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groovenetic2011-10-24 08:01 pm
xdaddy.livejournal.com) wrote in groovenetic2011-10-24 08:01 pm
(no subject)
[ It's not so long ago that the clarion call of war rang in all their ears, when they skirted the knife edge of decimation and complete annihilation, when Erik prepared to become an enemy of the world; and for good reason, too. The world had turned on him -- on them all -- first. In the eternity of the moment, facing down the incredible amount of missiles (there would have been more, had Charles not stopped the seventh fleet in time, calmed their minds and took control so fully) and when Erik held out a hand to stop them, and did.
He wanted to kill them all. Wants to, still. Because he was right. Because he was right all along, and if it hadn't been for Charles' swift action, things would have turned out for the worst for all of them. But Erik stops, because Charles gets hit in the back, the suit stopping the bullet from piercing the skin, but the impact of it had bruised his spine. Missed the nerve, thankfully, but it hurt too much to walk for the time being, and Erik abandoned the helmet without a word.
Scooped his lover up in his arms and negotiated for the teleporter, the mutant Azazel, lost without a leader -- for him to bring them all back. They will deal with the fallout later. Erik is grimly aware of the fact that the CIA would not look kindly on this, and Erik absolutely had to be around, if they decided so much as to launch a sneak attack to take the telepath out. To them, he is the most dangerous creature, worse than even Erik himself, and Erik is keenly aware of this fact.
He will stay, because he was right, and perhaps now, Charles would see his point. When they reached, Erik had set him down on his side, on the bed. Made a worried Raven fill a basin of warm water and clean towels, sent Moira away, and sent the other boys off to take care for themselves and to clean up.
Erik will care for Charles, now. The man is not in any sort of danger -- but there are wounds that are not of the physical sort that would need healing. Erik had pulled his punches when he'd struck Charles earlier, leaving little bruises, and had only hit hard enough to stun -- even if it did little to detract Charles from his single-minded desire to stop Erik from turning the missiles on them.
He had succeeded -- but not in the way Charles had evidently expected.
Erik sits on the edge of the bed, now. Unbuckles and unzips the strong material of the blue and yellow suit, peeling it off pale, bruised flesh smudged with sand and dirt. He says nothing. After all, what is there to say that he has not already reiterated, time and time again? ]
He wanted to kill them all. Wants to, still. Because he was right. Because he was right all along, and if it hadn't been for Charles' swift action, things would have turned out for the worst for all of them. But Erik stops, because Charles gets hit in the back, the suit stopping the bullet from piercing the skin, but the impact of it had bruised his spine. Missed the nerve, thankfully, but it hurt too much to walk for the time being, and Erik abandoned the helmet without a word.
Scooped his lover up in his arms and negotiated for the teleporter, the mutant Azazel, lost without a leader -- for him to bring them all back. They will deal with the fallout later. Erik is grimly aware of the fact that the CIA would not look kindly on this, and Erik absolutely had to be around, if they decided so much as to launch a sneak attack to take the telepath out. To them, he is the most dangerous creature, worse than even Erik himself, and Erik is keenly aware of this fact.
He will stay, because he was right, and perhaps now, Charles would see his point. When they reached, Erik had set him down on his side, on the bed. Made a worried Raven fill a basin of warm water and clean towels, sent Moira away, and sent the other boys off to take care for themselves and to clean up.
Erik will care for Charles, now. The man is not in any sort of danger -- but there are wounds that are not of the physical sort that would need healing. Erik had pulled his punches when he'd struck Charles earlier, leaving little bruises, and had only hit hard enough to stun -- even if it did little to detract Charles from his single-minded desire to stop Erik from turning the missiles on them.
He had succeeded -- but not in the way Charles had evidently expected.
Erik sits on the edge of the bed, now. Unbuckles and unzips the strong material of the blue and yellow suit, peeling it off pale, bruised flesh smudged with sand and dirt. He says nothing. After all, what is there to say that he has not already reiterated, time and time again? ]
no subject
It’s all he wants to do. To escape into oblivion and possibly never come back out but he’s fought for so long to keep going, through the blows landed on him today from all comers, that his mind doesn’t know how to relax.
His body is broken and desperate for rest, his soul battered and weary but his mind, that impossible mutated mind, is refusing to shut down. Like a wounded animal driven hard into a corner, Charles can feel his own internal guards lifting, the desire to retreat in on himself and lick his wounds.
For the first time in months, his lover’s presence is nearly unbearable, not because of what has happened between them but because the presence of another sentient being is threatening. Charles hurts and he wants peace but there is no peace in him at this moment, no forgiveness for himself and the mistakes he made, costly, deadly mistakes, saved from disaster only by Erik’s hand.
Sleep.
He doesn’t think he can but there is something reassuring in the way Erik’s hands move over his body. Though the touch is more clinical than that of a lover, it is stillhis touch and even Charles’ instinct driven mind is not immune to the familiar comfort of those long, deadly fingers.
As he drifts a little, his powers raw and edgy, he feels the approach of a familiar signature and his eyebrows arch with shock.
“Don’t kill her, its Hank's ide…” he begins, cutting off as there comes a knock to the door and Moira’s voice calls out softly.
“Erik?” She sounds understandably tentative but resolved at the same time.
no subject
He had felt Charles' helplessness, his lover's aching wounds that has nothing to do with his physical body, the tatters of his mind restless for peace, the desperate need for him to rest, rest. And for the first time his mind echoed with it, their connection still so damnably strong. Erik finds himself similarly unsettled, all of a sudden wanting so desperately to be alone with Charles, to curl up around him and soothe him, soothe that ache and that pain and that torment away because it's too much.
He cannot bear the knowledge that Charles is just behind him, helplessly caged in his own mind. Torn between speaking to her and wanting to reach out to his lover's mind, to force himself into a focused calm and allow Charles to draw on his thoughts, the choice is clear.
