Forgive Us Our Transgressions 1/?
Oct. 24th, 2011 09:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
poor_medeaFandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: R
Summary: The mind is a strange place, as Charles knows all too well. Memories come and go, and sometimes are wiped away forever. is this finally the chance he's been waiting for?
Recovery, Reconciliation...Retribution?
Mystique paced the room, a phone pressed to her ear.
“Come on, come on,” she muttered.
“Raven—Mystique,” Angel amended quickly. “This isn’t working. We need help.”
“Yeah, well, no one wants to help us,” Mystique snarled, slamming down the phone. “Because we’re goddamn mutants. You think a hospital is going to treat Magneto? There’s not a doctor in the country that would so much as hand a tissue to the leader of the Brotherhood.” She dropped heavily into a chair. “There’s no one.”
“That’s not true and you know it,” Angel said fiercely. Despite her harsh tone, her hand was gentle where it dabbed at Erik’s forehead, pressing a cool cloth against his heated flesh. “Hank is as good as a doctor.”
Azazel observed the conversation from the corner of the room, his posture tense as he watched the two girls stare each other down.
“Hank is the enemy. Or have you forgotten? The “X-Men” fight us at every turn.”
Angel shrank back at her words. Hurt and anger were palpable in Mystique’s tone.
“We have to do something,” Angel said helplessly, turning her gaze back to their leader, stretched out on the dirty motel bed. “I think—I think he’s dying,” she whispered.
______________________________________________________________
Charles woke to a buzzing in his head, a veritable storm of static, jamming every frequency to which he was normally tuned. He lurched upright, eyes wide, and cast his mind out, calling for Hank.
Nothing.
He tried every student in turn, calling for Alex, for Sean, even for little Scott and Jean. All he hit was a wall of white noise.
Panic crested within him, but he moved cautiously as he reached out for the chair by his bed. He had fallen enough times to know to be careful, to move slowly.
The last thing he needed was to be left sprawled on the floor, practically helpless.
Not if they were under attack.
And that was all he could think, even as he carefully slung his legs over the side of the bed, even as he braced himself, sliding onto the cool plastic of his chair. He moved slowly, quietly, wheeling to his bedroom door and then pausing, listening.
Only silence greeted him, but the buzzing in his head continued, signalling someone’s presence.
And then it stopped.
His consciousness rushed back in, the feel of every person within the house humming contentedly at the back of his mind.
Hank!
He pushed through his bedroom door, knowing he should be cautious, but unable to hold back.
Someone had been here, in his house, in his school, someone strong enough to block his power. It left a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn’t help but charge out of his room, wheeling himself forward with all the rage a paraplegic could muster.
The elevator creaked slowly down its shaft—metal, despite their best efforts to rid the mansion of the substance—and Charles drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, willing it to move faster.
But that wasn’t his power.
When the doors slid open he cast his mind out once again, scanning the property and the surrounding grounds.
At first, he thought there was nothing. No sign of whoever had been there, or what they had done.
But then he felt it—a slight tickling at the edge of his consciousness, a low-level hum. It was like someone dreaming, but didn’t have the feel of any of his students.
He rolled forward, peering through the darkness, trying to find the body that went with the mind he felt.
And then he stopped, gasping, as he saw the figure, spread prone in the front hall.
Hank! he mentally bellowed.
The clatter of footsteps in the upper hall—not just two feet, but four enormous paws—let him know the man was on his way. Charles held himself back, although he wanted to rush forward, to check that the person was alright—from the buzz of their mind, they were alive, but just barely.
Was it a mutant, seeking help? A body, left as some cruel warning, a taunt from their enemies? Charles gripped the arms of his chair and forced himself to wait for Hank to clatter down the stairs behind him.
“Professor?” Hank barked.
“Here.”
“What—why are you in the dark?”
Charles heard the click of a switch, and then light flooded the front hall, and his heart stuttered in his chest.
