and Erik had already been that. Charles would just find out the extent of the damage, discover the new blood on Erik's hands. It didn't matter. If he cast Erik out, Erik would make sure Charles was safe and go, in pain but at least happy in the knowledge that the man he had loved for so long was alive and safe.
He couldn't blame someone like Charles not wanting someone like himself. Erik had more than tripled the amount of blood on his hands since Shaw had left him. Erik's chest ached as he looked up at Charles, hearing the pain and rage in the British man's beautiful voice and understanding it.
Charles squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't want to be anywhere near your mind, Emma. Stop the projection. Get his face off. He's dead, I know he's dead. The Ringer couldn't find him without a body and I don't know how you're replicating the mind, maybe you're in my shields enough to fuck with me like that, but this is your last warning. Get his face off right now. Erik didn't even know my goddamn name, I know it's not him."
Erik experienced a brief moment of awe at the implication of what a Ringer was, but there were more important matters at stake. "I woke up after seeing you hurt, tied up in the deep basement without metal anywhere near. Shaw tied me up and left me there. He told me he'd killed all of you and then locked the door and walked away." Erik took in a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He needed to stop the pain Charles was in. "Emma told me your name after I begged Shaw to tell me and he refused. She didn't help me out or give me anything else, but she told me your name. So she wasn't all bad." Erik took a deep breath. He needed Charles to understand it was real. "Look in my head. Do whatever you need to do, but it's me."
Charles held still for a long moment, visibly bracing himself for impact or pain, and then opened his eyes and looked at Erik. "If you're lying…" he left the threat unfinished, his fingertips brushing his temple and his eyes unfocusing very slightly.
It was nothing like Emma's forays into Erik's mind in his youth. It wasn't even like Charles' forays into Erik's mind in his youth. He couldn't feel him at all. It would almost be unnerving if it weren't him, weren't Charles, who would never abuse that ability. It would be terrifying to know that he could do this if Erik hadn't given him permission. The knowledge that there were telepaths strong enough to sneak in, read someone's entire history, and sneak back out without the victim ever having a clue…
Charles let out a sudden, unsteady breath, his hand dropping from his temple to cover his mouth. Erik. Oh my god, it is you. I'm so sorry, I didn't— I ran into her a few years ago and— he searched Erik's face, the violence and bitterness gone from his again, replaced instead by unsteady relief. "It's you."
"It's me." Erik felt a smile break across his face, the first real smile he'd made in years. "God, Charles, I've missed you." He laughed a little at that understatement. "It's natural to be unsure, to be cautious. We didn't have the best of lives, to start."
He let out a weak laugh and reached out, his hand trembling slightly. How did you get out of there? The mansion was destroyed, there were bodies, I looked. I didn't find yours, but they said they did, they said it was in pieces. How did Shaw let you go?
Erik caught his hand, relieved that Charles wanted to touch him still, after all the violence he had to have seen in Erik's head. "He left me there because he wanted me to break my own way out. It was a self-serving experiment on his part. He wanted to see if I was strong enough. There wasn't anything near, but I finally got a screw down from the top floors. It… took a while." The better part of a week, actually. "How did you survive? Charles, I saw your wounds." With that thought came old pain, but Charles was here, in front of him. Alive and vibrant and gorgeous. "He said you were dead."
"I don't know," he admitted quietly, fingers curling tightly around Erik's. "I've wondered the same thing so many times. I was on the table, and he was cutting me." His forehead creased as his fingers traced patterns on Erik's hand. "You came in, and I felt you touch me, and then… and then I woke up in the hospital. They said that I had been found bleeding on the side of the road. I tried to go back, to figure out where to go back to, but I couldn't… walk." His jaw clenched, his hand loosening on Erik's. "By the time I got out and found the manor, it was just ashes and wreckage and bodies. I never knew how I got out. I thought maybe Shaw did it, maybe it was some sort of trick, but then... he never came back for me. Not yet, anyways."
The sentence was telling. Erik had been pursuing Shaw for the last seven years, searching and hunting. Charles was in the opposite position, waiting constantly for Shaw to come back and claim him again.