"Not now, Moira." He addresses her by name in his distraction, his gaze flickering to Charles. His lover's mind is retreating from him, he can feel it, he can feel the shields and a part of him hates how dependent he's become on their link, on the way he had always been a calm, loving presence in the corner of his mind -- that one same staple he had come to rely on. Erik, who had always been so fiercely independent, who had opened his mind to Charles months upon months ago, who had invited their connection, and had worked on becoming used to all of it, the alien new feelings, but with the ever-present fact that he would never be alone anymore.
Up until now, he hadn't known how cold it would be to be completely alone in his head, without Charles. Don't. Don't go away from me. He thinks harshly, fiercely without thinking, unable to help his reaction, knowing he could end up hurting Charles in his fragile state. He doesn't look away from his lover -- he can't. He's caught too deeply for too long.
"I'll talk to you later." How can he focus on anyone else, when Charles is so scattered, so hurt and shattered in his head?
no subject
Afraid of rejection and also painfully aware that his control was tenuous at best and if he slipped, he could hurt Erik, badly. The need to protect ran just as deep and fierce as it did in the German and Charles was almost angry at his own broken body and mind. Erik needed him and he was failing every one who had ever looked to him for support.
At the door, Moira steeled every remaining nerve, relying on her extensive training to hold her in good stead when all she wanted to do was comply with Erik’s demand. She was horrified by what her gun, her hand on the trigger, had done to her friend. Both her friends, even if claiming Erik Lehnsherr as a friend was akin to try to be friends with a top tier predator.
Were it not for what she held in her hands, she would have gone. Were she here just for herself, she would have left in an instant but she wasn’t there for herself, she was there for Charles and perhaps even for Erik.
“Erik, please. Hank sent me up with something for Charles. Something for the pain,” she paused as the words the blue furred mutant had mumbled as she left the lab came back to her exactly. “He says he’s fairly certain it will act as a sedative for him.”
Lovely … just lovely. Now she was standing there arguing for testing one of Hank’s ‘supposed to work but haven’t yet tested’ creations on Charles. She was going to be lucky if Erik didn’t rip every nail out of the wall studs and make her into a pin cushion.
no subject
Erik says dubiously, his gaze fixed on her. But still -- no matter the fact that Erik wants to refuse it immediately; it still remains that Hank had come through for them more than once. His intelligence, the way the suit saved Charles from a much worse fate, but --
-- had he not, too, made the serum that had failed miserably? He had been sure that would work, too. Erik disapproved about that particular action, thought that it is just as well that it backfired, because their mutation should never be a source of shame, but he doesn't want anything tested on Charles. His Charles. He could feel him, still, the frustration, clear as day, the fear, the way his lover is shying away from him and Erik can hardly blame the telepath.
He had been the one to cut their connection off, snap it in half when he put on the helmet earlier. He hadn't known how much it hurt until he removed it, the bleak sense of emptiness in his chest rapidly filling up when he can feel Charles press against him again. But now his Charles is hurt and Erik has no idea what he can do to alleviate it. Sedation, right?
Maybe it could work, ease his mind into a lull, give him the rest Erik knows Charles so desperately, so agonizingly needs. He masters a grimace, looks back at him -- and no, she's lucky he's too distracted to turn her into a human pincushion. Besides, everything aside, Erik hadn't minded her very much as a person; and the fact that she had come here (even after he had seriously tried to suffocate her with her dogtags) speaks volumes.
Still, he's not in the mood to be forgiving, but he does hold out his hand. He'll take a look at it. Even now, he's still trying to reach Charles, trying to clumsily smooth it over, keeping his own worry from sieving into his lover's mind. Charles only needs to rest, that's all.
He must.
"What are the side effects?"
no subject
Instead, she taps the syringe case in her hands and screws up her courage to give Erik the answers, he doesn’t want to hear.
“Hank’s not entirely certain,” she knows, especially now, that when dealing with Lehnsherr, she’s got to be honest. It’s the only thing she can offer him right now. “He muttered something about their being an inherent risk in taking Charles’ conscious control forcibly off-line. Something about projection and we’ll be … “ she stopped her words and looked from the figure on the bed to Erik, desperately willing the German to understand her without making her say it.
Because she knows, as well as Erik no doubt understands that if Charles catches a hint of the idea that he’ll become a threat to them all in the house, he’ll refuse the sedative and continue to struggle with pain that no man or mutant should have to bear. Swallowing, Moira takes another step closer, holding the case out towards Erik.
“He is adamant that it will help him to rest,” unspoken in her offer was the sentiment that everyone in the house was willing to take the risk that they could find themselves tangled up with the telepath’s projections, if it helped Charles.
On the bed, Charles is catching snippets of the conversation and flashes of Moira's thoughts. He can't help it right now, his shielding is for shit and her mental signature is like listening to a bullhorn.
"This risk," he begins, shivering now in shock and damn straight he's going to try to mount an argument against the sedative!
...
As soon as his teeth stop chattering together like a pair of maracas.
no subject
It's a difficult choice to make, but Erik doesn't hesitate, especially not when his lover is deteriorating before his very eyes. The fight he puts up in his mind is felt so very keenly by Erik, and his jaw sets -- this is worth a shot, because quite frankly, Erik is hard-pressed as to what to do for Charles to possibly make this better.
But first:
"Get out of the house." He strides over to his side of the bed, where Charles is currently on, pulls open a drawer and pulls out a set of keys, tossing it over to her. "Grab the others, all of them. Drive as fast as you can, the Aston is parked outside."
He sets the case on the coffee table far out of Charles' reach as he addresses Moira squarely. "Get out of range. There is a flat I've rented in the heart of London, it's far enough out of Charles' mental boundaries. The address is in the glove box compartment in the Aston."
