This may be fairly gratuitous, but hey, parts of it aren't! It was a fun experiment, suggested to me by my awesome beta, idioticonion on LJ. She also caught my horrible chess faux pas so that I didn't make myself look like a complete idiot.
Yes, yes, my secret is revealed: I don't play chess. Go ahead and boo me now.
Anyway, thanks for reading! I'm continually amazed that people are actually still keeping up with this!
.
.
.
.
.
lviii.
They played chess that night, for once; or rather, Charles played chess, and Erik stared at the board contemplatively.
Eventually, with a little roll of his eyes, Charles reached over and took it upon himself to flick Erik's king over for him; the other man started, blinking.
"I didn't concede," he protested vaguely.
"Oh, were you playing too?" Charles asked, raising his eyebrow sardonically.
Erik looked down at the remaining pieces, very few of which were his own. "Evidently not," he sighed.
"You're probably giving yourself white hair, you know," Charles remarked.
Erik smirked and tapped a finger against the side of his helmet, peering up at Charles enigmatically. "Wouldn't you like to know," he teased.
"If you're offering," Charles replied, although the interest had gone from his voice. Things between the two of them were complicated, but Charles knew at least that it would not be so easy to coax the helmet from Erik's head.
Sure enough, Erik bared his teeth in a grin but only dropped his hands to the table, pushing it aside. "That's enough for me, Charles; I'll have to beg off and challenge you to a rematch some time when I can concentrate."
"Of course," Charles agreed, watching as the table continued to trundle away on its own. There were times—not many, because he was quite happy with himself on most days—but there were times when he wished his own power were more physical; less easily thwarted. Well, then again, there hadn't been anything that could reliably stop his abilities before the helmets, except for other telepaths.
Erik rose from the couch in a smooth, lithe movement, and in one step came close enough to bend at the waist and bring his hands to hover at either side of Charles' head; for a moment he simply held them there, examining the telepath's face while wearing a soft little smile, before completing the motion, smoothing Charles' hair back behind his ears and then placing his hands on Charles' shoulders.
Erik leaned forward and brushed his lips against the geneticist's forehead, and Charles closed his eyes as Erik's chin scratched over the bridge of his nose. "You could do great things," he murmured, somewhere above Charles' eyebrows. "You could do a lot of good, if you stopped resisting me."
"I'm not resisting you, Erik," Charles whispered back, his eyelids still lying shut. He opened them as Erik pulled away and saw that the other man was looking at him as if he were being pitiably dense.
"Not like this," Erik said, caressing the geneticist's cheek with his thumb. He took that same hand and bumped the tips of his first two fingers into the center of Charles' forehead. "Here. You have the chance to create a new world, and you're avoiding it."
Charles glanced down at his lap, wearing a little wry smile. "Well. It can't be helped."
Erik's mouth settled into a firm line and he regarded Charles again for a long moment, cradling the line of Charles' face in his hand. There was something beautiful about the creases around his eyes, in the dip of his eyelashes, and his irises tended toward green in the low warm light.
It was strange to think that this same man ran an organization that not only condoned brainwashing, but—presumably—personally approved it. It was strange to look into his eyes and see a person looking back.
Eventually, Erik patted the telepath's cheek and stood straight. "Good night, Charles," he urged.
"'Night," Charles muttered, his gaze falling to his knees.
.
.
.
lix.
He dreamed he had been born human, although the face he wore was anything but and if he had eyes then they certainly weren't visible. In the strange logic of dreams this did not actually prevent him from seeing, but he told everyone he met that he was blind and he knew that they looked at him with equal parts pity and disgust for the betrayal of his flesh.
There's a monster that lives down in the well was another thing he said to everyone he spoke to, and each one of them laughed and asked, But how can you know if you can't see it? So he would wander aimlessly, alone, on to the next person and insist that no, they really ought to come check, there was a monster deep in the well and someone should take a look in there and maybe do something about it before anybody died.
He could taste the gray dust of the land on his tongue.
Finally he found a soldier who stared solemnly into where his eyes would have been if he'd had them—(how did he know if he couldn't see?)—and replied, I believe you, but you see, my boy is missing and I need to find him before I can do anything about any monsters.
I don't know what he looks like, he confessed, aware of the mess radiation and stray genetics had made of his face. I don't know what anyone looks like, so I can't help you.
Then we're both out of luck, aren't we? the soldier observed, and Charles jolted awake.
The telepath stared up at the ceiling, heart racing and mind still a thousand miles away; he blinked rapidly and—he couldn't quite resist the urge—reached up feel at his face with one hand, urgently at first until at last he let free a long sigh and clutched at nose and eyes alike in relief.
Charles did not believe in dream symbolism, and for that he was glad; in any event, he was fairly certain that it had been someone else's nightmare, picked up sometime during the day and then carried around deep in his subconscious before springing out into his own dreams at night.