"He won't." It snapped out viciously, a low and violent promise, and Erik forced himself to calm. The idea that Shaw could come back and hurt Charles again, after all these years, made the metal around him groan in anger. Erik took a long breath in and let it out. "I got up to the upper floors, and everything was destroyed and everyone was in pieces. I burned the place to the ground and gathered some of the ashes, and the pieces that were left." Erik felt a small smile quirk his lips, dark humor rising. "Actually, Charles, you've got a grave. I visit once a year. You, Eleven and Ten. I couldn't tell who was who, there were so many… pieces, so I just… you know. Gathered ashes and what I could and made graves."
Erik looked at Charles' hands, so warm and healthy and clean, then focused up at him. "I don't care that you can't walk," he informed him. "Why the fuck would I care? I'm sure it upsets you, and I'm so sorry. I'll make sure Shaw pays for it."
Charles opened his mouth, his hand brushing against Erik's cheek, and then he flinched. "Oh, Jesus. I'm so sorry, it's my sister, she's being rather loud-" he raised a hand to his forehead with a wince. "She wants to make sure I'm not being killed?" He paused, looking at Erik somewhat quizzically, and then a girl was striding angrily into the room.
"You had a job," she snapped at Erik, who frowned at her, slowly pushing himself into a more crouched position, prepared to run and take Charles if he needed to. Her eyes flicked between the two and she stopped, clearly confused, and then raged. "Out," she snarled, yanking him up. "Get out, Eisenhardt, get the fuck out of here."
"Wait, what?" Charles straightened in alarm, looking between them as Erik's other hand was pulled from his. "Raven, what—"
"Whatever he's told you, it's a lie. He doesn't need to be here. Eisenhardt, get the fuck out or I'll send you out in pieces." Her eyes were blazing, furious, protectively violent in the same way that Charles' always had been. Erik blinked down at her, then realized- it was Mystique. As that realization came, things started to make sense.
She hated Shaw. She was unbelievably private about her life. She'd never mentioned family, she was incredibly paranoid. She was absolutely vicious about certain things. They got along well because we were so similar. She hadn't been through what Erik had been through… but her brother had.
"You didn't want any harm to anyone else, you stipulated that no one could be hurt because Charles was here. He's your brother." Things continued falling into place, and Erik stared down at her as the insanity of what she'd asked him to do hit him. "Why in the hell would you send me in if you knew he could be in the crossfire?" If you had family, why risk it like that?
Mystique- Raven- looked between the men, gritting her teeth. Her eyes were shifting colors, her power manifesting her anxiety. "Shut the fuck up and get out of here," she snarled at him. "Or I will shoot you in the face."
It may have been funny, in another time without the surrounding circumstances, someone threatening him with a metal weapon. Erik had never seen her so anxious, but she'd only really known him as something dangerous and now he was within arm's length of who was likely her only family. He couldn't blame her for the stress.
"Charles, I'll be right back to take you home," she said, shoving at Erik again. "I need to speak to him for a minute, just stay here. There was a mistake somewhere, just stay here."
As she tried to push at him again, Erik noted that she had no metal on her but her earrings, meaning she was bluffing or she had a gun that wasn't metal… somehow. "I'm not going anywhere," Erik informed her, and Raven glared at him, reaching into the pocket of her jacket. Erik hesitated- normally he would just kill or knock her out, and part of him wanted to, but this was Charles' sister. He looked over her shoulder at Charles as Raven closed her hand around something in her pocket. He had no intention of being separated from Charles again, but he didn't want to hurt his sister either.
"Raven." Charles' voice was sharp, cracking like a whip. His voice was softer when he spoke next. "That's Erik."
"What?" Raven looked back at him, then slowly raised her hand away from whatever she'd had in her jacket, eyeing Erik. "He used a different name with me," she said, then looked back at Charles, clearly still itching to do something, still obviously uneasy with Erik this close to Charles. "You checked him? You're sure?"
"I'm sure." He nodded. "Believe me, I had my share of doubts. How do you know… oh, for contracts. I see. Reading his mind, not yours, love." His eyes returned to Erik, studying him closely.