“Magneto,” Hank growled. “Professor, don’t move.” Charles knew that sound, knew the thick blue fur at the nape of the man’s neck was standing on end, bristling out a warning.
But he couldn’t turn to look at his friend, to reassure him. He couldn’t do anything but stare at Erik, lying on his back in the front hall, eyes peacefully closed, and his head bare.
The helmet was nowhere in sight.
For one, horrifying second, tears sprung into Charles’ eyes at the sight of Erik’s thick brown hair, covered for so long by that damned helmet, closing off the one mind Charles had once believed would always be open to him.
He shook his head, shaking off the emotions, bottling them back up the way he had for years.
“What is he doing here?” Hank growled, stalking closer.
“I have no idea,” Charles said helplessly. “When I woke, my powers were gone—or, not gone, but blocked. It only lasted a minute.”
“Who could do that?” Hank asked, horrified.
Charles wasn’t sure, but the presence of Erik in his front hall seemed to suggest—
“Emma’s not that powerful,” Hank shook his head.
“Not the last time we came up against her,” Charles agreed. “And yet.”
Both their gazes strayed back to the body in their foyer.
“Is he—?”
“Alive,” Charles confirmed. “Unconscious.”
More than that, though. His mind felt…strange. Fuzzy. Different enough that Charles hadn’t recognized him, despite the many months he had spent veritably curled up in Erik’s mind, cosy and welcome.
Hank crept closer, his large figure hunched as he approached Erik’s form. Dropping down beside him—shoulders tense, ready to spring away at the slightest movement from the man—he touched his neck with one large, blue finger.
“Steady pulse, but faint,” he reported. Giving Erik’s serene face one more look of narrow-eyed suspicion, Hank reached to peel back an eyelid. “Pupils dilated. Breathing laboured.” He glanced up at Charles, held so very still as he watched the examination. “He’s ill. Feverish. Probably at least 102, maybe higher.”
Charles refused to think about the emotions Hank’s words called up in him. He schooled his face into careful neutrality. “But why is he here?”
“I don’t—“ Hank began, patting Erik down, his large paws dwarfing the man’s long, slender frame. “Wait.” Triumphantly he held up a folded piece of paper, previously tucked into Erik’s breast pocket.
Charles held out an unsteady hand. He trusted Hank, of course he did, but he wanted to see whatever the paper contained with his own eyes.
Erik, back in his life, in his house.
He unfolded the paper, his breath catching at the familiar scrawl.
Not Erik’s, but Raven’s.
Charles, it began, no salutation. He could almost hear Raven’s clipped tone, hurt and anger buried under her feigned indifference.
Magneto is sick. He’s had a fever for over a week; he’s disoriented and sometimes hallucinates. We don’t know what caused it, or what to do for him. No doctor will help us.
Bringing him to you was not my decision, but I was overruled. I suppose there’s not much more your ‘X-Men’ can do to hurt him at this point.
Charles blanched. Did she really think—?
The others think Beast is our best hope.
Please don’t prove them wrong,
M.
He squinted at the “M” in confusion, before the name “Mystique” whispered into his mind. Not Raven, not anymore.
Charles sighed, dropping the letter into his lap to meet Hank’s expectant gaze. “They left him for us to take care of.”
Hank snarled out a bitter laugh. “Well, I suppose an invalid would cut into their busy schedule of terrorism.”
Charles sighed, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Hank hurt, too, he reminded himself. The only girl who had ever paid him a mote of attention had turned her back on him. He knew that stung, only too well.
His was not the only heart broken.
“They don’t have the resources, the facilities,” Charles reminded him gently. “They’re on the run, after all.”
“Because they’re criminals.”
“Be that as it may. He is a mutant, seeking asylum.”
That was their duty, their mission statement. To take in everyone of their kind who needed help.
The fact that they were often trying to protect those mutants from Erik, and his more ruthless recruiting style, didn’t bear thinking about.