Erik looks back at Charles, then -- his expression unreadable, even as his mind roils with thoughts, with the fact that he is most willing to risk everything, even himself, if it would ensure Charles' well-being. He'd be here to absorb it all; keep his lover from being alone and hurting himself.
"I'm giving you half an hour."
no subject
"Get the kids and take them, Moira. I need you to keep them safe for now."
The last time he spoke to her, mind to mind, it had been an easy thing, just like having a telephone up to her ear only the reception was clearer than any phone she'd ever talked on. This time, however, his voice makes her nearly sick to her stomach and all she can think is that he's got to be almost out of control to do this too her.
Her face going from white to green and then back, she nods at Erik as she palms the keys in her hand.
"We'll be out of here in ten," she promises before looking once more at Charles. "Charles ..."
She begins but the figure on the bed shakes his head. Erik was right, now was not the time.
"Later," he grinds out, sucking in a spit laden breath, which he then blows out through his teeth as a particularly vicious throb from his battered back makes him see stars.
Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she glances at Erik and its there on her face. She does take her part of the responsibility for this and possibly even shoulders the burden of what the fleets had tried to do to them on the beach. But too her credit, she isn't looking for absolution or forgiveness at this moment.
"Take care of him, Erik." Moira offers before ducking out the door to go clear the manor and get them on the road to New York city. Hopefully out of Charles' range.
As the door clicks shut, Charles closes his eyes and tries to start repairing the damage it feels like his mind has taken today. Truly from the stand point of his powers he is mostly untouched, even the horror of having 'died' along with Shaw was little consequence to an omega level telepath and wasn't that a horrifying thought.
The ache comes from when Erik put on that damn helmet and temporarily severed their bond. Cautiously, Charles reaches to that flickering brightness, fighting the instinct to throw himself at the warmth it promises and instead gently nudging and caressing it, as he might rub softly at an acute bruise.
no subject
After all, Erik hadn't done that to lock them out. He did it to lock themselves in. Up until now, he doesn't know what to expect, knows that it would be risky, it would be frightening, that the mind is a powerful but delicate thing, and if Charles loses control and hurts him, there would be irreparable damage, and there would be no going back from this.
But he doesn't think on that. No -- all he thinks of is his hurt lover, the omega-level mutant who had suffered a shock that Erik had caused, that he was the one who hurt his mind this time. Not with Shaw's death, he learns -- but with the helmet. It is a tight, sick feeling that coils in his throat as he learns this truth, and he goes over to Charles again, could feel him delicately and gingerly reaching to touch their connection again.
He forces his mind to be calm, to be a mirror of tranquility so Charles can draw from it. He kneels at the side of the bed, tugging his gloves off before he cups Charles' achingly beautiful face with his bare hands. Oh, Charles --
Erik looks pained, almost, but lets him nudge, caress -- coaxes his lover gently forward again. See? He's here. He's here.
"I still love you." He whispers. Leans in and kisses his mouth softly. "Charles -- I'm sorry. Come back. Come back to me."
no subject
Not just because his lover is one of the strongest men Charles has ever known; though he is. But because Charles is going to have to trust that no matter where he goes into his own subconscious, he will always know Erik. That even if his powers do twist beyond his conscious control, instinct will keep him from hurting the man he loves.
When Erik comes down to level with his face, Charles is forced into the awareness that he has tears on his cheeks, running awkwardly across the bridge of his nose. It doesn't keep him from opening his eyes and looking into green eyes he's gotten used to waking up to every morning these past months.
Then, Erik's hands... his hands are cradling his face and finally there is a part of Charles that doesn't hurt but rather feels so damn good that he lets out a soft whimper. At first, his mind shies away from the bond, skittish and high strung as a nervous Thoroughbred but then Erik is kissing him and instinct draws Charles in towards his mate. Compared to when he established the bond originally, this is artless, a testament to his scattered wits but it is no less intense as he tumbles against the bond, coiling himself within it as a freezing man would burrow into a heated blanket.
Erik, Erik ...
no subject
He tastes the tears, feels an aching sense of guilt at the look on his face. Charles' mind had been skittish, fearful of him for a few moments before he feels him hide within their bond so eagerly. It's not too good a sign either, considering how he could feel the other man curl up within what they share, but he could deal with that; the gaping wound Erik himself had left in his lover's mind.
Erik does not let go of him -- easing around to soothe, to help him to relax. He has to relax. You don't keep malfunctioning machine running in the hopes that it would right itself. You have to slow it down, then shut it off. Allow it to rest before it comes back online again; and this is what Erik knows he has to do.
All he has to do next is to have Charles trust him again. He kisses him again, allows Charles to look into his mind, to see how apologetic he is, that in that fateful instant, Erik had never been more wrong, Erik had impulsively chosen his vengeance over his most beloved; and he's paying for it.
I'm sorry, he thinks. I'm very sorry, Charles, my love. He's kissing him again, calling him back, looking to center his scattered wits and to ground him, no matter what it takes, no matter what kind of backlash it could have on him.
no subject
Charles sends the thought tainted in just an edge of hysteria as he wants to make them move, just to prove to himself that he can but if they are moving he can't feel them because they're heavy and numb.
I can't move them, Erik I can't ... they're numb.
He is scattered, his mind jumping from subject to overwhelming subject with an erratic lurch that leaves him stick to his own stomach. His legs, the bond, Shaw, fighting with Erik, the betrayal from the humans Erik was right, they hated us... it keeps ping ponging in his head until Charles snarls out another harsh cry, not unlike how he'd screamed on the beach when the bullet hit. He was going to loose his mind and Erik was in the direct line of fire.
No, no, no, no, NO!. I am Charles Francis Xavier, I am Charles Francis Xavier, I am...
