Using the male pronoun is so difficult in this story! I hope it isn't too confusing.
Chapter 2
At the Hotel
He who saves one life, saves the world entire. - The Talmud
Sometimes, he has to check himself to make sure a big, ridiculous smile isn't spreading across his face. That probably means he's happy, but it's been so long since he last felt happy about anything - so long since he felt anything but anger, really - that he can't be sure. But every now and then, he feels himself smiling for no particular reason. And before he can wipe it off his face, Charles always notices and smiles back at him out of the corner of his eye.
Well, no wonder, Erik tells himself. You must look a damned fool.
It's been several weeks since Charles first lowered Cerebro's bulky helmet over his head. He's mastered the machine by now, and he and Erik have been traveling around the country, spending the CIA's money, meeting new mutants, learning what they can do, winning their trust. Angel demonstrated her powers for them right away, but not all mutants are so easy to convince, so Charles and Erik develop a subtle, good-cop, bad-cop routine. Erik enjoys it more than he lets on. Staying at the CIA headquarters with Moira and Hank and all those humans in suits made him so uncomfortable. It felt too permanent, and there were too many people around. Being on the road feels like home. Suitcases and hotels and highways are the only life he's known for years, and even though he was by himself then, it feels better, now, to have Charles with him.
Erik loves every minute of it, but his favorite times are when he and Charles are in the car, on their way to find another mutant. They argue over where they should stop to eat and which radio station to listen to. They take turns driving and reading to each other from a book Charles has with him, about King Arthur and his knights. Sometimes Charles sleeps while Erik drives.
"What are you doing?" Erik asked, the first time Charles leaned back and propped his feet up on the dashboard, turning his head this way and that to find the most comfortable position.
"Taking a nap," Charles yawned. He closed his eyes, then opened one and looked at Erik. "Why? Can't find the way there without me?" he asked, and Erik glared at him for just a second, angry - until he realized Charles was teasing him. They had planned out this route beforehand, from the map that's spread open between them on the seat, and besides, the signs on the highway are perfectly clear. Of course he can find the way there. He followed Schmidt's trail across three continents.
So Erik just smirked and turned back to the highway. For a few hours, the dotted yellow line was his only company, darting at him again and again before it disappeared under the wheels. Charles was soon fast asleep, his head was lolled back against the headrest, his face peaceful. Erik kept glancing over at him and shaking his head slightly with disbelief.
It's one of the many things Charles does, and takes for granted, that Erik never does. Erik never naps during Charles's turn to drive. He probably couldn't do it if he tried. He can't sleep while he's moving. No matter how tired he might be, he can never sleep until he's safely behind locked doors and solid walls. He was awake for every minute of that ten-hour plane ride to Argentina.
Many years later, when Erik looked back at that time traveling around with Charles, he remembered it as the best time of his life. Over the years, all their trips ran together in Erik's memory - except one.
The girl was only seventeen, working as a waitress in some greasy-spoon diner in a small, sad little coal-mining town in rural Pennsylvania. As soon as Charles senses her through Cerebro, he throws the helmet off, grabs Erik by the arm, and runs full-speed outside to the car, dragging Erik with him. "We don't have time to pack!" Charles snaps as soon as Erik opens his mouth to say something. "We have to find her now!" Erik at least manages to grab his wallet, which happens to have enough of the CIA's money to last them a few days, on their way out.
Erik never understands exactly what this girl's power is. Charles tries to explain it to him on the drive there. "She's a telepath, like me, except with objects instead of people." Whatever that could mean. "At first, she thought it was just her imagination, but now, she thinks she's going crazy." Charles honks the horn, then swerves suddenly, passing up the car in front of them on the highway. "She's scared, Erik," he adds in a low voice. "She doesn't understand what's happening to her."
Erik shifts uncomfortably in the passenger seat. It's unnerving to see Charles like this, frantic and high-strung, when he's usually so calm. Erik feels like he should say something - tell Charles not to worry, tell him that she'll be all right - but... he's no good at that sort of thing. He has no experience in comforting people. The drive to Pennsylvania is painfully long. Charles grows more and more tense the closer they get.
They find the girl on the highway, just outside the small town where she lives. "No... please, no..." Charles whispers, slowing to a stop as their car approaches the scene. He and Erik both lean forward in their seats for a better look. Charles grips the steering wheel tightly in his sweaty hands, and Erik's stomach clenches up in knots. It's a strange sensation. His stomach hasn't done that in a long time - not since he was a child.
There are two police cars, their siren lights casting blue and red tints across the faces of the small crowd that's gathered. The blood pooled on the dirty asphalt looks more brown than red. The sun is setting behind the trees, and the whole scene is made even darker by the long shadow of the huge 18-wheeler truck parked on the side of the highway - the one that the scared young mutant girl threw herself in front of.
For what feels like an eternity, the two of them sit there, staring. Then Erik hears a low, quiet sob beside him, tears his eyes away from the ruin in front of him, and looks over at Charles. The expression on his face is all the convincing he needs. Erik raises his hand and gently pushes the car off the highway, climbs out, and walks around to the driver's side. Charles numbly, silently scoots across the seat so that Erik can get in behind the wheel.
