Well, the details surrounding the ending scenes are slowly coming together, and so far it looks good! Not especially close yet, but, eh, well. I'll keep writing until I get there, because I think it's going to be pretty cool.
The book Bread and Wine, by Ignazio Silone, is an anti-fascist, anti-Stalinist novel about an Italian who impersonates a priest in order to sneak back into Mussolini's Italy after being exiled. I'd like to say I had some amazing reason for choosing it, specifically, but mostly it's just that Bread and Wine is one of the only books on my shelves that would have fit. I must have liked it, though, since I still have it!
Also the next update may not be for a little while again because I have a family thing this weekend in a place where I will have neither computer nor internet. Until then, thanks for reading. :)
Oh, PS, since I know dreams are sort of a trope in fanfiction: this one doesn't mean anything. It's just a dream. ;)
.
.
.
.
.
xxvii.
The pain in Charles' legs only got worse; while far from agony, the constant ache was an unwelcome distraction from even the usual tedium of his day. The cause, of course, was Badger. Well, technically it was the result of exercising his lower extremities for the first time in five years, but blaming Badger made Charles feel better.
Complaining to Raven did not improve his mood, as she only laughed and remarked, "Oh, Magneto picked exactly the right sort of evil taskmaster to keep you in line." Charles was forced to admit, reluctantly, that this might be true; after all, someone less abrasive and forceful would have had no chance of making Charles do anything he didn't want to do, and something about Badger's indifferent disdain and grudgingly dispensed compliments simply worked on Charles. He didn't want to consider that Erik might have known the effect his handpicked therapist would have on him.
None of this made him any less grumpy, of course, but having a logical reason behind his frustration helped somewhat, as well as the fact that he could now actually lift his legs, if not yet actually bear any weight on them.
"You don't seem to be interested in the hazards of boarding Brotherhood soldiers in resistant cities. Something on your mind?" Erik asked that night, as they sat next to each other.
Charles, who had been running his thumb over the sharply crisp cover of the book Erik had brought him, glanced up to meet the man's eyes. They were very close, their knees brushing and Erik's arm along the back of the couch over his shoulders, but this was hardly new at that point. Instead, Charles matched Erik's gaze, looking for something there that might tell him in simple black-and-white terms whether Erik did in fact trust him.
There were no hints hidden within the gray and brown tangle of muscle fibers comprising Erik's irises, or in the subtle searching shift of his pupils. His eyes revealed no secrets, but rather seemed to devour them; Charles found himself caught by Erik's scrutiny, certain that Erik knew, as if he were the telepath, what Charles had talked about with Beast; certain that at any moment Erik might lean forward and whisper, "I know what you're up to, Charles, and it ends tonight."
Charles could barely breathe; his thoughts were a useless scattered mess reeling in crazed circles and none of those shapes were fear, although they ought to have been. The only other occasions he'd seen Erik from this close had been when the other man was about to kiss him, and Charles knew what Erik looked like then. He didn't look like that now, but Charles found himself waiting for it anyway, and it wasn't until a touch to the back of his neck startled him into blinking that Charles realized he hadn't exhaled in—well, probably not all that long, but he had definitely been quiet for longer than was strictly polite.
"Are you all right?" Erik inquired, stroking down the side of Charles' neck with the hand he dangled from the back of the couch. Charles didn't make the mistake of looking into his eyes again, but saw Erik's frown.
"I'm fine," Charles began, then shifted his legs in a way he hoped didn't look too deliberate, making an entirely unnecessary noise of discomfort in his throat. "My legs hurt, is all, and it's very distracting. I don't suppose you could have Beth bring me something to take the edge off?"
What appeared to be honest confusion crept into Erik's expression. "But Charles, they're your legs; this is the first time you've felt them in years. You can't ignore them now." To emphasize his point, he wrapped the fingers of his free hand around Charles' scrawny thigh, just above the knee, and squeezed a little; this time, the pained grunt Charles made was entirely genuine.
Charles had meant to say something about how only an idiot would attempt to overdose on aspirin even if he'd been so inclined, but his carefully-considered rebuttal vanished in a gasp as Erik's hand shifted against his leg and then dragged slowly up along the inside of his thigh, the ache of his abused muscles mixing strangely with—well, Charles hadn't been keeping track of the exact number of days since anyone had touched him like that, but his body, apparently, had.
Mouth suddenly bone dry, Charles tore his eyes away from his lap and looked up at Erik, whose attention was darkly speculative as he flexed his fingers around the curve of Charles' leg, the palm of Erik's hand warm through the fabric of his pants. Don't go any higher, Charles pleaded silently, although of course Erik couldn't hear him; because if Erik continued, he'd know that certain parts of Charles, at least, weren't entirely disinterested.
