A/N: I apologize for the delay. Between general busy-ness and my laptop going into critical condition, circumstances for writing have been dire!
...
Chapter 7: Mainland
The stubble on his chin shone with a reddish hue and Charles wondered at the strange juxtaposition between Oliver's black hair and his potential for a ginger beard. Though his mutation was in a league of its own, as all mutants, Charles couldn't help but be fascinated by even the most mundane of mutations; red hair, blue eyes, albino complexion. A sudden frown graced his lips as he thought of Mojo. Apparently he had recovered from Charles defense with no lingering effects. At least from what the guards could tell. No one got close enough to inspect him, but Hank seemed satisfied that he wasn't mentally disabled for the time being. And anyway, according to Hank, the data he'd collected from Charles' first lab would give him a great head start on developing a sedative that not even Mojo could resist.
His fingers still hosted trace trembling from the drugs Hank gave him. When Charles had first sought Oliver out to discuss potential locations and materials for the library, the groundskeeper had commented on his pallor. Against his better judgment Charles waved any concerns off. Today was valuable time off for him and if he wanted to see any progress on his plan for a library he should work to finish the proposal for the Captain and Stryker, who Charles was betting would be adverse to any idea of comfort for the inmates. Therefore, Charles' presentation would have to be air-tight. Every "t" crossed and every "i" dotted. And for starters, he'd have to confirm whether or not there was even space within Juniper to house the books.
"I have a crazy idea," Oliver said, every word like he was selling something despite his genuine earnestness. "Come with me."
Walking along the wall facing the ocean side bereft of any land's horizon, Oliver led Charles down a worn path edged with yellowing grass. The rush of the ocean was louder on this side, the sun brighter. Today the air was drenched gold with the sudden upturn in temperature and Charles found himself squinting in the light. He had to hold a hand over his eyes to see properly when Oliver stopped outside a large structure jutting out from the side of the prison like a tumor. Maintaining a perfectly blank face, Charles nodded thanks as Oliver wrestled open the metal door, ushering him inside.
It opened up into a long steepled space. Charles realized that he was standing inside of a greenhouse, granted a neglected one. Nonetheless, he couldn't help but give in a little to the undeniable charm. The walls were built out of heavy limestone and the tall glass windows communicated a shifted cast of sunlight, murky yet regal. Unlike the temporary greenhouses of the domestic kind this one had been manufactured to last. Wandering up to one of the windows Charles inspected the moulding, surprised to observe a distinct absence of dust or mold. Even the odor undermined its obvious age and state of disrepair, smelling clean. The floor was sturdy cement, scattered with cut-out troughs of earth where plants must once have rooted themselves. Through the rain-clean slant of the glass roof Charles could see Sean's tower and the swaying branches of jagged trees clinging resolutely to the beachside cliffs. Turning around, Charles saw Oliver fiddling with an electric box. Suddenly a line of cheery lamps stuttered to life, illuminating the dust motes dancing through the air. The lights hung in a neat row of thirteen from the spine of the roof, their design simple and effective.
"During the war we grew our own food. When the government issued food rations a prison for mutants didn't exactly register as top priority." Oliver's face was somber. "Those were awful times. For everyone, everywhere. But especially out here." Scuffing his foot along one of the ground troughs, he cut a wry grin at the counselor. "This place used to be brimming with tomato plants, carrots, potatoes. You name it, Xavier, we grew it here." Laughing, he walked over to one of the numerous windows and pointed outside. "We even had a small farm with chickens and goats right outside here." Sighing, Oliver stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Glad those days are over, though."
After a brief tour of the space, Oliver concluded that it wouldn't be too difficult to set up shelves in all of the spaces once filled by rows of crops. The shelves could be set and cemented in quite easily while maintaining an airtight atmosphere for the books. Several rooms of case files had been put into storage to make room for more cells within the main prison, leaving a whole host of empty shelves locked away in storage collecting dust. Charles was thrilled; if that was the case they'd have room for upwards of two thousand volumes. In addition to the shelves, Oliver seemed confident he could rustle up some paint to cover the cement walls, and perhaps even a rickety old card table as a checkout desk. Oliver's enthusiasm quickly became contagious and the two men parted ways each with a spring in their step.