The mantra began to echo in his head, down the bond and steady repetition of his own name, a fail safe mechanism from his childhood from a time when he was five, alone and terrified with all the voices in his head. He'd learned to calm his own mind, to focus on his name -which his tutor insisted he know how to write and spell properly- to circle around his name and push out all the other voices, all the other thoughts and emotions trying to commandeer him.
It was an old coping habit that the adult Charles hadn't needed to employee in decades but he brought it to bear now. Slowly and steadily, through sheer determination and mental discipline, Charles exerted calm over himself. It was exhausting, the effort leaving him trembling violently beneath Erik's hands but bit, by bit he pulled himself together, ruthlessly banishing the riot of emotions to the far reaches of his mind, to be dealt with later -and oh did he have a cache full of emotions that fell under 'later' built up over the year- but for another time.
With those trapped away for the moment, he spun back to the bond, so fragile and yet such a beacon in his own mind. Gently, he soothed it, calm now so he could push along it to Erik, touch his lover with apology, regret but also love and worry. Because he was worried about Erik, it was all there, he was concerned about what he'd done on the beach but also, what Shaw had done to the man. What poison Shaw had spoken in those moments before Erik had ripped the helmet off his head.
You're not a weapon. You're not a tool, Erik Lehnsherr, you are a man, you are, my lover...
There was more he wanted to say but as he forced control over his mind, the aches and exhaustion of his body were starting to take over. He had to lick his lips, his mouth felt bone dry and just a bit gritty from where he'd been sucking sand but Charles' rough voice, whispered.
"Give me the injection, when I wake up, if I still can't move my legs..." they'd have to look into taking him to a proper hospital.
no subject
It's too much, it's far too much, what he sees in his mind, what pulses through him, the unabated tempest of Charles recollections, each and every thought coming together to overwhelm him.
But Erik is there, and Erik holds on for all that he's worth, his extraordinary sense of will surprising even himself with the tenacity that he's holding on to Charles with, following him and anchoring him with all his scattered madness, the way his thoughts unravel and he leaps from one to the other with erratic, terrible ease. But it doesn't last long, because finally his lover finds control -- finds him and their sacred, restored bond. So very fragile but infinitely more resilient than it looks.
Erik is waiting for him. Erik is with him, right there -- and he hears Charles' thoughts again, this time directed at him, the way he thinks of him more than himself, and Erik feels a pang of guilt once again. He takes the bond that is shifted to him, shares it because this is how it should always be. Theirs. His grip tightens on him, and he murmurs back in his mind, willing it to be a mantra Charles takes with him, willing his next words to sear so deeply into the other's consciousness and his soul so that wherever he is, even if he's lost everything else, he would not lose this:
I am a man, I am your lover. You're mine. You'll always be mine. Remember it always, Charles.
And he reaches for the syringe, eases the needle into his arm and empties the fluid into the vein. He will be here. He will be here for all of it, even as he tosses the spent syringe away, crawls into bed behind him -- gritty suit and all -- and wraps his arms around his lover's waist, chest pressed against Charles' back. Most beloved, most treasured. He braces himself for what is to come, anchors himself so Charles will find him again.
Sleep, my love. I am with you.
no subject
Yours... and belonging... were the last conscious thoughts before his mind went under.
Time became a slippery thing in the wake of Charles giving in to sleep and it might have been hard for Erik to tell if he himself slept or not. It was just going to get harder as the metal bender would find himself being watched by a pair of curious, wickedly intelligent blue eyes.
Blue eyes in the face of a young boy, no older than perhaps four with a disheveled mop of dark hair on his head, the hair was clean but in obvious need of a trim. The child wore blue stripped pajamas and was watching Erik with utter fascination, before he lifted his right arm up, the wrist bent at an unnatural angle and cradled in his left hand.
You're not usually here. The youngster said, his voice light but already laid with the rich accent of his breeding and upbringing.
Come on then. I need to find Mother.
The child held his good hand, small even for a child of his age, out for Erik to take.
no subject
"I'm not." He agrees, but says little else, because he doesn't know what kind of chaos he might unleash if this boy -- in whatever function he's supposed to be in his lover's mind -- knows.
The boy seems to be remarkably calm for someone who is supposed to be in a significant amount of pain. He's glancing around before his gaze fixates on the child, and he simply takes his hand, sensing no threat evident. Fingers closing around the much smaller one, he allows Charles to lead him on.
1/2
The scene shifts then, in the way dreams have of moving you from one spot to the next with a flick of the mind and no conscious awareness that it makes no sense to have been in a bedroom one moment and a corridor the next. The corridor is one Erik has walked -awake- in the house before, somewhere over on the south wing that so far Charles has not bothered to open yet. The projection is certainly that of a child's as the walls appear to be standing giants of a maze, closing in on them both.
As they walk the child is projecting his emotions with adult clarity and strength. His arm hurts and he's scared because he didn't mean to fall off the dresser but his night light had gone out and he'd been trying to turn it back on. He fell and it hurt so badly and he'd cried for an hour but no one had come. It was late and his nanny was down stairs probably asleep in her own bed, exhausted from a long day of keeping up with her strange troubled, insane, disturbing charge.
Eventually he'd cried himself out but his arm still hurt and his wrist looked so strange and he didn't know what to do so he crept out of his room to go find, Mother.
But he was scared. He shouldn't be up this late and the walls looked so big, getting taller -even for Erik's perspective- and pressing in on them both as Charles lead Erik towards the door that suddenly snapped into existence before them.
Taking his hand out of Erik's, Charles looked up at him and gave him a tremulous little smile.
I hate this part he said in that soft, child voice.
The scene swung around and the corridor dropped away, leaving them both in an opulent room, decorated with aggressive femininity. Beautiful, rich colors that should have been warm and inviting, yet there was something off about the room. It was subtle, hidden beneath the warmth thrown by the fire in the heart, the cheerful music playing on the phonographs and the soft perfume of gardenia and rose ... the stench of alcohol.
