It's long and updated in less than a week. What happens when I'm stuck in work study for four hours and my Macro teacher is not good at explaining the homework so I just give up after being stuck on problem one for over half an hour...
Any-hoo, hey all! Thanks so much for the update! And to the sweetie who was more wondering about Anya's reaction to Cherik... I'm sorry that was tactless how I put it last chapter. You just reminded me of the bullshit I don't want to hear. As for Anya, well... Could be a spoiler if I said... So sorry. Just read - and trust me.
So, Erik point of view - the moment we've all been waiting for. The git fought me - clammed up and glared when I tried to write him - but I kicked his ass and forced him into talking. (After redoing the chapter, of course.) I'm actually happy with it, but let me know what you think - if I should write him angrier, happier, etc. For the purpose of this story Erik didn't know up until now that Charles was paralyzed.
Love you guys, thanks for sticking with me!
Chapter Eight: ...How?! (October 27, 1967)
I stare out the window as Havoc jabbers incessantly at me. Something about Charles… Keeping my mouth shut… how he'll murder me if I do anything out of line… Excuse me, let her (whoever the mysterious her is) murder me. I try not to roll my eyes or yawn too widely.
Kid's a fucking amateur at threatening. I could have sworn he was better at it. A glance at his much older face - he's twenty-two now, not that I've been keeping track - shows more nerves than actual anger. Banshee doesn't even try to threaten me, promptly falling asleep once we're in the clear of the Pentagon. Beast is focused on driving and paying me minimal attention.
They should be worried I'll run. I can; a flick of my wrist and this run-down van could be a pile of scrap metal. I should. I have plans, plans that do not involve this dimwitted and notoriously blind group of morons. They'd be left on the side of the road and no one would notice until morning. I'd be long gone by then - find Mystique and the rest of my Brotherhood and keep moving with the plan.
I don't.
The trees become thicker when we drive onto the estate. I swallow convulsively and then harden my face when I see Havoc's eyes narrow. I scowl at him and wait for him to turn away just like I remember all the kids did. Only… he doesn't even flinch. Instead, he starts chuckling a little to himself, looking down at his hands. Nt the reaction I was expecting... The surprise must show on my face because he suddenly cracks a grin.
"Sorry. but… well I'm kind of used to that face after five years."
"Oh did he do the face?" Beast pipes up from the front, a growling laugh spilling from his furry throat.
"He did indeed." Alex tries to mimic me and fails, giggling. "Oh man, I don't know how you guys do that. It stops being scary after a while."
"Not scary?! You've never been around the toaster when she makes it explode! That's the toaster-exploding face!"
"No, it's the I'm-going-to-beat-up-Jesse face. I love that face."
It occurs to me, not for the first time today, that my former students have apparently lost any of the few IQ points they had before I was imprisoned.
I go back to looking out the window and generally ignoring them. They let me, and watch the long driveway whirl away into the darkness. It's been a long time. Five years in the span of history is not really that long of a time, but to a man who was abandoned on a beach… Five years is eternity. My breath ghosts the window with my exhale, lighting up white for the space of a few seconds and then slowly crumbling into water droplets along the plane of glass. I feel a little sick when I remember how I left him. Would Charles still be angry with me? I don't want to believe that he would be - I don't remember him holding grudges - but most men would be furious after a betrayal - no, he betrayed me, I remind myself swiftly. He didn't come with me. He chose her over me. Them over us. That helps, the familiar anger reigniting in my chest. Four years I've been in that hell-hole, and not once before today did he try to get me out. He left me to rot.
Fuck, I have a right to be angry!
I tell myself that's why my heart is racing when the van finally lurches to a stop in front of the mansion I have long missed, warm golden light spilling from the windows.
"Hope you're ready for fireworks…"
"Dude, get ready for a fucking boxing match. Ten on the squirt."
"That's a fool's bet," Banshee says groggily from the front. "Kid's gonna kick his ass if Prof don't stop her…"
"Can you stop?" Beast growls in exasperation. "This is going to be tense enough without you two making it worse."
"Lighten up Hank -"
"Need I remind you that she is most likely going to kill us for not telling her about him?" the blue mutant snarls, jerking his furry head at me. I'm curious about this her. Is she an especially powerful mutant? And, if so, why does she have a grudge against me.
"I'd like to know about this supposed enemy of mine," I say in a low voice. All three boys go very still. Awkwardness ensues when they can't seem to answer me.