Riding high on the excitement of this already promising project, Charles practically flew up the stairs to his office, taking two steps at a time. After a flurry of notes and a poorly sketched blueprint of the space, he was right out the door again. Louise was scheduled to make one of her day drops; Charles overheard rumors that the kitchens needed a restock on pudding after Sinister's stint on the infirmary.
Her flyaway curls bounced merrily in the sea breeze. Louise threw down a few cartons of cargo, bantering with the guards as they swarmed the side of the vessel. Then a pair of dreamy blue eyes popped from the rows of faces and Louise laughed, reaching out a hand to haul Charles Xavier up on deck, instantly yanking him into a lung-crushing bear hug. His cheeks were high with color, grin a sight for sore eyes. Even though he looked a little drawn, Louise was overjoyed to see him. He'd wired her earlier with a request for passage to the mainland. Throughout the day she made stops along the coastline, doubling back for a total of seven hours.
"You sure you'll have enough time, son," she asked, voice almost a growl over the rushing winds lifting up from the icy waters. "To do what you need to do?"
"Plenty," he shouted back, helping her pass down boxes to the men. "This is only a test run, after all."
Tossing the last of the Juniper cargo down, Louise waved at the retreating uniforms while she said, "What'll you be doing?"
"I'm going hunting," he teased, laughing as her eyes widened comically. "For books!"
"Thank goodness, the thought of a sweet thing like you drawing blood turns my gut," she crowd, clapping a callused hand on his back. The fact that it nearly bowled him over made her concerned. "Still handsome as ever hon, but are you sure you're up for this ride? The winds are devilish today."
Offering her a dashing grin, Charles shrugged, "I feel fine."
"Well, hunker down then," she ordered, throwing a rough wool blanket at him. "Today this wind is redefining the phrase 'cold as a witch's tit'."
Amidst laughter, Charles wrapped himself tightly in the blanket, settling in a cocoon of warmth against the base of the helm. As his eyelids grew heavy with the lull of the waves, Louise began to sing in a strong, clear voice. The melody spiraled up into the sky, played about by the breezes. Charles fell asleep to the sound.
...
The town could have easily been pulled straight from Hans Christian Andersen's fairytales. Patchwork houses lined the crooked streets, sprigs of pea-green grasses sprouting from between knobby cobble stones. Seagulls watched him walk from telephone poles and awnings, waiting for any morsels to fall from his pocket, or even be thrown to them if this human was especially generous. Beneath their beady eyes sunning cats lazily kept vigil, hoping perhaps that one of the plump birds would be feeling suicidal enough to stroll into their claws.
Charles was instantly charmed. White, red, blue picket fences lined well-groomed yards filled with hardy dune-grass and natural sandboxes. Driftwood was everywhere, made into signs, benches; abstract art. The sharp smell of sea salt hung over everything, lending a pleasing crispness to the air on which the cries of the seagulls rode lingering currents of wind from the roiling sea.
Making his way down what was possibly the main road, Charles glanced from sign to sign, looking for the library. When one wanted to find either books or information there was no better place to start. It took a bit of a trek, which left him more than little winded, for Charles to find the town's main library. It was a beautifully rendered cream building with a ruddy red roof. In curving, hand-drawn letters it read: PUBLIC LIBRARY. Grinning, Charles stopped to smell the roses framing the entranceway, their robust fragrance enchanting.
Inside Charles couldn't help but stop and luxuriate in the atmosphere. Couches obviously donated by the community sprang up in random places, mismatching in a perfectly charming way. Several people were burrowed deep in plush cushions, eyes wide with the wonder of reading. A little girl mouthed the words as she read while seated behind her a few feet an elderly woman used a tiny magnifying glass to scour the page, gently rocking back and forth in an antique chair. The ceiling arched beautifully, and all over the cream-colored ceiling were painted words; the first lines from countless famous books. They call me Ishmael… riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs… Charles grinned. It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen… I am an invisible man… And countless more spanning romance, adventure, horror. He didn't realize he'd been staring until he heard someone clear their throat. Jumping slightly, Charles flushed as a positively tiny woman stared at him through horn-rimmed glasses with an amused expression and a shiny name badge reading 'Cecile'.