Now, Erik is left next to the door, an observer rather than an active participant, as these next events are burned in memory, rather than something Charles can manipulate.
His mother is stretched out on a chaise lounge, looking like a perfect picture, still in full make up and her hair, a shade lighter than her son's, perfectly coiffed. Her eyes are closed, expression dreamy as her toes tap in time with the music.
"Mother?" Charles' voice is small, hopeful as he approaches her, though he stops exactly four feet away, not an inch closer, as if he's been schooled not to rush up to his mother. "Mother, I've..."
"Hmmm?" The noise is almost a sigh and she doesn't open her eyes but her lips twitch. "Charles, what are you doing awake?"
"Mother, I fell..."
"Charles, go back to sleep, it's late."
"But Mother, please..."
"Charles," her voice doesn't raise but there is an icy firmness to it and her eyes never open to look at him. "I'm not going to tell you again."
"Mother..."
2/2
Charles stands there for a long few minutes, as if trying to will her to just see him but Sharon picks up martini glass and drinks from it, while smiling and obviously dancing at some gay party in her head.
Eventually, Charles turns away and walks back to where Erik waits by the door. Without looking up, he slides his fingers into Erik's and gives the man a tug.
With the tug they tumble from Sharon's room back into Charles' childhood bedroom, the room in the north wing that today is used as storage. The room is dark, cool without a fire in the hearth but mostly dark because of the broken night light. Again, Erik gets left at the door, as he has no power over these memories.
Charles walks over to the tall windows and he wrestles, one handed, with the heavy curtains, pulling them back until the spill of moonlight illuminates the a small patch of floor. He then shoves and drags a chair from a close corner until he can get it into the light. Next, he gathers up a teddy bear -no comments, he's four!- and a blanket from his bed, which he drags and tugs across the floor until he can crawl up into the chair.
Curling his right arm around his bear, Charles cradled his wrist into his left hand and snuggled down into the chair, head against the wing and face turned into the moonlight as he tried to go back to sleep for a little bit.
Re: 2/2
This, Charles suffered too. He finds his free hand clenching into a fist because a mother should not be like this, holding no love for her own hurt son -- and he checks the instinctive urge to pull the boy close and tend to him himself. But he cannot, not when these memories and his desires now, however ardent, will not change a thing. The loneliness is a painful, cruel thing, he knows, and it's a wonder that Charles still retains that idealism, did not hate people who cast him aside -- people who should only love him and nothing else.
Erik has known lost love, but what is it like with a love that has never been there at all?
He's trapped outside the door, watching with a growing heartache that is painful in his chest, and he's silent for a moment, willing himself to enter, to hold the small, wounded boy to himself and fix that wrist because he must, and because it's Charles, and how can he only stand there like that?
Erik makes a low noise under his breath, finds that he hates this house for all the painful memories that it gives Charles, makes him his mind to make up for all of the wrongs and hurts he's suffered as a child and alone. He understands his lover more now, is all the more astounded and in awe of the fact that even after all this, the man's capacity for unconditional love is still immense, his dreams uncolored by cynicism and a love for all of humanity that had brought him to what what he had suffered at the beach.
Erik watches the boy with the bear, lonely and in pain - and with a sheer power of will, of the bond that still stands between them, he enters the memory. With difficulty, with strain, but he is there, and he crouches before him on one knee, a hand on his uninjured one.
"It gets better." He tells the child quietly.
1/?
Not before it got worse he says, voice still young.
Were he not drugged at this point Charles would have drawn them both out and away from what comes next and for a moment the child's face becomes a riot of pain as the adult mind struggles against Hank's cocktail.
No, nononononono... he doesn't want Erik to see this next part, hell Charles doesn't want to see this next part, he doesn't want to remember this but the cocktail is too strong and it pulls him under, pinning him into his own mind.
Suddenly the child bolts upright in the chair and throws his arms around Erik's neck, clinging to him for all he's worth, as inwardly Charles' mind does the same to the bond.
I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry, child and adult are both repeating over and over as he drags Erik with him and they are tumbling once more, the frames of the dream shifting around like shards of metal caught on the whim of Erik's powers.
Charles' father is dead and Sharon is courted by the seemingly charming Kurt Marko but Charles is not convinced. His instincts, those strange voices in his head, are screaming at him that Marko isn't what Sharon thinks he is and seven year old Charles is desperate to protect his grieving mother.
Unlike the clarity of the first dream these come as snapshots, throwing Erik into the scenes as if they were movie clips.
"Mother, please listen to me. He doesn't love you," Charles is still small for his age but his eyes burn with a passionate fire, his young face screwed up in concern as he stands in his mother's room pleading with her to just hear him.
"Charles, that is ENOUGH!" Obviously they have been talking for awhile and Sharon is done with it. She is sitting at her vanity in her dressing gown, a half empty bottle of vodka by her right hand as she brushes her hair with a silver paddle brush.
"No, Mother it is not enough. I'm telling you, Mr. Marko is not interested in you..." he means to finish with like you think he is but Charles feels a flash of horror as he realizes he's once again said the wrong words in the wrong order.
Half drunk, Sharon is in no mood to be told she is not desirable, even if that's not at all what her son means. The alcohol does not slow her reflexes as she is up from her chair and advancing on him, brush raised.
"Do.Not.Talk.To.Me like that you little..." her adjective for her son is mercifully drowned out by the explosion of pain as the cold flat of the brush lands a stinging blow across his cheek.
Charles stands beneath the blow, knowing that it will be worse if he tries to retreat or stop her. He can feel her anger, and he can do nothing to stop it from bleeding over to Erik [I'm sorry!] it is twisted within her grief for Brian, who's eyes Charles has and who is gone and she misses Brian so much and Charles aches for his father, even as he soaks up his mother's soul consuming grief.