When the number of people whose minds he was able to read was more limited, it had been far easier for Charles to deduce the source of these stray fragments; first, his caretaker Beth had crept into his dreams with dull chores and the occasional, tragic death of someone Charles didn't know. Despite his best efforts, Raven had slipped in with a quiet, catlike stealth, and Beast was always just a little late and sometimes he didn't give himself the serum; had never grown to resemble his name.
Of late, however, it had become harder and harder to identify what had come from whom and that was a part of Charles' old life that he'd almost forgotten: during the day he kept a tight reign on his powers, but at night, his dreams were often not his own. He found now that he had not especially missed that aspect of telepathy; was glad that the telepathy-insulated walls at least shielded his unconscious mind from receiving any live shows.
Eventually, his heart slowed and his breathing steadied; Charles dropped his hand back down to the covers and curled over onto his side, taking comfort in the soft pain of his returning legs and the primal satisfaction of being warm on a cold night.
.
.
.
lx.
This dream was different; he wasn't himself this time either, and he was still alone, but now he prowled confidently through the starkly bare halls of the mansion, boots ringing on the granite floor and cape billowing behind him.
He dreamt he was Erik.
He knew it was a dream, but he understood this with a certainty that did not extend to the realization that he might change anything he like or be anyone he chose. Instead, he accepted his role as Erik as a matter of fact and decided that he would go to the labs and see what was going on there.
The hallway looked the same—sterile, tiled, blankly monochromatic—but the lab he entered appeared just like it had in Westchester, cluttered and haphazard and Charles—another, actual Charles—looked up at his arrival, interrupted from staring into a dissecting scope.
Charles saw himself then from two points of view: in one, he loomed tall and imposing and, despite the fact that the Erik in his dream did not wear a helmet, unreadable. In the other he saw himself as he'd looked before Cuba, standing hesitantly in his cardigan and slacks and seeming very young and (he felt obligated to think, in his role as Erik) naïve and somewhat unsure how to react to this Erik from his future. Perhaps, he mused, he had gone back in time.
Erik, dream-Charles said, backing up until he bumped into the steel table. As Erik, he imagined that he could feel the shift of the metal. What are you doing here at this time of night?
Charles realized that it must be about the same time in the dream that it was in his bed. In Erik's body, he stalked forward, crowding his dream self against the table. What do you think? he asked, and dream-Charles shuddered as Erik's mouth brushed over his pulse.
It's a bit narcissistic, if we're both me, dream-Charles pointed out, and gasped as Erik pulled his wrists, tugging them behind Charles and leaning him back over the table.
Then get out of my head, Erik suggested, and Charles did, more or less. Their thighs and hips were flush but in the dream he felt incapable of embarrassment; in fact, he felt pretty all right with the bulge of Erik's cock pressed tight against his. This seemed to indicate that sex must be imminent, and all he could think was finally. It had been so long.
Perhaps he was still looking through Erik's eyes a little bit or maybe it was his telepathy because he could feel the man's triumphant pleasure at having Charles pinned beneath him, helpless, and Charles closed his eyes and concentrated on the specifics, drawing them into something like reality: the cold steel of the table beneath his buttocks in contrast to the heat of Erik above; the jab of plastic test tubes into his back; Erik's breath over his cheek.
Then Erik was kissing him and Charles did not understand the details, only that he was drowning; Erik was all around him, hands and mouth and legs long against his, carrying him on like the swift and inescapable rapids of a river. At some point, Charles knew, the test tubes and Petri dishes were swept clattering from the table with a careless arm and the casual destruction of all those samples only made Charles shiver and tangle his hands more firmly in Erik's hair as the other mutant shoved him down onto the stainless steel.
Erik's hand pulled at Charles' belt and the geneticist buried his face in Erik's neck. Finally; finally. He was warm, in spite of the cold outside. This is actually going to happen, Charles thought, or maybe he said it or projected it because Erik was growling Yes, you won't stop me this time, Charles, and there was a confusing moment regarding his pants—some acts of violence against trousers were probably committed—and then they were off, and fortuitously enough he seemed to have picked that day to not wear underwear.
There was no foreplay in the dream, and certainly not to the extent that the Erik of real life seemed to deem necessary; Charles had never been with another man—well, not seriously at least, and one fumbling blow job that hadn't reached any sort of satisfying conclusion didn't count—but he'd had a fair number of adventurous female partners and was, himself, quite willing to experiment. By Charles' logic, because Erik's dick was both longer and wider than a woman's fingers, there was no way he could lose.
Charles concentrated on that, felt himself starting to drift away again back into the blank abyss of sleep with Erik right there and ready between his knees, and the scene snapped back into focus with startling clarity: Erik's eyes, somehow both immeasurably bright and inscrutably dark, stared into his own as Erik drew breath with his mouth casually open, the bottom row of his teeth visible in a way that Charles had never observed on any other person. It was an expression right out of Charles' memory, although he could not focus for long enough to say from when.
