In the eyes of all his followers, Magneto is changed from the confident, competent leader of before. Instead, he has become a man wrecked by broken dreams, gnawed by a secret pain he cannot share with anyone. And the one person he could have told is the reason for his present turmoil. Emma tells Magneto flatly that if he doesn't pull himself together, she will leave. Riptide and Azazeal have begun to drift and spend more and more time away from their hideout. Mystique hovers worriedly, but her efforts only make Magneto withdraw further into himself, fear of letting her know the truth filling him with dread.
"Please. Tell me, what did Charles do to you?" Mystique asks softly, sympathy writ clear on her expressive face and piercing yellow eyes.
"I ... I'm not sure," Erik manages to say, his hands shaking slightly under the blankets as they rest in his lap. In his enforced bed rest after the mental trauma, his body has grown weak, and, so very ironically, he is temporarily bound to a wheelchair. Currently he and Mystique are overlooking the ocean on balcony, the brisk, salty sea breeze refreshing on their faces.
Erik. Magneto. Whatever. When you've finished your little vacation up there, I have an ultimatum for you.
Erik musters the strength to reply coldly, Which is?
See Xavier.
Erik starts and a numbness settles in his limbs. Mystique notices. "It's getting cold. Do you want to go inside?"
I've already spoken to Azazeal and Riptide; you're welcome. Her tone turns patronizing. Don't worry, we'll all hold your hand.
Erik remembers to breathe and whispers, "Alright." Mystique wheels him toward the door.
/
Charles is forcing himself through physical rehabilitation when his telepathy recognizes the hallmarks of Hellfire. And Erik.
Wiping sweat from his forehead, Charles gives out a mental call to his friends, waking them to potential danger, and prepares for the upcoming confrontation himself. Despite his fatigue he puts forth the effort to make himself presentable—a cool, collected appearance will be a shield. Taking his cane, Charles walks into the foyer and sees Erik for the first time since their parting an eternity ago. The man looks terrible, shoulders slightly hunched and features pinched. But beyond that, his mind is in a worse state.
They stand the length of the room apart, but the distance makes no difference. They were as close, and as far, when hundreds of miles away.
Erik has committed an inexcusable act against Charles; Charles has done the unforgivable to Erik. And, though knowing the pace of each other's breathing, one cannot look into the eyes of the other without flinching back and something breaking within.
"I don't recall inviting guests," Charles says dryly, gripping the varnished wood of the doorway for support.
"Tell us what you did to Magneto, and we'll leave," Mystique responds, voice devoid of warmth.
Immediate disbelief at this unfriendly greeting shows, then just as quickly smoothes over as Charles lowers his lashes and exhales a sigh. "Oh, Raven," he says softly.
"I don't answer to my slave name," Mystique snaps. (yes, that's a line from XMLS). "I'm not your pet anymore."
"Mystique," Charles says after a strained moment. "Emma Frost. Riptide. Azazeal. Magneto. Take your cohorts and leave."
Moira, Hank, Alex and Sean enter the room from another door, filing in as though soldiers ready for battle. "You're not welcome," Alex snarls. "Get out before we kick your asses out."
Emma smiles cynically. "Unless you plan to blowing this lovely mansion to bits, you're not in a position to make demands, sugar."
"I am," Charles says coldly. "And I don't have to." Azazeal suddenly whips his tail to Emma's throat. She gasps and terror fills her face as she can do nothing. "What have you done?" Mystique and Riptide look on, petrified.
"You could say I've found out some interesting things about myself." Charles inclines his head, and Riptide for an unseen reason creates a small whirlwind almost comically ushering Emma, Azazeal and Mystique out the door. "Go. Magneto and I have things to discuss. You too." He looks at Moira, Alex, and Sean.
Erik finally raises his head. "Charles—"
Charles smiles, the expression chilling. "Onslaught, please."
"My God." Moira finds her voice. "What have you done with Charles?"
"He's around ... somewhere in here." The creature waves a hand airily near his temple. "But he really can't take this kind of stress, poor man."
Erik straightens in his chair. "Charles. I'm sorry."
"Rather late apologies, I'm afraid. Charles Xavier is cooped up in his little mental cocoon as of this moment. And ... what is this? There's an odd connection between you and him." Onslaught frowns. "I suppose I can't kill you at present. That might destroy him, and thus, me. But don't fret," he murmurs. "I'll find a way to break free."