"We have a book all about the building," she informed him good-naturedly, her voice like the tremulous warbling of birds in the morning. The handsome young man with an unfamiliar face smiled at her in a disarming way. "If you want to take a look."
"I'd love to," he acquiesced, following her to a small section of the room labeled 'Local'. A handful of independently published books lined the table, the centerpiece being a large hand-bound volume boasting the quaint designation Our History. He instantly reached out to help when the librarian picked the book up, but she just tutted at him and turned to settle the book on a small study table. "Thank you," Charles said, impressed.
"Lifting books for fifty years has done me wonders," she hinted with a wink before disappearing back among the shelves to straighten and alphabetize.
He watched her shuffle off, small figure melting into the background as if she were part of it. Relaxing into the maroon easy chair, thin but still quite comfortable, Charles opened the volume, eyebrows shooting up when he realized the text lining the pages was handwritten in the same style as the library's sign and the ceiling scrawl. Flipping back to the first page he again saw the words Our History, and there beneath the curling letters was a single name; Namor. Filing the name away, Charles began to skim the pages, intending only to admire the beautifully rendered handwriting. But soon his thumb had migrated to his lower lip, a telltale sign that all else in the universe had melted away and it was just him and the book.
Four sets of eyes peering between the lowest shelves of books watched the stranger reading. They sat quietly, all in a row like a ducklings.
"He's different," whispered a girl, the end of her red hair clinging wetly to her cheek where she'd been chewing on it. Next to her a cocoa-skimmed child with shock white hair regarded her with disbelief.
"How do you know?"
"Jean always knows," affirmed the boy nestled on the redhead's other side. "She knew about my brother, she knew about me." He reached over and poked the white-haired girl, twisting to avoid her swipe at his head. "She knew about you!"
"But how can you tell," the girl hissed, crouching down low so that she could catch Jean's eyes.
"I know," she breathed, pressing her palm to the side of her head. Ororo, shoving white bangs out of her eyes, still looked skeptical but Jean didn't care. This man was like her. She'd felt him enter the library but had hidden quickly instinctively. No one knew that she was different, and she wasn't going to tell. Parents would tell naughty children that they'd become mutant and be sent to Juniper. Jean never wanted to go there. She'd seen the people they took there.
"Do you think he's from the jail?" asked Scott, sounding excited.
"Why would he be from the jail?" Ororo teased, "He's short. They'd eat him up."
Jean smiled secretly to herself. That man was like her. She knew it. Glancing at her two friends, she said, "Get Bobby. We'll follow him."
A soft voice whispered on the fringes of his mind; low and loving. "Charles," it whispered to him.
"Raven…"
His eyes snapped open. The book lay open in front of him. Library patrons scuttled past, the lone librarian busy at the checkout desk. Shaking himself, Charles gingerly closed the book and returned it to its resting place. Next he stretched, slightly unnerved by the fatigue holding him in its grip. Luckily several other people had drifted off while reading, otherwise Charles would have felt embarrassed. As it was, no one seemed to notice him.
Perusing the shelves, he regularly glanced at the desk; waiting until only a few stragglers remained by the front. As much as he would love to while away his time in this utterly pleasant library, Charles was concerned about the task at hand. Today was a day for book hunting.
The librarian, Cecile, waved him over from his post, hovering at the edge of the checkout line. He glanced around before winging over, his gate sure and foreign, lacking the sloping gate of sea-faring men. She smiled at him pleasantly. "Did you enjoy the book?"
"I did," he confirmed genuinely, "What a task."
"Yes, Namor was quite the man," she agreed distantly.
Charles caught the wistful sorrow of her tone and frowned. "Who is he?"
"A great man," Cecile answered. "He helped make this small bay into a town, into a home. He fought in the Great War and returned a hero. But…" Her ghostly grey eyes went dark. "He was… different. And those times, being different was dangerous." Gaze flickering over the young man's face, she saw the shade of understanding in his expression. "He was a good man," she repeated quietly.