If it hadn't been a dream, Charles might have said something then, some word of encouragement perhaps, but as much as he appreciated the Erik in his head at the moment Charles didn't care to speak and so he helped by simply pulling Erik forward by the elegant jut of his hips, ignoring the cynical voice that said that's not how sex actually works; even if that worked it would hurt extraordinarily because clearly it did work and it didn't hurt; it was fine.
It was more than fine, it was wonderful and all Charles could feel was the perfect jangling slide of Erik inside of him, all the more sweet for its frantic insubstantiality, and this was a magnificently fantastic way to end more than four years of celibacy, thank you very much. It was startlingly intense, it was searing, it was…
It was fading; Erik was still thrusting into him, it was still very pleasant and nice but in a fuzzy sort of contented way, and Charles could feel himself sinking away, down from the hard steel and into soft blankets. He held onto Erik, fiercely possessive and maybe a little bit desperate but the other man shrugged off his arms, stood wordlessly and pulled back and Charles was saying No, you can't just leave, not like that, we're not done here—
—And then Charles was staring at something pale and textured and strewn with the orange light of sodium and after a moment of confusion he realized he was looking up at the cracked plaster of the ceiling again, that the urgent jump of his pulse between his legs was real and not part of the dream.
He swept the covers aside, ignoring the frozen shock of the outside air against his bare chest, and pulled the waistband of his boxers down in front, freeing his stiff penis to wave undeterred by the cold. Charles flexed the muscles of his abdomen and it bobbed obediently, even encouragingly; he cupped his hand around it, blood-sodden skin hot against his palm, hesitantly—then Charles bit his lip and tucked his cock back beneath his boxers and dropped his hands to his sides.
Charles could give lectures on the importance of having a healthy attitude toward sex—had, in fact, as Sean could have blushingly attested to; there was no room for Catholic guilt in Charles' head, even if it came second-hand. Still, this… This was different. If he finished himself off now, Charles knew, it would be to thoughts of Erik and as ridiculous as it might be that Charles had brought himself to orgasm more often as a paraplegic than after being cured, well… There were some lines probably best not crossed.
So Charles lay motionless on his back, hoping the wintry chill would calm his body before his toes froze off, cursing Erik's name with each throb of his heart. He closed his eyes and drifted, quietly, aching.
.
.
.
lxi.
Charles felt much more pragmatic about it in the morning. Perhaps it was the snow, falling in soft little clumps of flakes and adhering together on the windowsill outside; it was still no more than a dusting over the clipped grass below, but it was very pretty and although Charles had grown up wading through knee-high drifts he clung stubbornly to the English perception of snow as something delicate and magical. It was also only the start of October, so the event was a warning, as well: abandon hope all ye who enter here.
Either way.
Either way, Charles was certain that dreaming about having sex with Erik was simply a natural reaction to stressful circumstances and did not require much introspection or guilt. In fact, many of the details had already mostly faded away and it was no great task to put it out of his mind entirely, to focus on getting showered and dressed ready for the day.
Sooner than Charles could have hoped, Beast was able to draft his request for an inventory report from medical storage, ostensibly to find an anesthetic to be used on mutants whose abilities rendered them largely immune to more mundane drugs like ketamine.
"Of course, to maintain appearances, we will have to start real research into the subject," Beast commented, "but it has the benefit of being a real issue."
Charles had nodded, although there was still a very important problem. "Ketamine has to be injected intravenously," he pointed out, "and it seems likely that most other sedatives would as well, in order to maintain any amount of potency. Anything that could be absorbed through the skin would be too dangerous for us to handle without substantial precautions."
Beast stood quietly, thinking, before suggesting, "Have you ever considered simply keeping a poisonous snake inside your couch?"
"No," Charles replied, flatly. Then, more brightly, "That's an idea, though—could you make a needle out of bone?"
The other scientist rubbed his fingers deep into his mane. "Well, it would still be very noticeable, but… Certainly less obvious than a steel needle, I suppose. We might be able to. Better yet, we could break the tip off a Pasteur pipette and fit it to a syringe. The supplies would certainly be easier to come by."
Charles winced a little, imagining first how it might feel if the tip of the needle broke off beneath someone's—Erik's—skin, and then winced again as he imagined what would happen if it snapped before, but he nodded. "That's a definite possibility."
Then he returned to the cloning lab to check his culture plates from the day prior for colonies; there were tiny little dots scattered over the gels, all places where single bacterial cells had landed and begun to grow copies of themselves. Charles took the lid off of one plate so that he could peer at them unobstructed, and kept his breathing soft and directed elsewhere so as not to contaminate the dish; the little colonies were still too small to really tell their color, but he thought some of them might be coming in white—a signal that implied that they had integrated their new genes.
Charles smiled and set the stack of plates back into the incubator to grow.
.
.
.
.