Chapter Text
Mrs Marcy Stryker wished that there was something more she could do. There were no cushions left to straighten, no makeup left to apply, no coffee left to brew. Besides, it was too late to start fussing now. The guests were already here. She was insistent that they were guests - it seemed only right that they would be given that courtesy. As she lingered in the kitchen, she could hear them speaking in the living room. The customary anger in Bill’s voice was restrained but ever present. When speaking of him, it never went away. Bracing herself, she took the tray and went to the living room.
Marcy had learned over the last few months to expect the worst when turning a corner, but the living room looked comfortingly mundane. Her husband sat on one side of the coffee table, facing the guests. She had assumed he would look angry, but he was surprisingly composed, and even managed to smile at her, which was not very common nowadays. Perhaps it was simply for show, to keep up appearances, but she settled for it being genuine.
‘My wife - Marcy,’ he explained to the guests when she put the tray down. She looked at them, surprised at how normal they looked. Somehow, she had expected red tentacles and fangs. ‘Marcy, this is Professor Xavier, and Mister Summers.’
‘A pleasure, Mrs Stryker,’ said one of the guests and extended a hand. He was a handsome man who, despite going prematurely grey, had retained boyishly blue eyes. The hand which pressed hers was soft and rather refined. It took her a moment to realise that the reason he was so precariously seated at the corner on the table was because he was in a wheelchair. Instantly, she felt sorry for the man, and wondered what had happened to him, or if he had always been like that. It was a pity, for such a young, handsome man. She remembered her husband’s annoyance every time he had mentioned the name Xavier before they decided to call the man, and she understood but did not share his dislike. Bill had little patience with intellectuals, and a crippled professor would not go down well with him. The man’s soft looks would not make him more likable; “effete” would be Bill’s word for it.
Nevertheless, he seemed to tolerate the man under the circumstances. It certainly seemed like he was the main guest. The other guest, a strong, blond man with a brooding look in his eye, looked like he was trying to sink into the armchair and disappear. Still, he shook her hand and accepted coffee before leaning back simply to listen. Perhaps, Marcy pondered, he was simply the driver. She wondered if the two men were like that as well. She did not want to use Bill’s chosen word for it.
‘So, Professor,’ her husband said before she had finished pouring the coffee. ‘Tell us about this... institution of yours.’
The soft-handed cripple sipped his coffee and then looked at them both.
‘It’s not an institution, Colonel,’ he told them in a crisp English accent of a kind Marcy had never heard spoken in real life before. ‘It’s a school. A school for gifted youngsters - such as your son.’
‘“Gifted”?’ Marcy repeated, confused.
‘Why, yes,’ he said and looked her in the eye. Something about his friendliness unsettled her.
‘Our son isn’t... gifted,’ she said, failing not to choke on the last word. She felt her husband growing sterner. He leaned a little forward to assert himself.
‘Let me be frank with you, professor,’ he said gravely. ‘I believe in calling a spade a spade, and not in poncing about with euphemisms.’ Marcy wished she could plug her ears, but instead she wrapped her hands around her coffee cup, hoping that holding onto something would make the impact more bearable. ‘Our son is a freak. There’s no need to call it anything else.’
The professor watched him steadily, the pleasant smile on his lips arrested.
‘Is that what you tell your son he is?’ he asked levelly. Marcy wanted to shout out, no, don’t provoke him, as she felt Bill stiffening even more. At the same time, she wondered how this man thought he had the right to imply anything about how they (he) chose to raise their child.
‘It’s true,’ Bill said through gritted teeth.
‘Well, I’d like to disagree,’ the professor said lightly. ‘Your son’s powers are simply a result of a mutation, and mutation is absolutely crucial to evolution...’
‘Evolution?’ Bill answered contemptuously. ‘Scientific bull.’
‘Well.’ The professor smiled, as if offering to drop the argument, and turned instead to Marcy. ‘Mrs Stryker, I assure you that your son is gifted.’
‘The things he can do...’ she said. ‘Awful.’