"Well, his legacy certainly lives on," Charles said, again looking up at the swirling letters on the ceiling.
"Here and there," she murmured knowingly, smile back to light up her eyes. Closing the registrar, the librarian stood up straighter. "What did you need, young man?"
"Books," he said with a grin, "But I'm more in the market to keep rather than borrow." At her puzzlement he added quickly, "I'm part of a project to construct a library, you see. At Juniper." Holding out his staff badge, he winced slightly, waiting for her look of disapproval. He'd been warned about the animosity the natives had towards Juniper and her inhabitants. Instead he received a beaming smile, and all of a sudden a small but strong hand had wrapped around his forearm, tugging him after her. Cecile guided him into the back of the library, which was a simple room with windows lining the upper part of the wall in a cheery border illuminating the swatches of dust motes trickling continuously through the air on random currents. The floor was littered with neat piles of books, tables held more piles, chairs held even more. Charles couldn't help but laugh, grinning widely as the librarian's song-like chuckles joined him.
"Here is where some of our collection comes to rest awhile. Some longer than others," she added with a shrug. "We give what we can to the schools, but most of these books have retired and been replaced with newer copies." Picking up a worn copy of Walden she sighed with an unpretentious huff of frustration, "I can't let them go to be turned into mulch or pulp." Running her fingers along the pages, she looked squarely at the young man. "Would you be averse to taking strays like these into your collection… Charles, was it?"
Walking forward and taking the book gently from her hands, Charles smiled warmly. "They've been loved. You can tell just by looking at them. It'll do the men on that island good to have something loved in their lives."
"You can take them today if you like," she suggested, the light in her eyes practically sparkling with happiness. "I have dollies and boxes enough."
"That would be lovely," he blurted, flabbergasted at hitting the mother load so easily. "It really, really would."
"Well, I should head back up front, but the boxes are folded up in that closet, and the dollies are over there." She motioned with thin, graceful hands. Pausing on her way out, Cecile looked at him lingeringly. "It's quite a thing; what you're doing for those men. Very admirable, Charles."
"Thank you, Cecile," he returned, meaning it. She nodded and then left him to the task at hand. Hands on his hips, he surveyed the room. Being a notorious bibliophile himself, Charles had spent much of his young adulthood packing and unpacking books. Until his mother's death and his step-father's following action to cut him entirely out of the will, Charles lived quite comfortably with an extensive collection of books bought, found, or given over the years.
After been thrown out of the family like dirty bathwater Charles had to endure the world without his literary family. It had been unbearable at first, and he'd even entertained the thought of breaking into his old mansion and stealing the most precious of his books. But Kurt, his stepfather, had sold the entirety of the family library almost immediately, along with much of the estate.
Shaking off the unpleasantness those memories summoned up Charles focused on pulling out the neat stack of folded boxes, taking a moment to puzzle out the pieces. Luckily there would be no tape required; it was just a matter of locking the cardboard into place. One down and it looked like forty-nine more to go.
By the time Charles had set up each of the fifty boxes stacked in the closet his jacket and sweater were long gone, draped over a random office chair. He'd unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt and rolled his sleeves up high over his elbows. The slender musculature of his arm shifted subtly as the varying weight of different volumes rested in his hands one by one. It was difficult to resist the allure of the books. Each was calling out to be opened, read, just a page. And with the impeccable collection represented here Charles was hard-pressed not to peek at famous first lines or reread the fairytale endings he had chased during childhood. He finally faltered, halfway through finishing the tenth box. Eyes softening in nostalgic reflection, Charles ran his fingers lovingly over the spine of The Lone Cowboy. This book he had escaped into countless times as a child alone in the cold mansion on the Xavier estate. On nights - many nights – when his mother had retired to bed and left him alone with his abusive step-father, Charles would hole himself up in one of his secret hiding places; where Kurt and his belt wouldn't find him.
He'd ride the winds with the main character, Jack, cower beneath the rolling thunder of the plains; howl with the Apache tribesmen as they hunted the mighty bison. Hours of his life had been spent between these pages. The pounding of horse hooves, haunting echoes of wild coyotes; these were the imagined sounds that helped drown out the anger and hatred flying from his step-father's mouth.