Erik, however, didn't appear to find what he was looking for in Charles' face, and withdrew his hand to pluck the book from Charles' rather limp grasp while the telepath dropped his gaze down to Erik's red tunic, feeling of a kindred spirit with the garment because his face almost certainly matched its color.
"Would you like me to read to you?" Erik offered, tilting the cover to display the title. It was a gray-blue book with the words Bread and Wine at the center in yellow, but those details didn't seem to matter compared to the fact that Erik had just offered to read it to him, proving that one or both of them had finally gone mad. Doubly so because Charles was fairly certain that Bread and Wine, while an anti-fascist work, was definitely fictional, which was somehow even more improbable.
"…Sure," Charles agreed, because there was really nothing else he could think of to say in response to that, and anyway he didn't feel up to conversation after being felt up. "Have you read it before?"
"Not yet," Erik replied, flipping open the pages one-handed. Charles doubted that Erik would bring him a book he hadn't first read, but didn't comment on it, watching as the other man located the first page and held the book open with his thumb.
Clearing his throat, Erik began, "Don Benedetto, sitting on the low garden wall in the shadow of a cypress, was reading in his breviary…" while Charles listened dutifully, wondering whether he'd recognize it if he actually did go insane. Wondering, not for the first time, whether Erik already had.
.
.
.
xxviii.
When Charles dreamed, it rarely had to do with his own life. Sometimes they were fabrications: glimpses into strange fantasies or horrors. At others, they were patches of other people's lives.
He wasn't sure which this one was.
The forest was deadly—cursed, maybe, or spoiled with radiation, or contagion—and below, he knew, there were monsters, creations and creators of their habitat. He (was he male in the dream?) didn't know what they looked like; maybe they were people, or beasts, or spirits, or all three. It didn't matter because he did know what would happen if he was caught.
This didn't mean that Charles was frightened. Nervous, certainly, but not terrified; Charles could climb, could escape high above the danger. If he wished to, he could become an observer; a strange sort of wildlife ecologist.
Unfortunately, he had taken a fall, and every moment spent on the ground was like a dinner bell, loud in the gray calm. He could feel them out there, drawing closer, but every tree he tried to climb was smooth and slippery and—oh, this one had branches.
He was saved; he was up in the canopy and the shadows below milled with frustrated shapes (strange to have an ecology consisting entirely of predators, he thought). Then the wind began to gust, causing his perch to sway and buck, and Charles felt himself begin to slip—
Charles opened his eyes, confused to find that he was still shaking; a gentle rocking back-and-forth movement that he thought was in his mind until he heard the rattling. The window across the room was dark.
Oh, he thought, eyelids drifting closed. It's an earthquake. This is Canada...
Moments later, Charles saw that there was faint gray light scattering in through the window. A dark shape loomed over him, and there was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. His own small earthquake.
Wait. Not Canada.
"Erik?" he mumbled, blinking groggily. It was hard to tell shapes from people when he couldn't sense their thoughts. Also when he couldn't really see them.
"Charles," a voice that certainly sounded like Erik replied. "I have to leave for a few days. Behave while I'm gone."
"What?" the telepath asked, dreadfully confused. Remaining conscious was difficult. "Where're you going?"
"Mystique will explain in the morning," Erik told him softly. "Go back to sleep."
"Oh," Charles sighed. He closed his eyes, felt Erik's nose cold on his cheek followed by warm lips; he grumbled and turned onto his side, burying his head into the pillow.
Then Charles sat straight up in bed, looking around the room frantically; he could see clearly, in the rich morning sunlight, that nothing was out of place.
Nothing was out of place, but there was a small white bottle of aspirin on his nightstand.
.
.
.
xxix.
Raven surprised him by bringing Beast along with her to have breakfast in Charles' rooms. He didn't exactly have a table where they could all sit and eat, or really all that much in the way of seating, but once the chessboard had been moved they could set their cups on the end table—currently, therefore, the coffee table—and his two visitors held their bowls on their laps as they sat together on the couch.
The oatmeal wasn't as fancy as the meals usually prepared for Charles, and the tiny sprinkle of sugar—just barely enough to remind him of what it could taste like if it was sweet—confirmed his suspicions that he ate better than nearly everyone else even within the mansion. He did not, however, mention this to his guests, preferring their company to luxury.
Beast peered around Charles' rooms incredulously. "What do you do with all this space?"
"Not much," Charles admitted. "What's the news?"
"Some idiot's decided to start a new continent in the center of the Atlantic, apparently," Beast explained. "Which is excellent evidence for sea-floor spreading, but the atmosphere can't take the additional volcanism and there's no way the coasts can be evacuated in time to escape all the misplaced seawater."