‘He makes us see things!’ Bill nigh shouted, and it must have reached the upper floor, because as if on cue, Marcy saw the house around her ablaze. The next moment, everything was back normal. At least it had just been the fire; Jason had dreamed up several worse scenarios recently.
‘How old is Jason?’ the professor asked.
‘Twelve,’ Marcy answered. ‘He’ll be thirteen in December.’ As if this was an important clue, he nodded.
‘And this started...?’
‘Going on three months now,’ Bill interjected, annoyed at being left out. ‘Xavier, can you cure him?’
‘There is nothing to cure, Colonel Stryker,’ answered the professor calmly. ‘But I can help. I can teach Jason to control his powers.’
‘And then?’ he pressed. ‘Will he be normal?’
‘“Normal”?’ the professor repeated, sounding as perplexed as Marcy guessed she had when saying “gifted”. ‘I do not think there is truly any such thing. You must understand, your son has an extraordinary ability.’ His eyes roved from him to her and back. Marcy felt him searching for something - recognition or acceptance - but he had not had visions of the hair-curler turning into a snake or the living-room turning into a mire of corpses. Xavier did not look away as he raised a hand and started rubbing his temple absentmindedly. Marcy thought it was cruel that a man in his condition should suffer from headaches on top of everything else, but where she had expected a wince of an approaching migraine attack, instead he smiled at her, as if they had a shared secret.
His hand dropped, and he straightened.
‘Could I meet your son, please?’ Bill caught Marcy’s eye, and she rose and headed for the stairs.
‘Jason!’ she called out. She saw something move behind the railings - as she had thought, he had been listening. When he appeared on the top of the stairs, she was glad to see that at least he was still dressed in the clothes she had given him to wear. He kept stroking the nape of his neck - she must make him stop that habit. And the way he was weighing on the balls of his feet made her nervous - it was not safe... He smiled at her, and then she watched how he tumbled down the stairs and landed at her feet, dead eyes staring at her.
She gasped and grabbed at the banister to support herself. Was it for real this time? Had he...? But even as she watched the dead body of her son, she felt him push past her, stepping out of her blurred vision.
****
Meeting another mutant with psychic abilities was always a novelty. When the boy entered the room, Charles moved to greet him.
‘Hello, Jason,’ he said and extended a hand. The boy stared at it, as if he had never had anyone attempt to shake his hand before. Charles decided to settle on another approach.
‘You’ll be lucky if you get a word out of him,’ Stryker said. ‘He stopped talking about when all this started.’ Charles looked at him briefly, stopping himself from asking why he had not taken him to see a doctor. Unfortunately, he needed to keep on the right side of this man - a deal was being struck. He turned back to Jason and settled on a different approach.
You can do some quite extraordinary things, can’t you? he thought, projecting the message into the boy’s head. Jason’s eyes narrowed, and suddenly the house around them disappeared. Around him stretched a wasteland under a grey sky. He felt the wheels of his chair sinking into the mud; when he looked down, he found himself staring down into a water-filled shell-hole. The limp body of a man was floating in it. Half his face was missing, shrapnel buried in his throat.
You know your history too, I see, Charles thought and concentrated, planting the suggestion to end the illusion. The stench of the battlefield disappeared, and he found himself back in the suburban living room, face to face with the illusion-spinning boy. Do you do it consciously? The boy’s eyes flicked to the side, towards his father. It’s alright. Just think it, and I will hear you.
I do it when I’m angry.
Just when you’re angry?
Or hurt. Or sad. Or scared. When they think I won’t do it. And when I think I won’t do it.
Charles watched as the boy raised his hand and stroked the nape of his neck, as if something about the freshly cut hair disturbed him. His other hand was tugging at his sweater. His concentration still on Jason’s thoughts, he sensed the disgust the boy felt against his own appearance.
I can teach you to control it. Startled by the suggestion, the boy met his eyes. Charles smiled.
‘Heterochromia,’ he said out loud.
‘What?’ Stryker, who had been watching their silent sojourn, snapped.