"Good to see you again, old friend," he murmured fondly. "Your work certainly is not finished." Gently he placed the book in the box atop the others. The distinct smell of books pervaded his nose and Charles just inhaled for a moment, loving to be surrounded by books once again.
Later Cecile stopped in with fresh iced tea, overjoyed with his progress. On her way out she pretended not to notice the four tiny children smooshed together behind a book cart trying their best to be invisible. She smiled to herself; there was a reason she left 5 cups on the tray with the tea.
He closed the last box, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the insistent aching of his head. It was just the dust making his head hurt. Noticing the tea he exhaled with relief. That would do the trick; he was probably just dehydrated. On his way over his eyes caught up on a headline across an aged looking newspaper topping a giant stack of periodicals: "MUTANT KILLS or BE KILLED". Brows knitted, he wandered closer then froze. Erik Lensherr's picture was plastered across the front page. Though the face was smudged in the black and white rendering and in the picture he was covered in what Charles guessed unsettlingly to be blood, there was no one else it could possibly be. Hands with an unmistakable tremor, whether from the odd feeling roiling through his stomach or the physical fatigue creeping over his nerves he wasn't sure. When he tried to lift the paper away the pile stirred and slid to the side in a stinking cloud of musty dust that hit Charles square in the face. Coughing, he rocked back still clutching the article. Fighting over to the table with the tea he hurriedly filled a glass and drank deeply. Skin clammy, Charles sat heavily on the floor. His immediate concern was not for his health, but for this article. Something stronger than self-preservation told him he must read this now.
Taking a few quieting breaths, he stretched the paper before him and began to read, sipping his tea.
The first tear rolled down his cheek and Charles didn't even bother to wipe his face, far too engrossed in the almost scientific detachment with which the reporter had recorded the details of Erik's childhood. Concentration camps in Poland, where he lost both parents. Scars were all over his body, most far older than the ones sustained during the sinister conference where he had been held captive until his final act of self-defense, resulting in the deaths of a hundred anti-mutant extremists. The reporter theorized the scars on his body were from experiments performed upon his person in the camps, a common enough occurrence in the history books but Charles still felt the bile rise in his throat. Erik.
He read on, horrified and angered by the account of the extremists' treatment of Erik as a mutant – both because of the inhumanity of their actions and that the reporter wrote with no regard for Erik's dignity. Within their custody, Erik had been beaten daily and kept in a hole used as a compost heap for food waste. What made Charles blood boil, hands shaking with rage, was the description of the sick rituals Erik had suffered. Defecation, urination, dead animals; every type of filth was thrown down onto Erik as he languished in the hole until he'd been taken to the conference in order to be a sacrifice.
Part of Charles wondered why Erik hadn't used his powers to fight back. Considering the level of destruction he caused in the end at the conference. Though Charles didn't, in fact, know Erik's ability. Shrugging off the thought, he read on, eyebrows gradually migrating higher up his forehead as he skimmed accounts of pro-mutant rallies and even answering ambushes on countless violent gatherings where mutants were being tortured. The group that had imprisoned Erik died out – there was no other term to use. One by one seeds of that organization disappeared or were found by pro-mutant leagues. As if Erik's self-induced liberation had triggered a chain reaction. It also said in the article that Erik had gone into a spontaneous coma for almost two days after he was apprehended before waking with abstract notions of what had happened.
Brow furrowed, Charles reread the depiction of Erik's sleep. According to the text, Erik had been completely calm when the authorities came for him, cooperating fully with his arrest. Then, after learning he was to be transported to Juniper, he blinked out like a light. When questioned after he awoke, the reporter writes that his memory had been picked as clean as a fish bone by alley cats. Polygraph tests showed he was telling the truth when questioned; which was the same case when compared to polygraphs used before he underwent the coma. The coma itself had no medical reasoning behind it, as if he went into a deep, harmless sleep.
Charles frowned. Picked clean. A deep, harmless sleep.