Truthfully, he'd rather be hit by the brush than her emotions but he has no control over either.
2/2
But for all the attention she gives Kurt's son, Kurt is paying less and less attention to Sharon. He has her money, he has no need for her and his thoughts are ugly about her. As easily as Shaw shot Erik's mother, so too is Kurt as dismissive of Sharon Xavier and Charles can't block any of his stepfather's nastiness from his head.
At least, not at first. At the tail end of the age of eight, Charles has begun to truly learn to shield because if he doesn't, Kurt's mind will drive him insane. In fact, just before his eleventh birthday ... Charles goes a little mad.
...
The abuse had started within the first six months of Kurt and Cain moving into the manor and for the first year, it's ... small things. Charles doesn't respond to a request fast enough and Kurt pops him on the ear or across the jaw. Charles touches one of Cain's toys and the older boy knocks him down and rabbit punches him in the gut.
After one incident where Charles had knocked into Cain's new bike -and God he'd tried so hard to avoid it but he was still awkward on his own bike- and Cain jumped on him, beating his head against the gravel as Kurt cheered him on, Charles had gone to his mother. Dazed, his cheek scrapped and bleeding when the gravel had cut into his skin, Charles picked himself up and did the one thing he hated to do most in the world.
He went looking for Sharon.
She'd been furious; at him. As the vodka bottle -this one mostly empty- exploded against the door frame just to his right, Charles had realized with stark finality that his mother was in no position to protect him. As he watched her crumple to the floor in tears, a wave of pity washed through him and he went over to her, apologizing and helping her get to her feet and her chaise lounge.
It would not be the last time, he would have to pick her up.
Life took on a surreal quality for the next three years, as Sharon vacillated between the queen of her social circle in upstate New York and a falling down drunk at home. Kurt only grew more disgusted with her, effectively abandoning her in that big house, taking mistress after mistress as a matter of course, bringing them into Charles' house, fucking them where Charles would walk in on them.
Charles tried to protect Sharon but at ten ...
And at ten, Raven arrived.
Raven who became Charles' beloved playmate, someone his age who didn't beat him or yell at him and Charles is fiercely protective of Raven, keeping her shielded from Sharon, Kurt and Cain. It is in this year that Charles stops sleeping more than a couple of hours at a time as he desperately pushing the boundaries of his powers. He must protect Raven.
Its just before his eleventh birthday when he hears Kurt shouting and Raven crying.
Fear, fear, FEAR explodes in the dream and across the bond -and sorry Erik, you've been getting everything from Charles in this- and he's running down the hall to the room where Raven sleeps.
Kurt is there, shaking her, yelling at her and she's changed to blue and Kurt is murderous his hand closed around her thin throat choking her, killing her.
Charles bellows and plows into his much large stepfather, knocking all three of them down.
"Raven run, run, RUN," he's screaming at her, projecting, at her and she bolts as if the hounds of hell were at her heels. Charles grabs Kurt's mind, scrabbling desperately through it, artless and the man is screaming and punching at Charles, his large hands grabbing at Charles' throat.
Charles finds all of Kurt's memories of Raven, blessedly they're at the front of his mind and he wipes them all. There is no remorse in the act, he rips them out of the man's mind as if he cut off Kurt's hand and the now illogical pain drives Kurt mad and he's punching and throttling Charles but Charles doesn't care.
Raven's safe...
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Him, and Charles' mother, too. Neither one of them had truly ever deserved this boy's company. Neither one of them had sought to understand him, and to lay his hands on a young girl like Raven, their own kind --
Erik is both furious and pained the more he sees, the more he understands his lover through his memories. He cannot say a thing, cannot help him, forced to be helpless in the face of all that horror. It is different from Erik's own, but Erik is hard pressed to say that his could be worse. What is worse than your own mother preferring herself over you? At least Erik's mother had loved him more than life itself, at least Erik had known her brand of love, right until she dropped to the floor with a bullet in her heart and his name on her lips.
But he cannot do a thing. He tries, and oh, he tries -- but he cannot enter these memories anymore. They are too strong, wedged too deep within. And so Erik calls.
"Charles!"
If he cannot go in, then he'll take Charles out. "Charles, damn it, listen to me!"
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But Erik always has been a gloriously stubborn bastard hasn't he?
In the end they both are working towards a similar goal. Charles doesn't want to be showing Erik this, any of this. He doesn't want to be hurting his lover with the wild emotions, with the darkness in his own heart and on his own soul. He wants out and Erik, calling to him along the beloved presence of the bond combined with his own firm will begin to over come the effects of Hank's drugs.
The memories dissolve into twisting shadows filled with whispered words that give a sense of dread but otherwise do not form into the vivid pictures of before. Charles stands at the center as the shadows leap and jump around him, the pass of one specter to the next, his form changes from the child to adult.
Flinging out one hand, a mirror to the stance Erik adopts when he's bending metal to his will, Charles begins to draw the shadows tighter into himself. He's dressed in loose, linen clothing, cream on cream, colors he never wears, hell the fabric is loose and twists around his limbs along with the shadows, his eyes nearly preternaturally blue here in the landscape of his own mind.
Erik... his mental voice is strong, stronger than it has been since he was shot. Go. You need to go while you can, follow the bond back to yourself.
Charles looks to the side, flashing his other hand outwards until a pathway, lit softly by a sense of warmth, translated to a gentle amber glow, leading away from Charles and the shadows.
I can hold this now but I can't come with you, not yet. Please, my love ... go, I implore you.
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He will not take that way out, he will not be kept apart from his lover. Their bond is there for good, for better or worse, and Erik will not let Charles be alone again. That one mistake was enough. He watches him, flat-out refuses, drawn towards the eyes that burn with such a magnificent, beautiful intensity.
"No." He says. No. I will not leave you again.