‘Heterochromia iridum - it’s the scientific name for the difference in colour of Jason’s eyes.’
‘Oh,’ Stryker said in sudden disgust. ‘That.’
Don’t mind him, Charles projected to Jason, who was still watching him with one green, one blue eye. It’s one of my favourite mutations. That made the boy smile a little, but his face remained concerned despite it. Deciding to speak again, Charles said:
‘I run a school, for young people with special abilities, like yours. Your parents want to send you there. Would you like that?’
Jason looked away and started chewing his lip. Was it shyness, or autism? Charles wondered what had made the boy retreat into himself so much that his powers because the only means of interaction. His guess was his father’s temper, which made itself known again when he stood up and said sharply:
‘Answer him, boy!’ Jason jumped at his shout, but opened his mouth and spoke, slowly and with effort.
‘Could you... listen again?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ Charles answered and concentrated. The thought manifested itself:
Will you make me cut my hair?
Puzzled by the question, Charles slipped a little deeper into his mind, and found a memory. He experienced the reminiscence comprised into a second, and during that moment it was him putting his arms over his head to stop the scissors and then thinking, I wish you would cut your throat with the scissors! and, as if transposed onto reality, he saw the scissors coming alive in the barber’s hand and turning to slit the wielder’s throat. His mother screamed, and then all was back to normal...
Not if you don’t want to, he promised, retreating. The smile the boy gave him now was genuine. He nodded in response.
‘Wonderful,’ Charles concluded. He looked at Stryker and said: ‘Then, Colonel, I’ll leave you with the paperwork. Jason is welcome as soon as he wants to go.’ Alex left the file of forms on the coffee table and rose. ‘And I do suggest that you comfort your wife. I think she’s had a bit of a shock,’ he added as he turned his chair around. ‘Be in touch.’ Stryker had left the living room without the word, and in the corner of his eye he saw how he crouched in front of Mrs Stryker, who was sitting on the stairs, crying.
Be kind to her, he urged Jason as he waved at him and headed for the door. When they left, he was afraid that the advice may have been wasted on the boy.
***
One thing which spoke to Colonel Stryker’s advantage, Charles reflected, was his military precision. Less than twenty-four hours after their visit to the Stryker home, the paperwork had reached the school and they arranged for Jason to be picked up the next day. Charles was making up mark-sheets and contact forms in the boy’s name when the sound of tyres on the gravel was heard. Satisfied that the new student had arrived, he continued with his work undisturbed until there was a swift knock on the door and the click of the lock.
He had expected it to be one of the others bringing in Jason so that he could meet his teachers, but instead it was only Alex, looking bewildered.
‘Professor, sorry to disturb, but...’ Charles looked up at him, surprised.
‘Is something the matter?’ Then, extending his sense over the whole house, he then concluded: ‘They let Jason go with you - he’s here.’
‘It’s not the parents,’ Alex answered, stepping in and shutting the door quickly, as if he did not want anyone to hear this. ‘It’s the kid. The first thing he did when we got here was open his suitcase and throw all his clothes into the duckpond.’
Charles frowned, but could not help thinking it was rather comic.
‘How odd,’ he concluded. ‘Well, in that case, after he’s met everyone, take him clothes-shopping.’ Alex moaned, rubbing his eyes and asking:
‘Why me?’
‘Because I don’t trust Sean to drive,’ Charles explained sharply. Naturally both he himself and Hank were out of the question. ‘It’s a straightforward enough thing to do. Just take the boy into town and get him something to wear.’
‘And when will I have time with my training routine?’ he muttered, but his complaints were cut short by another knock. This time, Hank entered.
‘Has the new student arrived?’ he asked, looking at them both.
‘He’s gonna be trouble,’ Alex warned.
‘Oh, nonsense,’ Charles said and turned to Hank. ‘Jason Stryker, eleven years old - his father’s Colonel Stryker, connected to the CIA. Jason can create psychic illusions. His control leaves much to be desired yet...’