"Um… Well… She's…"
"We found this girl about five years ago," Banshee says when Beast stutters and Havoc blushes darkly, rubbing a hand through his blonde hair. "She knows you and is pissed off at you."
"For what?"
Havoc glares at me. "She's sixteen today, that ring any bells?"
Yes. My daughter would have been sixteen today if she lived. I don't say that though. Can't think of it. Won't.
"...No." Havoc face hardens at my response. I find myself drawing back a bit, remembering a dummy that was little more than a piece of scrap after one f his training sessions.
"Does he not -"
"Well, he's gonna in ten seconds," Banshee says. Beast sighs and gets out of the van.
"This was a bad idea."
"No shit - HEY!" Alex had opened his door and sent Banshee sprawling onto the gravel. "Dude! Not cool!"
… These idiots broke me out of prison. Un-fucking-believable.
The mansion looks exactly as I remember it. Tall, immaculate, and grand, the doors are as polished as ever, the brass knockers gleaming. Charles' study light is on, as is the foyer chandelier, and the kitchen. But this doesn't feel like I remember. I had helped Charles move the sheets covering everything and cleaned the dust that lay thickly over the mansion. But when I had lived here it had felt a bit like a mausoleum. Beautiful and elegant and so cold your teeth chattered even in the middle of summer. The kids had helped. They filled the halls with music and lights and laughter, done their best to turn this place into a real home. But it had still been cold - nothing like the man who owned it.
Now, the bushes lining the drive aren't nearly as immaculate, and there's a distinct smell of smoke lingering around, and the steps are scuffed and dirty even though the doors themselves are perfectly polished. A pair of shoes is haphazardly on the welcome mat and a book lies forgotten next to them. A ramp with tire- marks covers a section of the stairs. A pot is upended, flowers spraying everywhere, over the bottom half of a marble step. It may be dirtier, not as pristine as in the time of the elder Xaviers, but the house is finally lived in. I can actually imagine someone like Charles feeling comfortable here.
Beast glances at me before opening the door and ushering us in. The foyer is like outside - slightly messy but much more comfortable for it. My eyes rake over the familiar surfaces. Books are everywhere, littering every flat surface available. Shoes practically coat the ground, everything from what I recognize as a pair of Havoc's old sneakers to a set of brand-new high-heels with the tag still on (which seemed to have purposely been shoved into a corner of the hallway as if the owner is hopeful they will be forgotten). A few coats are hung up on the coat rack but that is still relatively bear since October is remaining warm. "C'mon, I think I hear them in the kitchen," Havoc says, ushering the other boys in front of him and shooting me a look. I follow grudgingly, instantly disliking how this boy seems to feel he is in charge.
They march down the familiar-but-not hallways - hallways decorated in pictures that I distinctly recall not being there before - until we come to the kitchen. There's a low murmur of voices on the other side. "You sure you're alright?" I hear a female voice ask, soft and worried.
"Of course darling," Charles replies, voice warm and reassuring. My heart leaps into my throat at the familiar tenor. "Of course." He doesn't sound too sure and the girl's voice shows her skepticism.
"Well, okay…"
Banshee and Beast exchange glances while Havoc boldly opens the door. "Hey there Squirt," he says cheerfully. "Have a good birthday?" There's a squeal and I see a spray of red curls over Havoc's shoulder.
"Oh my God, where have you guys been?!" the girl demands. Suddenly the red appears on Beast, and then bumping into Banshee's own ginger locks. "And it's past midnight, you dork, it's not my birthday anymore!"
"Too bad, you're getting your present anyway!" Havoc says gleefully.
My stomach tightens in concern when I hear that. Present…
"Are you boys alright?" Charles asks from behind the bodies in front of me, his voice rising with concern. The red curls subside from Banshee and disappear. "No one is hurt? What about…"
"Prof, we got in and out just fine. No casualties," Banshee reassures. "Oo, hot chocolate!"
"That's mine you son of a -!"
"Darling." Charles voice isn't harsh or angry, but the girl cuts off abruptly. "Please."
"Sorry," she replies sheepishly. "Sean, pretty please do not touch my hot chocolate or I will dump the rest on you. That better?" My lips twitch. Cheeky. Charles just sighs wearily. "So, why were you boys out all day-slash-night without taking me with you?" There's still the teasing, but an edge to her now too. Beast leans forward and his arm sways with a gentle petting motion.