Never again, and he moves towards him despite his better judgment, forcing himself forward through the images, the melting shadows. He doesn't want to be in the light if Charles is trapped here. His place is with his lover -- his soulmate, most beloved. Charles might be stronger now, but Erik is taking no chances.
I'm going nowhere without you by my side.
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Just as he'd been convinced on the beach that he knew best. Just as he'd been convinced through the whole disastrous mission that he knew best, that he was going to protect them all. Only to watch as it would be Erik who ended up being in the position to keep them safe, Charles' grand plans falling apart in his hands.
His face is still stricken, as Erik walks back towards the howling shadows and away from the warmth and love of the bond. In this moment, Charles recognizes that he can't push Erik back, that the man's stubbornness will be both their undoing if Charles can't step up and meet that strength equally.
Erik is going to come and if Charles doesn't want him hurt, he needs to take command of himself and so, rather than waste the precious energy he's recovered in fighting Erik, Charles turns inwards. Blue eyes on the man approaching him, Charles' expression softens to one of a love that no word can do justice too. Friend, adversary, brother, lover, soulmate, he knows Erik at every level of his fiber and loves deeply across each.
You stubborn idiot has never sounded more like 'I love you'.
Closing his eyes, Charles flings out both hands the shadows twisting in the air around him, their howls becoming screams of ear splitting intensity as Charles grabs them.
I am Charles Francis Xavier, I am Charles Francis Xavier, I am...
The mantra sings out, slowly drowning out the screaming of the shadows and Charles's eyes snap open, his expression set and as mulish as Erik knows he can be. Closing his fingers into fists, he bellows.
ENOUGH!
Opening his hands, he slams them downwards and the chaotic shadows twist, elongate and snap outwards forming orderly lines that run on either side of himself and Erik. They are held away from Erik but they no longer separate him from Charles.
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In fact, in some way, he had bore a mite of hope that he might yet be right. But, well. Look at how it all turned out. Erik grimaces at the swell in volume, the deafening chorus that Charles finally thinks to command with all his strength, the onslaught of raw power and control that the younger mutant wields leaving him in awe. He had never seen the inside of a mind before, much less this, and he stares down at the straight lines, conquered by the sheer power of Charles' stubbornness.
An obstinacy that would match his own, and perhaps this is why Erik is so fascinated. No longer separate from each other, Erik is free to move over to him, recovering from that flare of noise and sound to take the other man tightly in his arms. He would not lose his sense of self from this. He knows himself, he knows every little bit about Charles, as well -- and when he wraps his arms around him, willing the other to come back; to heal himself and to rest, he presses a kiss against his forehead.
Infinitely tender, and slow -- he's going nowhere, not when Charles is caught here in his own personal limbo. They'll do this together.
"I saw every single one of you." Child, to boy, to teen, to man. And he loves each and every one.
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"I'm sorry," he said softly. "There are things I never wanted you or anyone to have to see but I couldn't control it, not until just now."
He wasn't ashamed of what was in his past but he did keep it hidden down and away, even from Raven. Though Charles recognized it affected him more than he liked to let on, such as his being utter crap at relationships until Erik came along and no one would claim that relationship was typical in any guise.
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He doesn't move from him, only gripping him tighter, provides him the support and the strength that he knows Charles needs. He's here, always -- never leaving, never budging from where he's supposed to be; right by his lover's side. Feeling the familiar warmth and presence with him locked in his arms, he presses a kiss, then another, to the crown of his head in silent affection.
"I'd prefer to have seen it."
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Instead, he relaxed in his lover's arms and exhaled a long, deep breath.
"You're not going to get any rest, here, like this and I fear, my love that we are both going to need some sleep in us for the next few days."
Leaning back, Charles looked up into Erik's face and smiled tiredly.
"I've been told I make a horrible patient."
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Erik has known this since they first met, and he supposes that he should take pride in the fact that he's one of the very first to break through that particular barrier. He's still breaking through it, taking down Charles' defenses one by one and showing him that it's all right, it's okay -- and that all Erik will do is love, protect, and be all that his lover needs. He's going nowhere, and that is that. Charles might as well just get used to it, and all.
He reaches down and brushes a thumb lightly over Charles' bottom lip, taking in his exhaustion but ignoring his own. He can power through this, he knows. He has to; but Charles...
Erik smirks faintly at those words, despite himself -- but still secretly glad that Charles is no longer pushing him away.
"I hear I'm just what horrible patients usually need."
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His hands slid down to rest atop Erik's hips as he looks up and gives the man an exhausted, cheeky smile.
"Is that a challenge then?" The words lack conviction, he's too tired for that and in fact, he sways slightly and once again folds himself into Erik's chest.
He can not fight that German iron will and honestly he just doesn't want to. He's done fighting for a little bit, done fighting himself, with Erik, with the world, with his maltreated body. The threads on either side of them thrum with a steady expression of control, the sound comforting to Charles as he knows his mind is once again his own, even if its a touchy sort of control.
Still, Erik's here and that is enough.
"Its about to get very dull for you, I'm afraid," Charles managed to sigh out before, between one breath and the next, he let go.
Safe in Erik's psychic arms, Charles lets himself collapse into an exhausted sort of sleep, his 'body' slumping against the taller mutant, fingers dropping to touch the fine threads. The landscape grays out as the drugs and Charles's own capitulation pull him down into a mental stillness he rarely, if ever, affords himself.
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He knows how exhausted and tired Charles is, the fatigue slipping through in the cracks between his words, and Erik moves to sit cross-legged on what passes for the ground, arms wrapped tightly around him. Even now, he will not let him go for anyone and for anything. He will stand guard for as long as it takes, protect his rest from anything and everything that might come to interfere. He doesn't budge, even when the landscape grays out and all that is left is a stark, complete nothing.
No light, no darkness, with only the feel of his lover passed out in his arms, still as if sleeping the sleep of one dead. But he's not. Erik knows he's not, and he is content to wait.