‘Trouble,’ Alex repeated. Hank did not seem to pay either of them any attention, but just waved a hand (Charles had learned not to think “paw”) and said:
‘How many students does that make it? Seventeen?’
‘Yes, seventeen.’ Hank shook his head with a sigh.
‘Professor, don’t you see how understaffed we are?’ he asked. ‘And it’s not so much the classes as just taking care of them, keeping track of them, cooking for them... And with classes and training, and our own training, and my research and taking care of the house...’
‘Yes, I know, Hank,’ Charles sighed and picked his pen up again. This was an argument which usually flared up every time they took on a new student. There was little they could do. ‘I’m afraid finding potential teachers isn’t particularly easy. It’s not like we can put an advert in the teachers’ association magazine and hope.’ Sensing what Hank was about to say, he added: ‘And we can’t hire household staff. Of course it’d make things easier, but the risk is too great. We have to protect our own.’
A pang of bad conscience hit him; perhaps it was selfish, coming from him. He was after all the one who did not do any housework whatsoever. Nowadays he could not reach any of the work surfaces in the kitchen, and Hank, Alex and Sean had come to the decision that they did not want to risk him spilling boiling water over himself or something else unfortunate when trying. Some of the older students helped out, which he knew benefited them themselves as well as the whole household, but he could not help feeling guilty about the fact that he could do nothing. In an attempt to take some workload off the others, Charles did all the paperwork the school generated; he was after all headmaster, so it was only fair. All the same, he knew that Hank was right. They were understaffed and overworked, he himself included. When he had told Moira that he would probably have more students than he could manage, he had been correct.
‘I’m sorry, Hank,’ he sighed and leaned back, feeling resigned. ‘There’s not much we can do. Perhaps, if some of the older students want to stay after they are done...’
‘We could always find adult mutants, and recruit them,’ Alex suggested. It was not a new suggestion.
‘I’m not sure if pulling mutants who have adapted to society out of it is productive,’ he answered. ‘If they have not, of course they’d be welcome, but...’ He trailed off and looked away, aware of how Alex and Hank were exchanging glances. They were thinking about the same thing.
‘Professor, how do we know that the Brotherhood isn’t recruiting?’ Hank asked.
‘We don’t,’ Charles admitted.
‘Then shouldn’t we get to people before they do?’
‘Cerebro gives us an advantage,’ the professor reminded the maker of the device. ‘The Brotherhood may have a telepath in their lines, but they don’t have any means of magnifying her powers, like we have. Besides, the best way to safeguard mutantkind is to take care of those who are more vulnerable - the children.’
‘I guess you’re right,’ Hank sighed, but did not seem particularly happy about it.
‘Good,’ Charles said brusquely. ‘I hope you are both aware that if you spend less time complaining about how little time you have, you’ll have more time to do the things you are so hard pressed to do. Alex, go take care of Jason. Hank, if the last schedule I made hasn’t disintegrated yet, you’re giving a chemistry class in two minutes.’ The Beast gave a yelp which was ill-matched to his appearance and left with a hasty goodbye. Alex rolled his eyes and followed him, dragging his feet like a reluctant child. When they were gone Charles smiled to himself, knowing that neither of them weas angry with him for reprimanding them. He had to admit to himself, if not to others, that he enjoyed playing the role of the stern headmaster, which brought with it a certain amount of banter with the other older mutants. But deep down, it also left an emptiness, and he could not shake off the feeling that this exchange of familiar reprimands were substitutes for something much more profound. Human contact had eluded him since his injury, and suddenly he felt a stab of longing for true companionship.
‘It’s past,’ he whispered to himself, and as so many times before averted his gaze from the satellite dish visible through the window.
***
Next day was bright. Taking advantage of the weather, Sean made the students come out to play baseball on the lawn, and when Charles heard the cheers from the children, he abandoned his paperwork and went outside. Hank was already standing on the terrace, squinting against the sun and watching the game.
‘How are they doing?’ Charles asked as he approached.
‘Alright, I think,’ he answered. ‘Don’t know much about baseball, but they are enjoying themselves.’