“He’s dangerous,” Hank said, voice hard.
“Then, we’ll have to be very cautious,” Charles said briskly. “Now, can he be moved?”
Hank sighed, the kind of long-suffering sigh he had built up over the years of working with Charles. Normally it amused him, but tonight Charles wanted to sigh at himself. What was he doing, allowing Erik into his house?
“Where do you want him?”
“One of the bedrooms, I suppose. As far from the students as possible.”
Hank nodded, bending down to scoop up Erik’s lax form. Charles couldn’t help but wince at the way his limbs dangled. Limp and lifeless. “Locks won’t keep him in,” Hank said gruffly.
“Not metal ones, anyway,” Charles agreed.
He didn’t need to be able to see Hank’s face to know he was rolling his eyes. “I guess I’ll be in my lab, then.”
“Good man,” Charles said. It was just an expression, but when he spoke to Hank, he truly meant it. The gentle way Hank handled Erik—their eternal adversary—was proof enough.
“You’re the one who gets to explain this to everyone else,” Hank called over his shoulder.
Charles watched his figure move up the wide staircase, the majority of Erik’s limp body obscured by Hank’s intimidating bulk.
It had been years since he had seen Erik so helpless. And back then it had come in moments of peace and serenity, the gentle sweep of Erik’s eyelashes against his cheeks in the soft morning light, the man’s frame finally uncoiled, relaxed beside him in bed.
Not helpless but unguarded, trusting.
Charles winced, flinching away from the memory.
_______________________________________________________
Chapter Two
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: R
Summary: The mind is a strange place, as Charles knows all too well. Memories come and go, and sometimes are wiped away forever. is this finally the chance he's been waiting for?
Recovery, Reconciliation...Retribution?
Mystique paced the room, a phone pressed to her ear.
“Come on, come on,” she muttered.
“Raven—Mystique,” Angel amended quickly. “This isn’t working. We need help.”
“Yeah, well, no one wants to help us,” Mystique snarled, slamming down the phone. “Because we’re goddamn mutants. You think a hospital is going to treat Magneto? There’s not a doctor in the country that would so much as hand a tissue to the leader of the Brotherhood.” She dropped heavily into a chair. “There’s no one.”
“That’s not true and you know it,” Angel said fiercely. Despite her harsh tone, her hand was gentle where it dabbed at Erik’s forehead, pressing a cool cloth against his heated flesh. “Hank is as good as a doctor.”
Azazel observed the conversation from the corner of the room, his posture tense as he watched the two girls stare each other down.
“Hank is the enemy. Or have you forgotten? The “X-Men” fight us at every turn.”
Angel shrank back at her words. Hurt and anger were palpable in Mystique’s tone.
“We have to do something,” Angel said helplessly, turning her gaze back to their leader, stretched out on the dirty motel bed. “I think—I think he’s dying,” she whispered.
______________________________________________________________
Charles woke to a buzzing in his head, a veritable storm of static, jamming every frequency to which he was normally tuned. He lurched upright, eyes wide, and cast his mind out, calling for Hank.
Nothing.
He tried every student in turn, calling for Alex, for Sean, even for little Scott and Jean. All he hit was a wall of white noise.
Panic crested within him, but he moved cautiously as he reached out for the chair by his bed. He had fallen enough times to know to be careful, to move slowly.
The last thing he needed was to be left sprawled on the floor, practically helpless.
Not if they were under attack.
And that was all he could think, even as he carefully slung his legs over the side of the bed, even as he braced himself, sliding onto the cool plastic of his chair. He moved slowly, quietly, wheeling to his bedroom door and then pausing, listening.
Only silence greeted him, but the buzzing in his head continued, signalling someone’s presence.
And then it stopped.
His consciousness rushed back in, the feel of every person within the house humming contentedly at the back of his mind.
Hank!
He pushed through his bedroom door, knowing he should be cautious, but unable to hold back.