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More than once the two youngsters are resolute in their intention to head straight for the car with only graphic descriptions of just what a startled, protective, grieving Magneto could do to them if startled. Raven is sill willing to risk it as it's her brother back there but eventually even Alex sees sense and helps sit on the shape changer to keep her put.
For Charles, consciousness comes at a bittersweet price. Simply put ... his legs hurt.
He recognizes that this is a good thing, that he's feeling them but goodness they feel abused, mistreated and are in no way holding back from impressing their displeasure on him. Erik's presence is a beloved weight against his growing consciousness, though Charles carefully weaves a barrier between Erik and the discomfort in his legs.
Its nothing worse than he's dealt with in the past and honestly, he is more than a little giddy just to feel something down there. Even if it is the absolutely worst case of pins and needles he's ever known.
Gently lifting them both up towards true consciousness, Charles calls his lover's name both within his mind -to help ease Erik back to himself- and verbally to establish his awareness of self.
"Erik?"
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But Erik eventually does, missing the warmth, the presence of his lover's consciousness pressed so closely against his own. He's shielded from Charles' discomfort, but he hears the call -- would always hear the way Charles says his name, drawing him back, and back.
He stirs, after a few moments, feeling the start of a dull, throbbing headache at the back of his skull. He groans, finds himself pressed so closely against Charles' body, as if he had been clinging to him for the past day or so.
"...Charles?" He asks aloud, groggy.
I love that icon set up. I need to find a copy of it for Charles.
In the time between calling his lover's name and waiting for the other man to wake up, Charles has woken further and started to clear his head. The first thing he's tried to do is wriggle his toes, which he can manage but it takes focused effort and makes his back and legs tense with discomfort.
Also ... he has to pee and is trying to work out how to manage this with a bit of dignity.
"Good, ah ... evening, I believe if the twilight is anything to go by," he says his normally dulcet tones still rough from the sand, screaming and stress of the day before.
akjhdakjhf omg yyyyy ;w; I'LL LOOK FOR IT FOR YOU
He's groaning, because that little dull ache is rapidly becoming full blown pain. He hears only half of what Charles is saying, but enough to manage to sit up (and regret it immediately). He exhales, then reaches to grasp the other man's wrist, making sure that he's still there, that his lover's all right. He can hear the ragged tone, reminded once again of what had transpired at the beach.
"...Are you all right?"
Makes eager greedy hands!!
"I can move my toes," he offered, a giddy, tired sort of hope in his tone. "But ah ... I think I'm going to need a ..." his words drift off as for the stubbornly independent Charles Xavier this is a painful admission. "A bucket to .. uhm, that is I can't walk..."
And he's closing his eyes tight, setting his back teeth against the dual humiliations of having to ask for a bed pan of sorts and also Erik's headache.
"There are analgesics in the bathroom cabinet, you'll want a couple."
/chuuuuu!
He says quietly. "Give me a minute." He'll help the other there -- he owes Charles this much, after all, and sends a gentle, but ragged message that there's nothing his lover should be embarrassed about. He's already seen everything, anyway.
Erik goes over to the bathroom cabinet, pops a few aspirin and splashes water on his face. He takes a deep breath, feels the pain start to slowly, slowly ebb before he returns to him -- fighting the worry that Charles might yet lose use of his legs.
No, no -- that won't happen.
He looks better when he returns to Charles' side, and he says simply. "I'll carry you there." They'll work out the logistics when they get to it.
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Charles screwed his eyes shut, feeling Erik's touch but careful not to reach back a return, not while the other man's mind was tender and overstretched for a non-telepath. Breathing slowly, Charles fought back the edge of hysteria that was starting to inch into his thoughts. He could feel his legs, could get his toes to move but he knew without testing it that he could not stand, that he couldn't even move his legs beyond the twitching of his toes.
Fear tried to grip him and he swallowed hard against an onrush of bile at his helplessness.
Where is your much valued brilliance now, Xavier? Can't even get up to go take a piss. How the hell were you going to ever stop those missiles on that beach?
Turning and pushing his face against his pillow, Charles snarled at himself and began to push his arms up under him. He wanted to crawl to the bathroom on his own, just to prove to himself that he could. He'd always found a work around when he was on his own...
Shoving, dragging and shoving that chair into the moonlight...
By the time Erik returned from the bathroom, Charles had wrestled his upper body upright and was glaring at his legs with a mulish expression in his blue eyes. Awake but still left somewhat unguarded by Hank's drugs, Charles actually allowed some of the frustration he was feeling to leak around the edges of his shields, his mind starting to snap along with plotting out what he needed to do next.
"When," he began, pausing to lick his lips and there was little doubt from the way he was staring down at his legs that these words came from him reluctantly. "My mother's health was in decline, we had a wheelchair for her. It should still be in her rooms."
He wanted to look up into Erik's face, to reach for the comfort the man had given him when they had been tumbled together in the landscape of his mind but he couldn't. Now that he was awake and faced with the reality of legs that would not hold him any time soon, a stark reminder of his humbling on the beach, Charles felt shame and anger curling along his spine. His fingers gripped tight at the bed sheet, barely aware of his own nudity at the moment, only of the naked vulnerability of his own pride.
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Erik doesn't coddle his lover either; he keeps his own worry under wraps, and searches through Charles' mother's room. He locates the wheelchair soon enough, pauses for a moment before he wheels it over.
"You won't use this for long." Erik tells him, feels admittedly clumsy for saying something like this in a bid to ease that shame and that anger. But he means it -- he would be there to help every step of the way as long as Charles needs it. He wheels the chair up to him, finds himself despising this particular object, the guilt, sharp and thick curling in his chest and leaving a bitter aftertaste, the reminder that Erik had been partly responsible for his lover's current state.