‘Well, Sean has simplified it a little,’ Charles said. Neither he knew much about baseball, but Sean had spent breakfast considering what rules could be dropped. Hank let the implication about the professor reading the minds of those around him pass, if he had picked up on it, and instead said:
‘I can’t see the new student. Where is he?’ Charles looked at the children on the lawn and then spotting Jason, said:
‘Over there - Sean is showing him how to hold the bat right now.’ Hank followed his finger, and then leaned over the balustrade a little to see better.
‘But...’ He broke off, looked at the headmaster and then back to the lawn. ‘What?’
‘Yes, Hank?’ He narrowed his eyes and asked:
‘Why is he wearing a dress?’ Charles shrugged.
‘He obviously didn’t like the clothes his parents made him wear,’ he said. ‘He threw them in the pond, in fact. And when I sent Alex with him to get new clothes, Jason insisted on dresses.’ Hank considered this.
‘Should we really encourage that?’
‘I think Jason needs all the encouragement he can get,’ he admitted. ‘Our students need to feel safe, and if they do not, then what is the point of this place?’ He considered the moral implications of his telepathy for a moment, and what right he had to pass on information he had picked out of someone’s head, but as Hank was a fellow teacher, he felt could confide in him. ‘I think it is good that we took this boy with us. His father beat him. It’s not uncommon that people feel anger towards their parents, particularly not if they have trouble accepting you, but it is uncommon to hate your parents.’
‘But Jason does?’ Charles nodded.
‘Utterly, it seems. Perhaps it’s all connected,’ he said. ‘His mutant powers and his... ah, juvenile transvestism, at odds with the wishes of a dominating, strictly religious father, who uses violence as a means of asserting his authority over his son, something which the mother does little or nothing to prevent. All that leads to antipathy against his parents, which leads to him using his abilities as a means of punishing them for the abuse he has suffered, while at the same time having the consequence of him withdrawing into himself.’ He sighed at what he had just described. ‘We must pay attention to him.’
‘Are you saying he’s dangerous?’ Hank asked, casting him a worried look with catlike eyes.
‘No, but he can’t control his powers properly,’ Charles answered. ‘I’ve seen myself that he is good at creating particularly disturbing scenarios. The risk of him losing control is of course much larger if he loses his temper. For the good of the other students, we must make sure that that does not happen.’
They were silent for a while and watched the game. When Scott caught the ball, Charles shouted ‘Good catch!’ and applauded in encouragement. A few of the children who had not noticed that they were being watched turned and waved shyly at their headmaster, and they both waved back.
‘Do you think that mental problems are more common in mutant children? Or mutants overall, for that matter,’ Hank asked.
‘Undoubtedly,’ the professor answered. ‘Many of these children have had difficulties enough to make them more troubled than most others, I’m afraid. It is so easy to take the hate and fear one might meet and take it for granted, even start believing it oneself.’ He looked up at Hank, knowing that this was a subject closer to the Beast’s heart than he wanted to admit. ‘It is what makes this place so important. Not only to learn to control one’s powers, to know oneself, but to grow to love oneself, and others.’ Now Hank grinned.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Worth keeping in mind.’
‘Whenever you feel disillusioned about the teaching profession, drop into my study and I’ll tell you it again.’ Hank nodded, and they returned to watching the game. Remy missed the ball on his first try, and in an attempt to compensate for his previous mistake, he hit the ball so hard the second time that the balance went off and the ball flew in a high arc over their heads. Some of the children still tried to jump and catch it, but to no avail. It landed a little way away from them, and it was not until then Charles noticed the figure standing there.
The man put down his suitcase and went down on one knee, the brim of his fedora hiding his face, but Charles felt his mind, as if it lay nuzzled inside his own skull. There was no doubt about his identity. Awestricken, he watched as the man picked up the ball and stood up to throw it to the closest child, who caught it, staring open-mouthed at the new arrival. The running had stopped, the calls and shouts were silenced. Time itself seemed to slow. The newcomer’s gaze was lifted and turned towards the terrace. Charles felt a hand clench his heart and his mouth go dry when their eyes met and he looked into those pale eyes once again. He felt the call of his mind, and felt the wonderment Erik felt. That was probably the reason why he did not notice the fist flying toward his face.