"Magneto's mobilized the Brotherhood to prevent what damage they can," Raven continued, defensiveness creeping into her voice; Charles noticed that the pair, while they sat near each other, were not quite as close as he would have expected had their past romance found its conclusion in the mansion. "He thinks it was the same mutant responsible for the Traps; he's gone to try and stop her before she can do any more damage."
"You say that as if Magneto didn't ask for her help in the first place," Beast scoffed. "If he'd consulted a geologist before he asked someone punch a hole through the crust, he'd have known it was a terrible idea."
Raven turned her yellow-speckled gaze on Beast, and remarked coolly, "I'm sure he would have deferred to your expertise had you been present."
Charles refrained from rolling his eyes, concentrated, and propped his heels, one after the other, up onto the table, crossing them with a minimum of fumbling. It had the desired effect, and both Beast and Raven immediately ceased their bickering to exclaim over his progress.
.
.
.
xxx.
Charles had thought it would be a relief not to see Erik for days, but really it only gave him less to do than he'd had before, as Raven could only visit so often and Beast, evidently, was not allowed unescorted into the wing where Charles' rooms were located. This would not have been so much of a problem except that the leonine scientist had to deal with renewed urgency in the search for a miracle technology to clear the skies, so his schedule rarely overlapped with Raven's.
Beast sent him notes whenever he had a moment, carried by Raven or Beth or on occasion helmeted people Charles' didn't know, and he read them eagerly despite the fact that they were no real substitute to talking with the man. Worse, they often referenced papers Beast had apparently sent but which had not reached him, leaving Charles burning with unsatisfied curiosity. After informing Beast of their absence, the scientist switched to mentioning his research with a frustrating vagueness.
More than he wanted to hear about science, however, Charles wanted to continue his prior conversation with Beast and decide what to do about Erik. Despite everything he'd done, Charles certainly didn't want to see the ruler of the mutant regime dead, but surely the world would be a better place without Erik directing of it. Charles did not want to think about who the natural choice for world dominance would be after that.
Still, there remained the question of how; Charles didn't have his own drinks cabinet, so he couldn't offer Erik a drugged glass. Using a syringe to sedate him was impossible, as they had no metal-less needles and making one would look more than merely suspicious. The idea that Charles might overwhelm him by brute force was laughable, and he'd dismissed simply reaching for the helmet as being too obvious. Although…
This was the reason he needed someone else to talk to about it, and right then, when Erik was gone, would have been perfect except that he never got to see Beast without Raven around, if at all. Charles still loved Raven, of course, but there was no denying that she wouldn't be pleased with that subject of conversation. She believed in the mutant utopia, even if neither of her companions did.
With little else to do, Charles finished the rest of the book Erik had begun reading to him. It took about two hours, and he found himself unable to hear the words in anything other than Erik's smooth voice. Charles wondered what Erik might have said about the ending; something about humanity being like the wolves circling in on a lone, defenseless mutant revolutionary, probably; once a constant threat, now hunted and poisoned almost to vanishing. While Charles was still sure that Erik had read it before—the book was simply too Erik for him to have not—the other man had put on a good show of making remarks about the writing as if it were new to him.
After Charles closed the book, he sat for a while tapping the binding against his knee. The repetitive movement was a lot more soothing now that he could actually feel it, and necessary because the worse part was not the boredom—it was that Charles had begun to worry, and of all the people he could have been worrying about, the man responsible for placing everybody's lives at risk in the first place didn't seem to be a productive outlet for concern.
Still… Still, there was that small, unaccounted-for kindness of the aspirin bottle, and the way his leg muscles were no longer driving him, metaphorically of course, up the wall. Charles wanted to think it had been Beth, but she never came into his room that early and he could easily think of one person who had, and had also known about his request.
Perhaps there was still good in Erik after all.
So, as the days passed—did "a few" mean two or three days?—Charles attempted to occupy himself as much as he was able, and tried to spend as little of that time as possible thinking about what would happen if Erik was killed while Charles was trapped in a manor full of warlike mutants immune to his telepathy. He definitely didn't consider how he, himself, would feel about Erik's potential death somewhere out in the Atlantic.
Instead he wrote a list of ways to save the world—there was only one item, a large black ?—and jotted down notes to Beast. Charles also, once, because he wanted to try it, pulled himself up using the bar next to his bed and, leaning a little against the mattress and with most of his weight supported by his arms, stood. His legs cramped up almost immediately and it was only a couple seconds before his knees began to shake out from his control, but Charles was grinning too widely to care.
.
.
.
.
.