He looks at Moira. "Human. I really ought to get rid of you. But ..." he sighs. "Xavier's sentimentality. What a bother."
Sean blanches. "What's wrong with you? Why are you-?"
"Oh, I haven't told you. I perfectly agree with Magneto. In fact, I've begun to think he and I might work together."
"To do what?" Alex demands.
"Why, take over the world, of course." Onslaught smiles again. "But unlike certain lab mice, I'm confident we'll succeed." He turns to Erik. "You should know he still thinks of you. Sad, really. He even regrets enslaving you to his mind. But I believe I'll find some use for you." He turns to Moira. "Human. Get out before I kill you. I'll do it eventually, but not now. Alex and Sean ... ah, young mutants. You will go to your rooms for now."
Hank bristles. "As if I'll—"
"You will do it." All four stiffen and vanish out the door.
"Now, I believe we're finally alone, Magneto." Onslaught limps toward him, smiling, when suddenly he shudders and collapses. Erik stares as Charles raises his overly bright eyes to him.
"God. Help me," he whispers.
/
"I don't know how to undo … whatever I did," Charles snaps irritably. Apparently a silent, non-accusing Erik annoys him. They are sitting; well, Erik is sitting in his wheelchair, and Charles is pacing, or limping, erratically across the living room.
Erik raises a brow and glances at the gleaming red helmet resting conspicuously above the fireplace. "A new mantle piece?" he suggests pleasantly.
"Matches the rest of the décor," Charles returns.
Hank tentatively pokes his furry blue head through the door. "Um, Professor? Is everything okay now?"
"Oh, Hank. I'm terribly sorry for what just happened." He sighs and covers his face with a hand.
Sean interjects his own face beside Hank's. "What did just happen?"
"I'm not entirely sure myself," Charles admits.
"And when's the bastard leaving?" Alex adds bluntly, materializing beside Sean.
"I ought to apologize to Moira immediately," Charles sidesteps. "Where-?"
Hank grimaces. "She walked off like the rest of us, but continued zombie-walking to her car and drove off."
"Good God!" Charles exclaims, horrified. He makes a quick mental check. "She's fine. She just realized she's driving back home. And … the others have returned to their hideout."
Sean whistles. "Whoa, Prof. Didn't know you could mess with people that much."
"Neither did I," Charles mutters. "Boys, please ignore everything I said five minutes ago. I wasn't quite … myself." He adds, "And I need to talk with the bast—Erik for a while."
Obediently, Hank takes the lead in herding a glowering Alex and an obviously curious Sean out of the room.
An exhausted Erik has been dozing fitfully during this exchange. As a tense silence fills the room, he rouses and raises an emaciated face to Charles. "I can't ask you to forgive me," he says finally.
"Good, because I won't," Charles replies immediately. "Now, you're here because you need me. And I'll tell you, I don't know what to do about your condition."
"It's clearly not affecting you as much as me," Erik points out tiredly.
"No." Charles frowns thoughtfully, then smiles without mirth. "I'm the dominant in this relationship, at least in this regard. For what it's worth," he shuts his eyes. "I shouldn't have done it to anyone, no matter the cause. You'll kindly note I wasn't exactly in my right mind at the time," he continues dryly.
"I did something inhumanly terrible to you." Erik can't meet Charles' gaze and clenches his hands on the arms of the wheelchair. "I don't expect your help, especially as we're at cross purposes."
"Well, it would be convenient not to have you destroy the mutant-human relationships I'm trying rather hard to foster," Charles returns wryly. "That would be a good start."
Erik says hesitantly, "I could try things your way. At least at first. I can help. I'll prove my sincerity to you. And maybe one day … you'll forgive me."
Charles looks at him, and at last a small smile tugs at his mouth. "We'll see."
We. Despite himself, Erik can't help the frisson of hope the little word inspires.
/
"… and that is why I wish to establish a school for Gifted Youngsters," Charles finished, smiling pleasantly as he turned back to the murmuring members of the New York Department of Education Committee.
"Dr. Xavier," a severe-looking man, oddly reminiscent of CIA Director McCone—did all these bigoted men look alike?—Charles thought whimsically, before he sternly reprimanded himself for his irritation. He already knew the words that would leave the man's mouth before they were spoken, and that the man's bias were carefully concealed behind polite condescension.