"I'm sorry Sweetie but it was too dangerous to take you. You're only sixteen."
"And Sean was sixteen five years ago," she retorts stubbornly. My skin buzzes at the reminder of Cuba. We didn't talk of that day in the Brotherhood. Cuba was a topic that you only broached if you wanted a coin in your skull. A hot flash of anger and regret and guilt pierces through me. On the other side of the wall of bodies, I hear Charles gasp.
"Prof?"
"Professor?"
"Dad?"
...Dad?
"It's nothing, darling, I promise." It doesn't sound like nothing; Charles voice is strained. I push down on the feelings, swallow them as best I can, until Charles sighs deeply. "Your… present is just a little upset, that's all."
"My present is alive?! What the hell did you guys get me?"
"Language," Charles admonishes. She ignores him.
One by one the boys back away, until there is nothing between Charles and me. Five years… And he looks no different. He's sitting at the table, a mug in his hands, and lines of exhaustion on his face, but he still looks exactly as I remember, imagine, dream. His dark hair is still shiny and full, his face is still sweet and boyish, lips still cherry red and sumptuous, eyes cerulean and piercing, gaze soft and compassionate. He is wearing a button down red shirt that makes his pale skin look like porcelain and oh so very breakable. No tweed this time, but that seems to be the only thing that has changed. He still looks like a twenty-eight year old man eager for the world and its wonders. My breath catches and I have to remind the stupid organ in my chest to hold fucking still for a second. I can't look away. Won't.
"You got me an old man?" the girl's voice asks again. My gaze snaps to her automatically, seething at being called old - forty is not old, damn it! - and I feel myself freeze even more than before. She's annoyed - there's a little furrow on her nose where she's scrunching up her face in irritation. But that doesn't hide the straight line of her nose or the sharpness of her cheekbones. Scarlet curls bounce wildly around her face in an untameable mess that is oddly beautiful and very familiar. Freckles dot along her face and the exposed skin of her throat, golden against the silvery backdrop of her skin. Young, but she always did look young, strived for it, even though she should be close to my age. Full peachy lips. Dark brows over large eyes. Thick black lashes.
Magda.
Charles blinks.
She's talking, turning her ire on the mutant boys around me. I'm too numb to talk. "Who is this guy?"
You don't recognize the husband you ran away from while I buried our dead daughter? I think bitterly. Anger starts to cloud my vision, turning the kitchen red as Charles shirt. The other man tenses.
"Doesn't he look familiar?" Beast hedges.
"Um, noooooo."
"C'mon, kid, nothing rings any bells?" Banshee grins. "The murderous green eyes, the sharky smile, the temper, the need to get into fights…"
"That's me you idiot!" Magda growls. Her eyes flash to me and all the breath leaves my body.
Green eyes.
My eyes.
"Erik," Charles says softly. My eyes cut to him, terrified, frantic. Because - no, no it can't be. She's dead, she died, I held her in my goddamn arms for hours and cried and prayed for her to be alright but there was nothing and there wasn't a fucking pulse or breathing and she was so little and how the fuck - "Erik, come back." He doesn't stand, doesn't come to offer me a consoling hand like he used to, but he's turned to me, blue eyes pleading. "Look at me. It's okay. She's okay."
My eyes and Magda's face.
Sixteen.
Oh God.
"Wait a goddamn minute," Not-Magda says from her seat, green eyes, my eyes blown so wide they appear cartoonish in her angular face - and those are my features, not Magda's like I thought, my cheekbones, and the shape of my lips if not the color… "That's… That's Erik Lehnsherr?" She doesn't sound like she believes it. Charles' lips quirk in the barest hint of a smile.
"Erik, meet your daughter, Anya."
She stands up abruptly, knocking her chair over. Charles lays a hand on her arm and she stills minutely. "That's him? That's Erik?" she repeats, as if she can't believe it. I can't believe it either. She's not the little four-year-old I remember, but a lithe and beautiful woman now, glowing with fire and passion just like her mother used to. No burnt skin, no blue tint to her lips… All I want to do is hold her in my arms, feel her body heat, feel a pulse and her breath and the evidence of her alive because this must be a trick, a game Charles is playing a fool's game, because -
"My daughter is dead."