If anything, it sounded like the work of a telepath.
Rubbing his temples, Charles relaxed back against the legs of the chair he was seated next to. His head was pounding, the amount of dust creeping from between the old newspapers scratching at his throat. Reaching for the tall glass of iced tea, Charles felt the world tilt in a nauseating swoop of vertigo. Slamming his hand down to support himself, he was aware of a horrible wet creeping of sweat spreading under his shirt. The iced tea wavered, and a fluttering sound was preamble to Erik's picture warping in front of his face. Deadened exhaustion tempered by the halftone stippling twisted into something feral. Charles coughed, the dust clinging to his airways and the nausea powerful enough to make him gag.
By the time Jean had run to his side the man was slumped over, his breathing erratic. Scott, Ororo and Bobby hovered around her twittering like birds. Bobby poked the man in the side and Ororo hissed at him, swatting his hand away. Ignoring them, Jean touched the man's head and winced when the turmoil roiled against her touch. She heaved through it and centered on the fluttering pulse point of his consciousness, prodding it gently. The gasp that issued from his mouth sent Scott, Ororo, and Bobby stumbling back. But Jean kept still, waiting for his eyes to fly open, a startling blue which focused on her like lasers. Under the intense stare, gathering like papery moths to a flame, she felt it as he came to his wits. He reached out to her and their thoughts mingled like intertwining fingers.
I knew you were different.
Her voice was a whispering echo faintly careening through the vastness of a cathedral, gently rolling along his mind as gentle as a breeze. Charles experienced calm melting over him, cool and relaxing. His headache subsided, disappearing into nothing. A brilliant smile spread across his face and he reached out to take this young girl's hand. Three other children were watching them curiously and Charles guessed that they too were mutants, each staring between him and the girl with curiosity but not fear.
Thank you for waking me. She smiled at him as the words slid through their connection, Charles letting them fly with waves of gratitude and tranquility.
Squeezing his hand, she replied out loud for the sake of her friends, "You're welcome, Charles Xavier." At his surprise she beamed with pride.
At the children's behest Charles agreed to go outside with them and take a break from all the dust. The boxes were packed and all that was left was to transport them into the boat headed back to Juniper at the end of the day. Cecile had some students from the high school coming in for service hours who could help so Charles figured his work at the library was done for the time being. Though Erik's haunting picture still lingered, he resolutely pushed it to the back of his mind, if not for his own sake then for Jean, whose ability was extremely powerful yet lacked subtlety or refinement enough that Charles' thoughts would remain private.
"So why they gotta read for?" Bobby trumpeted, skipping ahead of their group to kick at stones. They were walking along one of the smaller streets, Ororo and Scott skeptical of their new friend. Jean's tiny hand was enclosed in Mister Xavier's, so Bobby figured he was a safe person.
"Cuz they don't have anything to do," Scott reasoned diplomatically, shooting a glance at Mister Xavier, the man's face a darker shade of pale through his sunglasses.
Bobby scratched his head, waiting until Jean and Mister Xavier were close enough that he could grab the man's other hand, swinging on it while he announced, "Reading is boring."
Ororo, who'd drifted closer, kicked him in the ankle, dancing away as tiny shards of ice crackled along the street towards her. "You're too dumb to read!"
Marveling at the flippant way the children used their powers, Charles looked around, wary for their sakes. No one was around, but he was still worried about prying eyes peering through windows. "Be careful now," he warned, squeezing Bobby's hand.
Unconcerned, Bobby began hopping along on one foot, his hand jerking on Mister Xavier's with every step. Scott walked backwards in front of them, hands in his pocket while Ororo made faces at Bobby when the boy said, "My mom gets bored a lot, so she reads the pink books."
Scott cocked his head to the side. "Pink books?"
Charles heard a tittering of mental laughter roll off of Jean and he couldn't help but grin to himself as the dark-skinned little girl, her hair shockingly white, teased Bobby mercilessly while chanting, "Naughty books! Dirty books!"
"Mom says they're about love," Bobby demanded, stomping his foot and pulling them all to a stop.
"Oh," Scott said wisely. "My mom likes those books too."