Sean’s knuckles were only an inch from his skin when he reached. Shouldn’t break his arm - better not do anything, Charles felt him thinking as he braced himself for the blow. It landed on his cheek and mouth and made him stagger back. The second punch landed on his nose and made him fall.
‘What the hell are you doing here?!’ Sean shouted down at him.
‘Sean!’ Charles shouted, afraid suddenly that he would attempt to kick the newcomer. As quickly as was possible, he left the terrace and followed the gravel path around the lawn. When he finally reached them, Erik was still on the ground, but was at least propping himself up, trying to staunch a nosebleed with an expensive purple handkerchief. His gaze was as stunned now when he looked up at him from the ground as before.
‘Erik. Are you alright?’ Charles asked urgently when he came close enough.
‘Yes,’ Erik answered, even if he sounded a little dazed. ‘Are you?’
‘Yes,’ he said, not reflecting at once on how odd the question was from a man who had just been punched in the face. He guessed that he was a bit shocked as well. Finding that action was a good substitute for analytical thought, he locked the wheels of the chair, grabbed one armrest and reached out his free hand towards Erik. Wordlessly, he accepted it and got to his feet, a little unsteadily. They held eye-contact for a moment longer, until Charles felt forced to look away. There was a whirlpool of emotion threatening to take hold of him, but he could not give into it yet. When Erik let go of his grip, Charles’ hand came away stained with blood. Not daring to look back up at the other man, even to check how much he was bleeding, he simply shot Sean a look and told him:
‘I’ll talk to you later.’
As the children stared at their teachers, suddenly revealed as mere mortals through the odd exchange, the two men went towards the mansion. Once inside, Charles lead the way to his study and made Erik sit on the couch, facing him. Offering him his own handkerchief, he explained:
‘Hank’s getting an icepack. Perhaps you should lie down, for the nosebleed...’
‘It’s already stopping,’ Erik answered as he wiped the blood off his face and hands with moderate success. ‘It wasn’t a bad punch - much better than I’d expected.’
‘Two punches,’ Charles corrected him, rubbing his head in despair. ‘And in front of the entire school...’
‘Not quite the entrance I had hoped for,’ Erik admitted and grinned as best as the pain in his face let him. In a sudden impulse, Charles raised his hand so that his fingers brushed his face. With a wince, Erik shied away.
‘Sorry - I...’ He stared at his hand, wondering what he had intended. ‘I wanted to check how bad it was.’
‘Nothing broken,’ Erik answered, just as the door opened. Hank did not say anything, and only entered enough to give Charles the icepack, but he glared at Erik as if he had wished he had been the one to punch him.
‘Hank,’ Charles said, calling his attention. ‘Tea?’ Hank nodded.
‘I’ll tell her.’ He left, and Charles turned back to Erik, holding the icepack up to his face. He took it from him and applied it himself, his wince barely noticeable. Feeling awkward at his impulse to help him with it, Charles rubbed his hands down his trouser legs, as if wanting to rub out the imagined sensation of Erik’s skin.
‘Thank you for not breaking Sean’s arm,’ he said quietly, for want of anything else.
‘It wouldn’t have improved things,’ Erik answered. Their eyes met inadvertently, and Charles felt his heart swell again. How long since they last met? It was almost two years, he realised, since that fateful day on the Cuban beach, the never-spoken farewell, the bullet. He had never imagined that their next meeting would be like this. Not at Westchester, not on such friendly terms, not sitting opposite each other nursing the results of a fist fight.