Was this where he threw Erik out because of how he made his living? Erik was supposed to kill his friend Delaney tonight until he'd been distracted by this impossible miracle. Erik couldn't blame him- it was a lot to accept or forgive. Killing Shaw or Emma was one thing, but the people Erik had killed mostly were just strangers people had contracted him for. And killing people under Shaw… that had been different too. In some ways he had had no choice. But he had all the choice now, and Erik had made choices that Charles, in all his good-heartedness, could and would never make.
Whatever Charles wanted, whatever kind of relationship he'd allow, Erik would take it, as pathetic as that sounded to an extent. He had gone crazy thinking Charles was dead, so being even just friends, acquaintances, would be okay. As long as he knew Charles was okay.
Trying to look as unthreatening as possible in the face of potential rejection, Erik put his hands in his pockets and noted that his left one still stung. He pulled it out enough to glance at it- it wasn't really bleeding too much anymore- and put it back, looking back at Charles. There was no point in trying to hide it, he should just be honest. I'm sure this isn't quite the reunion you dreamed of. Me here trying to kill your friend. Even if he does have abysmal taste in literature and deserves to be removed for that reason alone.
Charles laughed. I wasn't naive enough to dream of a reunion, I'll take what I can get. His lips twitched and he looked at Raven. "Could you bring the car around?" He asked her softly, and she looked between us, pressing her lips into the thinnest of lines, eyes still slowly flickering different colors, and nodded after a moment.
"If you so much as put a scratch on him, I will destroy you in ways not even Shaw thought of," Raven snapped at Erik, and stormed out. Erik looked after her, amusement dancing in his mind. She was feisty. He had never seen her so angry and protective, it was almost cute, considering that if Erik wanted, she would never be able to get anywhere near him. Her gift wasn't as offensive as his, and he had honed it in what was almost a battlezone.
"Your sister is charming," he told Charles, unable to look away from him for very long. Charles laughed, eyes crinkling in a familiar way that made Erik's chest hurt in that old way that his smile always had. Memory hadn't done it justice.
"I certainly think so. You shouldn't underestimate her though." His brow creased slightly, but he didn't share the thought that had inspired the action. He shook it off slightly, then looked up at Erik. "You think I would hold your job against you?"
Erik gave a small smile, shrugging a little. Many times through the years, he had known that Charles would be upset if he'd known what he became, what he had done with his life. Charles always had believed in second chances, in helping people. Erik did the exact opposite. "You have always believed that even shitty people deserve a second chance. I don't give them that. It isn't the kind of life you ever wanted to be involved in."
Charles tilted his head, eyes crinkling slightly. "It seems to me that you still haven't gotten your second chance," he pointed out lightly, then silently, I've got my own fair bit of mess, he reflected thoughtfully. I can't go to the dentist, and I make the doctor visit in my own home. I can't… do the rooms. The smell of smoke makes me flashback. I can't control it— I always smell flesh in the fire.
"I know," Erik said quietly. He had needed to get medical help once or twice, and he hadn't done well when they had brought him back to the examination room, so he dealt with his healer now, or simply didn't get medical attention at all.
He caged the urge to reach out and take Charles' hand, to soothe him in the ways he would have seven years ago. Things might have changed. For all he knew, Charles had a lot of things going on and might be married, engaged, in a relationship… Erik had already taken a lot of liberties. He kept those thoughts quiet, not wanting to make Charles uncomfortable if that were the case. He'd been through enough.
Erik gave Charles a small smile. "I'm sorry. I understand- I don't go to hospitals either. I haven't been to the dentist, but I can imagine it… wouldn't go well."
Charles waved this sympathy off, though there was a touch of concern in his eyes. "The point is... that I have trauma and baggage that affects me to this day." He folded his hands in his lap and looked up at Erik with a half-smile. "And that's not even mentioning the immediate aftermath of our freedom. I was only there for three months. You were there for seven years. Your job is a reflection of that, and I can't hold it against you. You deserve a second chance, just as much as anyone does. You're living a life that you had very little choice in."