Driving into the sunset is difficult, even after Erik pulls his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket, but he can't turn the car around and head back to Washington. They're not driving back there tonight, not with Charles in this state. He turns away from Erik, staring resolutely out the window with his chin in his hand, but tears are streaming silently down his cheeks every time Erik glances over at the passenger side.
Twenty minutes later, he exits at the first hotel he sees. It isn't set back far from the highway and resembles a giant cinderblock, sitting there in the shadeless, gray cement sea of the parking lot. The curtains in the windows look like they date back to the 1940s. But the rooms are cheap, and Erik has enough cash on him to book them one for the night. Charles doesn't object. Neither of them have said a word since Charles leaned over the steering wheel at the scene of the accident, whispering, pleading. Please, no.
He parks, and Charles walks in front of him from the car to their room. Erik watches him closely from behind - his shoulder blades tense beneath his shirt, the small, dark stain of sweat at the small of his back. Erik can tell he's tired from the long drive and from - what happened. Erik can tell he feels guilty. Guilt is one of Erik's oldest friends.
Their hotel room is small and smells of stale cigarettes and must. Erik waves a hand to shut the door behind them, then examines the locks on it. That's always the first thing he does before he lets himself get comfortable anywhere. He tests the locks on the door. This one has a deadbolt at handle-level and a chain and peephole at eye-level.
As he turns back around, Charles numbly, silently sits down on the edge of one of the two single beds. Erik, uncertain of what he should do now, is pulling off his jacket when he hears him say, "I should've sensed her sooner." His voice is hoarse and flat. Erik has never heard Charles's voice sound that way before. "Through Cerebro. If I had gotten to her just a little bit sooner..."
Erik slowly walks over to the bed. He remembers how Charles jumped off the ship to pull him out of the water. He would've done the same thing for this girl, if only they had gotten to her in time - grab her and drag out of the path of the 18-wheeler. Erik wonders, vaguely, what it feels like to be so selfless, willing to put yourself in such danger to save others. Doesn't Charles find it exhausting? Erik can't imagine it. He's looked after nobody but himself for so long now.
Charles leans forward, his elbows digging into his knees, and runs one tense hand through his hair. "I could tell when I touched her mind that she was thinking about doing something... drastic. If - God, if I had just found her even one day sooner..."
Erik sighs as he gingerly sits down next to Charles. He had learned long ago not to wonder what if, not to imagine how life could've been different or better. Charles, apparently, never had. Outside, the cars roar by on the highway; the noise comes in clearly through the walls.
"It wasn't your fault, Charles," he says carefully, because it seems like the right thing to say. But Charles's blank expression doesn't change. So he searches for something more meaningful. "What happened was..." Erik pauses, searching for the right word. Moments like this make him painfully aware that English isn't his first language. "...tragic, but it wasn't your fault. Ultimately, it was her decision. I mean, there have been times when I wanted to k -"
Erik chokes down the word, but it's already too late. He's already said too much. Charles knows what he meant, and his blue eyes widen slightly with horror or concern or pity. Erik doesn't know want to know which, and he turns sharply away from Charles and lowers his eyes, ashamed. He can't believe how close he came to actually saying it. He's never told anybody. Never.
He's thought about suicide a lot over the years. More than was healthy, he was sure. It would be so easy for him to take the small metal blades out of a razor and sink them into his wrists. He's imagined the weight of a gun as he raises it to his head without touching it, feeling the cool metal ring of the barrel against his temple, then feeling... nothing. No more pain or anger or thirst for revenge. Sometimes the idea was so tempting that Erik had to pull the coin out of his pocket and squeeze it in his fist, as a reminder. Herr doktor. You have to stay alive so you can find Schmidt. You have to show him you can move this coin. You have to kill him.
Sometimes, it's still tempting. But now, when he's searching for a reason not to, he thinks of Charles. Not Schmidt. If Charles is beating himself up this badly over a girl he barely knew, Erik can't imagine how he would fall apart if -
There have been times when you wanted to kill yourself? Charles asks gently. His voice is inside Erik's head again, like it was that night in the water.
Yes. He thinks the word loudly, which is easier than saying it, and his eyes stay focused on the cheap vinyl curtains hanging across the window. It's easier than looking at Charles.
Charles moves across the bed, scootching closer to Erik. The old metal bedframe beneath them creaks loudly, then stops. Erik didn't realize he was doing that. He takes a deep breath and goes on, "I never did it. Obviously. But..." Then his voice trails off, uncertain of what to say next, but it doesn't matter because in the next second, Charles throws his arms around him and hugs him so tightly that he has trouble breathing for a moment.
His grip is so fierce that Erik suddenly understands how long Charles has been wanting to do this. Ever since that night at sea when they first met, that moment when Charles flung his arms around Erik and pulled him up from the dark water, he's wanted to touch him like that again, to grab him and hold him close, as if that could take away all his pain.
"I'm glad," Charles whispers, his voice muffled against Erik's shoulder.
And he surprises himself by whispering back, his own voice muffled by Charles practically squeezing all the air out of his lungs, "Me too."
I meant to update sooner, but I'm writing this during the High Holy Days, which are a very busy time of year for me.