Those two years had been kinder to Erik than to him, Charles reflected. Perhaps there was a certain worry around the eyes, but other than that, his face was unchanged, roughly hewn but quite handsome. His dress was different. Gone were the turtleneck and leather jacket, which had given him the air of a soldier trying hard to dress as a civilian. Instead, he wore a tailored suit, although the handkerchief which had was intended to be neatly folded in his breast pocket was now clasped in his hand, wrinkled and bloodstained. He had left his hat and his overcoat over a chair. Charles noticed that the overcoat had mud stains on it from when he had fallen, but resisted reaching out to brush them off. At once aware of the scrutiny he was subjecting his guest to, he turned away and crossed to his desk. He pretended to tidy it, moving items from one side to the others without plan, until his enforced concentration was disturbed by a knock on the door.
‘Come in!’ It opened, and a girl of sixteen, her hair bobbed and her ears weighed by green hooped earrings, edged in, holding the door open with her back as her hands were occupied with a teatray.
‘Doctor McCoy told me you wanted tea, Professor,’ she said. ‘I added an extra cup - for your guest.’ She glanced at Erik, curiosity lighting up her eyes.
‘Wonderful, Susanna,’ Charles said and gestured to her to put it down on the table. She did, and then said:
‘I think the tray might be hot.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care. Thank you very much.’ He nodded appreciatively, and Susanna returned his smile and left, closing the door behind her after throwing a final glance at the strange man sitting on the couch. As her footsteps disappeared, Erik raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘Susanna is one of my students,’ Charles explained and wheeled himself to the table. As he started pouring the tea, Erik crossed the room and took the seat opposite him. Briefly, he reflected on how odd it was, taking tea with this man. It was a glimpse of how they had been before. Shaking off the thought, he continued. ‘Susanna can create and conduct heat, and she volunteered to make my tea - as a bit of extra practice.’
‘Hence her warning about the tray,’ Erik said and reached out to touch the silver, only to draw back his hand, shaking it to get rid of the pain.
‘She did warn you,’ Charles simply said and handed him a cup. ‘How is your jaw and nose?’
‘Better, thank you.’ It looked rather painful, as it started to swell, but Erik seemed fairly unperturbed. Even in this condition, he looked quite handsome. It was not the time or the place for such reflections, he knew, but he could not seem to help it, as he could not help feeling self-conscious. His temples had gone noticeably grey over the past year or so, and his hair had started to thin. And then there was the wheelchair, which did not help with his seeming older than he was.
He shook himself; these were trivial questions, and he was fixating on the far past. Ever since the schism their group had suffered on the Cuban beach, he and Erik had been at odds with each other, if not outright enemies. They had worked for different things in different ways. He reminded himself of some of the things the Brotherhood had done - sabotaged trainlines and roads, official threats, occasionally even acts of outright violence. But here was the leader of that group, taking tea with him as the old friend he was.
‘Why are you here, Erik?’
The guest looked up, his smile between the charming and the malicious.
‘Not happy to see me, Charles?’ Charles chuckled.
‘Of course I’m happy,’ he said. ‘It’s been very long. But still... I can’t help but wonder. After all, your group has caused not a little trouble these past two years.’ Erik looked away.
‘They’re not my group,’ he said, suddenly sounding annoyed. Charles hesitated.
‘Not yours?’ he repeated. ‘What does that mean?’
Erik put his tea-cup back on its saucer and stared out of the window, trying to find the right way to explain this apparently difficult situation. Charles pushed the temptation of reading his mind aside. The silence seemed to stretch out between them. When he started losing patience, hoping for an explanation, Erik spoke.
‘The Brotherhood, it turns out, is an ineffective and fragmented organisation. It’s been almost two years, and we have achieved little, perhaps nothing.’
Charles let the justification of the visit sink in, hesitating at the implication in it.
‘Whereas...?’
‘Whereas you... your school...’ Erik trailed off.
‘Do you mean...?’ It was too much and too good to believe. ‘Have you changed your mind?’ Charles managed to say at last. ‘Do you... agree with me?’ His interlocutor’s bruised jaw tightened.