"We appreciate your genuine enthusiasm. We do. But we remain rather unconvinced of the need for a private school for talented young people when so many already exist. Your presentation, while compelling, ultimately does not prove the uniqueness of your idea."
Of course it hadn't. The man, Peter Thornton, hadn't heard past "Thank you for your time, gentleman," twenty minutes ago. He'd been thinking of his pretty young mistress and her astounding skills in bed, blandly speaking, and how he'd afford the latest diamond bauble she'd been begging for recently. Thornton was wondering what she'd be willing to do for the gift. The accompanying graphic images had been somewhat distracting, in fact.
Charles's smile remained agreeable even as the committee members began to shuffle papers in preparation to depart. "Could you please specify what, exactly, was not satisfactory?" The question froze almost everyone, and some even harbored slightly guilty expressions.
Suddenly Charles was struck with the almost unbearable urge to use his powers. His mind itched to compel these small little pygmies to what he, a god among insects, wanted. He had to forcibly control himself, gripping his cane hard even as he continued to smile. These were not his thoughts, and neither was the earlier mental scoffing. Onslaught was thinking for him.
Fortunately, another man, Ian Rutherfield, had indeed been paying attention. Carefully. Calculatedly. "You mentioned that those children admitted as students will have special talents. In what areas? Will they have to pass a rigorous exam? Will their prior grades determine the standard? Both?"
"An exam, Mr. Rutherfield," Charles answered, breathing more easily. This man was sharp and would require caution. But he could also be fair. "And interviews."
"Submit a copy of the planned curriculum, the state teaching credentials of the instructors, and the projection of financial operations for the next five years. A further exhaustive list will be provided. You will need to supply these papers in a timely manner."
"Certainly," Charles responded calmly to the barrage of necessary information. "Please allow me to extend my sincere thanks for this opportunity."
Rutherfield looked at him coolly. "You can thank me if your Institute demonstrates itself to be a viable investment."
/
"I could have told you what to expect," Mystique said in annoyance as she reclined restlessly on an armchair in the study. At the moment Erik needed daily assistance, and Mystique had instantly volunteered to be the caretaker for her hero. "Of course they'd find every reason to deny your request."
"You'll forgive me if I don't trust you or your opinion," Charles said coolly, focusing his attention on the stack of papers on his desk.
Mystique's yellow eyes snapped like that of an angry tiger. "Do you really think your way of doing things will work? It won't. Humans will never accept mutants."
Charles continued to scan the documents and did not look up. "You've made it quite clear you don't consider this house your home. Your input is neither appreciated nor necessary to the well-being of its inhabitants."
Outside the mansion, the happy cries of Ororo and Jean as they played a game supervised by Alex could be heard. Scott hung shyly back at first, but he was soon enticed to join in by Jean—his boyish crush on the pretty young redhead made him terribly susceptible to doing whatever she wanted.
"Also, as long as you remain a guest, I must insist that you don some clothes when sitting on furniture, and also in front of the children."
Mystique leapt to her feet and glared at Charles' bent head. "I'm never going back to that kind of mental entrapment. All my life you've tried to tame me, but I'm stronger than that."
The telepath sighed and finally put down his pen to look at her. "Your insistence on exposing yourself to the world, though certainly laudable in regards to newfound standards of decency, is inappropriate."
"You've always wanted me to hide who I am!" Mystique seethed, fists clenched and blue skin flickering as usual when she could not control her powers due to extreme emotion.
"Who you are? It's the what, your mutant appearance, that could have given you away and endangered you. You say you can now go about freely. Strangely, however, you restrain yourself remarkably well when outside the safety of this mansion." He shrugged. "Be careful. You may find that your champion Magneto is more interested in what you can do for him than supporting who you have determined to be."
Mystique strode to the desk and, clamping her hands on the edge, leaned forward in confrontation. "Magneto is different from you. He doesn't try to crush me under his thumb!"
Charles merely leaned back in his chair and gazed at her without expression. "You may have forgotten, but I too am a mutant. And yet, when I exercise my natural powers, you claim I have invaded your privacy. I must confess my surprise at the injustice of the world which you strive to create—and you have wondered why I wish not to be a part of it."
Mystique snarled, breathing hard. But she had no retort, at least for the moment, and after a minute of glowering, turned away and stalked out of the room.