"I've seen them in garbage cans," Ororo added. Then she brightened and turned to Charles. "The rich ladies read them and then throw them away so their husbands don't find them. Wanna see?"
Laughing, Charles thought for a second. "I suppose." Winking at Bobby, he added, "Everyone should have stories about love, right?"
Letting go of his hands, both Jean and Bobby went tearing down the street, laughing and stumbling. Ororo went hooting after them and Charles found himself breaking into a jog just to keep up. Scott, being the oldest and most polite of the group, hung back with Charles. The counselor wondered at the secret hidden behind the dark glasses covering his eyes.
"Do you know…" he hesitated, kicking at rock. "Do you know Alex?"
Eyebrows raised, Charles answered, "Yes. He's a friend of mine."
Giving Charles a closer look, Scott half-smiled, "He's my brother."
"Of course," he said, "He mentioned a brother on the mainland." A lie, but from the way Scott perked up and grinned he didn't regret it.
"Well, tell him I say hi, okay? And… And could you give him this?" Pulling out a medal dangling from a worn-looking red ribbon, Scott handed it over.
Taking it gingerly into his hands, Charles read the words First Place Javelin. Smiling warmly, he patted the boy on the shoulder. "He'll be happy to have this, Scott." He sensed pride, nervousness, and how much he missed his brother. Expression melting, Charles assured the boy, "Alex will be very proud of you."
To his surprise Charles found himself in the middle of a very posh neighborhood. The kids were rolling around the street, peeking in various garbage bins set out for the waste collector to pick up. They obviously weren't joking about women throwing the romance novels away. As soon as Charles deigned to join them he was laughing at himself as he reached into strangers' garbage. He'd found a treasure trove of trashy pulp novels. Arching an eyebrow at the suggestive covers, he grudgingly admitted that the inmates would most likely appreciate these far more than the American Classics.
Wriggling around like a worm sticking out of an apple, Bobby was tossing out books, half his body submerged beyond the lip of a garbage bin. Ororo, Scott and Jean had walked over to watch, fascinated as the pile grew.
"That's Mrs. Fowler," Ororo confided as Charles approached. "She's president of the Church Committee. Her husband's the pastor."
Typical, Charles thought wryly. And look at all the bodice-rippers littering the road. Clearing his throat, Charles knelt to start collecting the books. "We probably should move on now before someone calls the police."
Arms full of romance novels, Charles and the children made it back to the library as the sun was beginning to set, setting the sky aflame with salmon pinks and cerulean blues. It didn't take long to pack the books away with the others. The iced tea from Cecile was still there and the children drank thirstily while Charles carefully tucked away Erik's article for later. He didn't miss the way Jean was watching him, her intelligent dark eyes reading him effortlessly.
"Charles?" Cecile poked her head in, cheeks looking slightly flushed. "There's - ah - someone here to see you. From Juniper."
Shrugging, Charles walked out into the main library, the children trailing after him like ducklings. Then they all neatly bumped into each other as he abruptly stopped, staring at Logan standing awkwardly amidst the sleepy library patrons. His size dwarfed the room, rugged appearance at odds with the cozy atmosphere, though he looked sheepish as he met Charles' eyes.
"Hey, doc," he murmured.
For the kids it was love at first sight. Outside while Charles stood by as an amused observer they peppered Logan with questions, Bobby going so far as to grab his bicep and declared loudly, "He's like Popeye the Sailor!"
Ororo, charming face set in an immovable expression of skepticism, looked him slowly up and down. "Did you escape from the jail?"
Charles couldn't help it; he nearly choked on laughter as Logan scowled down at the little girl. She stood her ground, quite serious. It was when Logan knelt down so that he was eye to eye with her that Charles got a little worried.
"Would an escapee take you brats out to ice cream?" he asked.
"Ice cream!" Bobby practically screeched as he leapt onto Logan's back like some crazed rodent.
Ororo narrowed her eyes. "I guess not." But she was smiling. Charles relaxed, shooting Logan an cheeky smile.