The words are out before I can stop them and Anya recoils as if I slapped her. Charles flinches, eyes haunted with the ghosts of my own memories, but Anya doesn't seem to know. Remember that. The kitchen waits with baited breath as Anya glances at Charles and then at me. I watch Anya. Charles can't seem to keep track of who needs to be watched.
I don't see her move until her fist is driving into the ridge of my jaw.
"HOLY FU- SON OF A- MMPH!" Anya is howling but I can't see because the force of the blow - a poor one but a strong one - sends me tumbling into Beast, who barely catches me before he goes down too. Havoc rushes around us and grabs Anya, yanking her away. I doubt she'll do anything else though; her hand is bright red and tears are gathering at the corners of her eyes from pain. Havoc talks to her in a rush and she screams at him too.
"Told you," Banshee says smugly.
"Anya, ENOUGH!" Charles bellows - and Charles does not yell, does not raise his voice, but Anya doesn't seem to care because she's kicking and biting to be let free, struggling as Havoc yanks her backwards, words rushing from his mouth into her ear even as she screams at him.
"HOW COULD YOU HURT HIM?!" she screeches at me, clawing at Havoc's hands and making him wince. "HOW COULD YOU DO THAT?!"
"Alex, take her -" Charles says desperately, hands braced on the table and shoulders hunched.
"Got it," the boy says - and he's not really a boy is he, there is a man dragging my daughter away from me. The metal in the room begins to vibrate angrily. I have to force myself to calm, because my aim is good but with the way she is thrashing I might hit her and I just got her back. Havoc lifts Anya bodily from the floor, all tall willowy legs and strength, and carries her from the room. Radiating smugness, Banshee follows. I let them go, seething until Charles forcibly presses calm into my mind, careful not to hurt me.
Everything inside of me just… crashes. Along with the metal in the room unfortunately.
Silence is left in the wake. Beast pushes me gently to my feet and trudges to the door. He's the only one that hesitates in the frame, looking back at me with golden eyes. They are troubled.
"I'm sorry," he says. Like that can appease the emotional havoc playing with my heart and lungs. "I didn't… I'm sorry." He shoots a glance at Charles and then leaves. Anya has quieted - I can't hear her anymore - and I'm torn between my daughter and the man still sitting at the kitchen table. How could anyone have sit through that?
"Erik, please. Let her calm down a bit before you chase after her," he pleads. An exhausted smile curls his lips. "She's got your temper," he warns with a trace of humor.
I collapse at the table across from him. "Charles, I buried her," I say, like I'm begging. "I buried her in the fucking ground. She was… She…"
"Apparently Anya has your will to survive," he says, still with that bitter humor. "She doesn't remember, apparently. But it is saddening how crawling out of a grave at four years old is not at all shocking to me anymore." I glance up. His features are withdrawn, anguished. I don't have to ask - he knows. "We found her at the hospital in Florida, where I was taken after… After Cuba." I flinch and he sighs. "She was eleven. Tiny, really. She's fairly tall now but she wasn't even five feet then." A smile can't quite manage to cross his lips. "She'd just escaped with her life, running through Florida woods to escape two people intent on killing her."
Anger curls my lip, makes my hands tighten. "Where are they now?" I growl. Charles' eyes flash.
"Dead," he says flatly. "Sean and Alex killed them to protect her when they came after her again." Good I think. Charles shakes his head. "No, not good. She's seen enough death, Erik. She's sixteen and she saw her parents murdered by men who were not in their right -"
"Parents?" I question, not caring for his excuse. Charles tenses.
"Yes. She was found in Germany, wandering around in confusion. Sent to the foster care system in America because most of the orphanages there were full already. She was raised by wonderful people, Erik. They were human, but they didn't deserve to die, especially tortured like they were." His eyes are hard as they meet mine. "Tortured by mutants."
Oh.
I swallow, nod. Normally I wouldn't care. It's our race against theirs. But my daughter… my daughter was nearly killed before she could reach her potential. By her own kind no less. Mutant or no I would have killed them if they were still breathing.
Charles sighs and rests his forearms on the table. Without thinking I reach out, lay my hand over his. "Thank you," I say. For what… I don't know. My daughter is part of it - a massive part. Seeing her alive, grown-up, angry, and perfect; feeling the sting in my jaw from her punch; hearing her. This I can never repay him for. But for him to. Thank you for being alive, whole, undamaged, good. How many men would let me into their homes after what I did? How many would give my daughter back to me?