‘I still believe that there is little or no hope for true reconciliation between mutants and humans,’ he said reservedly. ‘But I have changed my opinion on the methods we should use. I was certain that the humans would answer to violence, civil disruption, but I have found that perhaps... Perhaps it’s not worth it.’ The last sentence sounded half-hearted, as if it had not been how he had meant to say. Charles gave in and stretched his mind to Erik’s surface thoughts ever so briefly. The only thought he had time to sense in the confused swirl of impressions manifested itself in one word: Home. Behind Erik’s talk of organisations and means of achieving the cause, this thought represented a much more selfish motivation.
‘You’re not telling me the whole truth,’ he said outright. Erik looked him in the eye, momentarily offended, but then he smiled, as if he was after all somewhat relieved that his bluff had been called.
‘Then tell me,’ he said. ‘What is the truth?’
‘Tell me,’ Charles answered. ‘I’d rather hear you explain it yourself. I don’t know, myself - not yet.’ Erik chose his words carefully.
‘It isn’t supposed to be the way it has been, these past two years,’ he explained. ‘My people fighting your people, our enclave fighting within itself.’
‘Mutantkind must stand together to achieve anything,’ Charles clarified, but Erik shook his head.
‘No, that’s not what I meant,’ he said. ‘When I said “our”, I wasn’t referring to mutants overall, but to you and me.’ Taking advantage of Charles’ surprised silence, he leaned in a little and continued, his eyes growing intense. ‘Don’t you see it, Charles? Apart, we are only half the men we are when we are together.’ Charles pressed his lips together defiantly.
‘I’ve been half a man since you left, Erik. Quite literarily.’ Erik glanced down and then back again, as if he did not want to look at the wheelchair. ‘Did you know?’ He nodded briefly.
‘Mystique found out,’ he explained stiffly, regret in his voice. ‘I did not quite believe her, until I saw. Is there any...?’
‘Hope for recovery? No.’ Charles averted his eyes from him. As so many times before, he wished he could blame Erik, or for that matter anyone else, for his injuries, but if there had ever been any anger, he had pushed it behind his mental shields. In its place was a cool resignation to the facts. It did not mean that it did not hurt, particularly not the loneliness, and however much he tried to deny it, it was Erik’s absence which caused the greatest pain. That sense of loneliness felt like parasitic heartburn in his chest now, threatened suddenly by the man opposite the table. He remembered what he had thought they might become once, and thought of the way he had wanted to kiss him, bitterly regretting all the opportunities he had missed.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he admitted. Erik did not answer; when he looked up, he realised that there were tears in his eyes.
‘I should have come sooner,’ Erik confided. ‘I should never have left.’ They looked at each other, Charles trying to keep himself from crying.
‘You’re here now,’ he said finally, sounding choked nevertheless. Erik’s zeal returned, and reaching out, he grabbed Charles’ arm and said:
‘We should not fight each other, my friend. We should stand side by side.’
‘Can we really see eye to eye - about other things than that theoretical statement?’
‘You mean... humans,’ Erik said. His hand fell, but his gaze remained steady.
‘Yes.’
‘And you think that it is possible to convince them? That they might stop being a threat?’
‘Eventually.’ He nodded.
‘If you truly believe that, Charles, then it is a belief I am content to subscribe to.’ Charles stared at him.
‘For... for my sake?’ he stuttered.
‘For our sake,’ Erik answered.
‘I...’ Charles shook his head. ‘I don’t quite know what to believe.’
‘If you doubt me, read my mind.’ They looked at each other again.
‘Your word is enough,’ Charles said, and as he let go of the last shred of doubt, laughter bubbled up from inside him. ‘Oh God, you’re here,’ he exclaimed and reached out, taking Erik’s hand with both his.
‘Yes,’ Erik answered, laughing too and lay his free hand over Charles’. They laughed until the laughter turned into tears of relief, and Charles raised the hands clasped in his and leaned his forehead against them. Erik was right, he knew - they should face these challenges together.
Realising suddenly how overfamiliar his actions were, he let go of the hand, and Erik drew back. The laughter had given way to an expectant silence.
‘So,’ Charles said finally. ‘How would you like to teach modern languages?’