The ice cream parlor was empty save for an elderly couple sharing a milkshake. A storm of pattering feet, the kids ran up to the display to press their rosy faces against the cold glass. They argued animatedly about which flavor was the best and reasoned that if Logan was an escapee he wouldn't be this rich (even if he robbed someone, Scott pointed out logically).
"Way to secure the loyalty of your fan club with a display of such wealth," Charles commented, leaning against the opposite wall next to the other man. Logan snorted.
"Pretty sure I can handle a few ice cream cones."
Crossing his arms and looking down reflectively, Charles inspected the toe of his shoe, voice subdued as he said, "Figured you were busy today."
Shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, Logan rubbed the back of his neck. "In addition to gaining loyal minion children," he began, "I was hoping I could bribe forgiveness out of you with ice cream."
"Oh," he sighed noncommittally.
"I was a real prick to you, Xavier," he said, waving at the register as the children's volume rose to new heights when their cones were handed to them. "It's real quality, what you're doing."
Chuckling, Charles rolled his shoulder so that he was facing Logan. Brown eyes were looking at him pleadingly and he shook his head. "I don't know if quality is the right word, precisely. Do you know what I was just doing with the help of the children?"
"Uh oh," he said, lips quirking with relief as the doc looked at him with obvious fondness. "Do I wanna know?"
"Dumpster-diving. For romance novels." Ducking away from the other man, Charles let that information sink in while he skimmed the selection of flavors, pointing at chocolate chip mint. The plump young man behind the counter reached in to collect a generous scoop. He felt the heat of Logan's body almost against his back.
"Is it strange that I find that sexy?" was the murmured rumble brushing the back of his neck.
Charles shivered, stepping away as Logan ordered two scoops of Rocky Road. Leaving before the man paid the bill, Charles breathed deeply outside to collect his wits about him. There was still something he needed to ask Logan, though not until the children were out of earshot.
Silent but for the sound of numerous tongues lapping at melting ice cream, their motley group made their way back to the library where they found Cecile chatting with Louise. A few of the high school students were already carting the boxes of books down to the pier, looking enviously at their ice cream. Logan finished the rest of his cone in one bite before scooping up several boxes of books at once. Cecile looked far too appreciative as he walked past and the kids cheered, Bobby looking star struck.
"Strong fellow," the librarian mentioned casually. "Quite fit."
The kids and Cecile stood in a row along the dock, waving. Bobby was hopping up and down as Scott dutifully kept a grip on the back of his shirt in case he pitched forward. Through the chug of the engine, the cry of the seagulls, the clap of the waves, and the growing distance between them, Charles still heard Jean's voice like crystal in his mind; I hope we'll see you again, Charles Xavier.
Buzz about the library was all over the prison. Charles winced at the lecture he'd probably be receiving from Moira about that and, granted, he may have jumped the gun with so many books. Despite it, the enthusiasm was palpable. They moved the boxes up to Charles joint office, much to Hank's chagrin. But once he'd informed Hank of his rather startling experience passing out in the library the young doctor grudgingly shut his mouth. It wouldn't do to deny his valuable test subject this minor favor, or so Charles hedged.
Logan was straightening the last row of boxes when Charles finally asked, "Logan. Are you sleeping with the Captain?"
Pausing, he sighed heavily. Then, with a completely flat tone he corrected, "We don't do much sleeping."
"To be honest," Charles started flippantly, "I don't know whether to be insulted, angry or relieved."
"Relieved," he pouted. "That's a bit harsh. I wasn't dogging you-"
"Listen, I know we never defined this or agreed to any kind of exclusivity," Charles interrupted. "And Logan, I enjoyed myself. While it lasted."
"I see." Leaning over, he pecked Charles on the corner of his mouth. "You know I'm always here for you, doc. There ain't no shame in manly cuddling every now and then." Regally he ignored Charles' giggling. Tone shifting, he gripped the counselor's shoulder. "Listen, Charles. Be… careful. Okay?"
Barely a glimpse with his ability revealed the message shining in Logan's eyes.
Erik.
Be careful of Erik.
…
A/N: Next chapter will have lots and lots of Erik. Promise! Also, I don't suspect the kids will reappear again. They had more of a cameo in the plotline.