Erik stared at him. He had imagined, on days when he'd been particularly daft, a reunion of sorts. Maybe in the afterlife, he had never actually thought it through completely. Sometimes, he had dreamed about it. Erik had imagined every scenario, but very few had turned out like this. Just… forgiveness and acceptance. Understanding. Erik reached out slowly, touching Charles' cheek gently. "You were back then and continue to be far better than anyone deserves," he told him, searching the beautiful blue eyes, and Charles laughed, his fingers turning and catching Erik's hand reflexively.
"Poppycock," he informed him warmly, then faltered, brow creasing as he thought. "I… don't know what happens next. You have your flat, although it's really terribly spartan, Erik, you should buy some art- and you have a life."
"A life?" Erik gave a short bark of a laugh. "Charles, my life is hunting Shaw." He slowly dropped his hand from Charles' face, running it through his hair instead. "That's why I'm here. To track a lead, so I can kill the bastard."
"Your life is not Shaw's." Charles' voice was sharp again, a whip that cracked the air in half. "If you devote everything to hunting him, then he wins. He gets to own you, just like he always wanted to." He reached out, grabbing Erik's arm. "Don't let him win, Erik, not after all this time."
Erik searched his face, then gave a small smile, relenting for the moment. He couldn't stop looking for Shaw, not after what Shaw had done… but he could stop, for now. Just enjoy being around Charles again, learn what he could do to ease some of those lines and pain on his former lover's face. "You're still so fierce."
His lips curved up slowly into a brilliant smile. "I would invite you home for drinks and to bandage that hand, but… ah. I suppose I should tell you." He looked oddly uncertain now, fingers plucking at his bracelet in a nervous tick Erik was nearly sure he didn't realize he was doing.
Erik watched him, nodding a little as a million reasons ran through his head why Charles would need to brace him for something. Charles probably was married, had a live-in boyfriend or something of course, how could he not? He was the most incredible person that Erik had ever met in his life, and there was no way that it was only Erik who had noticed. Erik hadn't noticed a ring and didn't feel one now, but plenty of people didn't wear rings.
He kept his expression straight, hoping that Charles hadn't heard the panic. "Tell me whatever you need to tell me. I can go back to my flat and see you tomorrow if now isn't a good time." Shoving down the rising panic of not seeing Charles, Erik forced himself into calm. It felt too new, too fragile to just leave. But if that's what he wanted, Erik would do it.
"No," Charles said quickly, surprised, releasing the bracelet. "No, it's nothing like that. It's just…" he stopped again, taking a deep breath, then, "I live in a very large house. And I run a school for young mutants." Neither of them moved for a moment, and Erik became aware in the silence that someone was repeatedly honking from the front. Charles' fingers brushed his temple for a moment and the beeping stopped as Erik processed this information.
"You run a school." Ugh. Children. He had only the most cursory contact with children since he'd been one. I live in a very big house. Erik snorted and looked back at Charles with a smile. "Charles, I knew you were rich, that doesn't bother me. The schools you went to, the way you were educated, that made sense and never really bothered me. I can see why you'd open a school, too. Of course you did. If I had guessed what you would do, teaching makes perfect sense." And it also made sense that the children probably shouldn't know where Erik came from or how they knew each other. Erik doubted that Charles had shared that part of his life with them. He shook his head as the car outside let out a squawk. "Come on, Professor. We can just drop me at my flat. That's fine." Erik probably shouldn't be near the children, honestly. He would put them off their healthy breakfast Charles would no doubt researched extensively.
Confusion on Charles' face as he looked up at Erik. "I… no, I would love for them to meet you." Erik, I'm warning you because there are obvious parallels to my life and what Shaw did, because memories could spring up on you if you were to come home with me and see the similarities.
He was still so good. Erik had wondered, through the years, if the world being the terrible, shitty place it was, would have crushed that optimism and warmth out of him, but it had stayed and that was incredible. Erik gave him the best smile he could, his chest aching at the fact that this was real. "As long as I'm not asked to referee a game or something terrible like that, it's fine. Thank you." His school would be so wildly different in every way, Erik couldn't imagine it would set him off… but it was good to be prepared.
He relaxed fully, his smile returning, bright and overwhelming on his face. "Then would you like to come back for drinks?"
Erik would follow that smile to the ends of the fucking earth. "Drinks sound good," he agreed. "I didn't actually drink much of mine."