I can almost forgive him for leaving me for five years.
Charles nods but still pulls his hand back. "You should go to bed. It's late," he says softly. He makes no movement to leave. I don't either. "Your room is still there. It's clean, but I'm afraid I'm not quite sure how tidy it is at the moment." A tiny, cheeky smile. "Or it ever was if Anya's cleaning habits are anything to go by."
I have too many questions to ask to even ponder sleeping.
"Tell me about her. Does she like to read? Can she cook? Does she still have a lisp?" The questions pour out of my mouth, little fragments of her childhood I barely remember tumbling out. "What are her abilities?" I ask eagerly. "Her mutation, what can she do?" Charles' mouth tightens imperceptibly. I ignore it. "Does she control metal like me?"
"She can run, she can fight, she can make a horrendous mess just by breathing, she hates acting like a girl, and she has your penchant for trouble." There's something curiously rough to his voice as he says this.
"But what of her abilities?" I persist. "What can she do?"
"She's incredibly smart. She's brace. She's protective. She gets it from -" He's stalling. I don't like it.
"Charles, what. Is. Her. Mutation?" I ask bluntly. Charles - Charles - scowls.
"The only thing even supernatural about your daughter is how she can make the toaster explode on a nearly daily basis and poor Hank lose his fur," he says. She's telekinetic? Charles grimaces at my thought. "No Erik. She plays in the lab. Has since the day we found her and brought her here."
I don't understand. I tell him I don't understand. If anything Charles becomes angrier. I don't think I've ever seen Charles truly furious before. It's unsettling.
"She's human you git." He's glaring at his hands now, not looking at me. "Everything she's done, all she is, is human."
...No.
"I'd say I'm afraid so, but I'm really not. And if you tell my daughter that she isn't special, that she's inferior because she doesn't have a damn gene so help me Erik I will -"
"Your daughter?" I interrupt. I feel sick. My daughter is human? How?! How is that even possible? But that doesn't stand out nearly as much as those two little words. Charles turns red and retreats, the anger evaporating suddenly and completely.
"I… Anya doesn't remember you. She… she was trying to help a friend through his mutation… and when she woke up she started calling me Dad. Has since that day. Always did before, in her mind, but…" He looks pained. I don't understand a word coming out of his mouth until he continues his explanation. "I nearly lost her Erik. Jesse couldn't control his mutation and stopped her heart. Made her... remember… something. I didn't have the heart to tell her not to." He shrugs. "I raised her. Limitations and all she sees me as the only father she has."
He might have punched me like my daughter did.
"I… don't know what to think," I say finally. I don't. For twelve years I thought my daughter was dead. I held her tiny body in my hands and I buried her six feet into the frozen ground. But she's not. She's alive. Yet she's human - an inferior race I've vowed to eliminate and master.
My baby girl cannot be part of that race.
Charles sighs. "We won't come to any epiphanies of our views tonight," he says lowly - resignedly? The man I can - could - read like a book is suddenly closed off from me. I don't like that at all. "Go to bed Erik. You can argue with Anya in the morning." He doesn't move again, still leaning on the table with forearms braced on the top.
I shake my head and sigh, standing up. No, I won't convince him tonight. "You're much more capable with them than you used to be," I remark. He glances up. "Didn't even stand up when my daughter punched me," I joke, exaggeratingly pointing at my face. Pain lances across his face before he tampers it down instantly.
Charles doesn't say anything.
"Well? Couldn't have been too bad if you didn't try to stop her," I point out... goading him, even though I don't know why. Charles shakes but still doesn't get up from the table. Doesn't walk out.
How could you hurt him?! How could you do that?! Anya had screamed. I had thought she meant emotionally… But Charles still isn't standing up to leave…
The ramp on the front steps flashes in my mind. I had assumed it was the kids', passed it off as such, hadn't thought of it. Yet, now, dread begins to creep into my mind.
"Charles… stand up. Please." I beg him. I want to grab him and shake him until this dread goes away. Charles just exhales, long and slow and tired. He drops his hands below the table and I hear metal on metal. A soft squeak.
Slowly, so slowly, he backs the wheelchair out from beneath the table. His lifeless legs simply resting from… Bile rises in my throat as I trace up to where he can't move with my eyes. To where he was shot in the back.
"I'm sorry, my friend, but I cannot."
Life's a bitch German.
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