Someone had been here, in his house, in his school, someone strong enough to block his power. It left a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn’t help but charge out of his room, wheeling himself forward with all the rage a paraplegic could muster.
The elevator creaked slowly down its shaft—metal, despite their best efforts to rid the mansion of the substance—and Charles drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, willing it to move faster.
But that wasn’t his power.
When the doors slid open he cast his mind out once again, scanning the property and the surrounding grounds.
At first, he thought there was nothing. No sign of whoever had been there, or what they had done.
But then he felt it—a slight tickling at the edge of his consciousness, a low-level hum. It was like someone dreaming, but didn’t have the feel of any of his students.
He rolled forward, peering through the darkness, trying to find the body that went with the mind he felt.
And then he stopped, gasping, as he saw the figure, spread prone in the front hall.
Hank! he mentally bellowed.
The clatter of footsteps in the upper hall—not just two feet, but four enormous paws—let him know the man was on his way. Charles held himself back, although he wanted to rush forward, to check that the person was alright—from the buzz of their mind, they were alive, but just barely.
Was it a mutant, seeking help? A body, left as some cruel warning, a taunt from their enemies? Charles gripped the arms of his chair and forced himself to wait for Hank to clatter down the stairs behind him.
“Professor?” Hank barked.
“Here.”
“What—why are you in the dark?”
Charles heard the click of a switch, and then light flooded the front hall, and his heart stuttered in his chest.
“Magneto,” Hank growled. “Professor, don’t move.” Charles knew that sound, knew the thick blue fur at the nape of the man’s neck was standing on end, bristling out a warning.
But he couldn’t turn to look at his friend, to reassure him. He couldn’t do anything but stare at Erik, lying on his back in the front hall, eyes peacefully closed, and his head bare.
The helmet was nowhere in sight.
For one, horrifying second, tears sprung into Charles’ eyes at the sight of Erik’s thick brown hair, covered for so long by that damned helmet, closing off the one mind Charles had once believed would always be open to him.
He shook his head, shaking off the emotions, bottling them back up the way he had for years.
“What is he doing here?” Hank growled, stalking closer.
“I have no idea,” Charles said helplessly. “When I woke, my powers were gone—or, not gone, but blocked. It only lasted a minute.”
“Who could do that?” Hank asked, horrified.
Charles wasn’t sure, but the presence of Erik in his front hall seemed to suggest—
“Emma’s not that powerful,” Hank shook his head.
“Not the last time we came up against her,” Charles agreed. “And yet.”
Both their gazes strayed back to the body in their foyer.
“Is he—?”
“Alive,” Charles confirmed. “Unconscious.”
More than that, though. His mind felt…strange. Fuzzy. Different enough that Charles hadn’t recognized him, despite the many months he had spent veritably curled up in Erik’s mind, cosy and welcome.
Hank crept closer, his large figure hunched as he approached Erik’s form. Dropping down beside him—shoulders tense, ready to spring away at the slightest movement from the man—he touched his neck with one large, blue finger.
“Steady pulse, but faint,” he reported. Giving Erik’s serene face one more look of narrow-eyed suspicion, Hank reached to peel back an eyelid. “Pupils dilated. Breathing laboured.” He glanced up at Charles, held so very still as he watched the examination. “He’s ill. Feverish. Probably at least 102, maybe higher.”
Charles refused to think about the emotions Hank’s words called up in him. He schooled his face into careful neutrality. “But why is he here?”
“I don’t—“ Hank began, patting Erik down, his large paws dwarfing the man’s long, slender frame. “Wait.” Triumphantly he held up a folded piece of paper, previously tucked into Erik’s breast pocket.
Charles held out an unsteady hand. He trusted Hank, of course he did, but he wanted to see whatever the paper contained with his own eyes.
Erik, back in his life, in his house.
He unfolded the paper, his breath catching at the familiar scrawl.
Not Erik’s, but Raven’s.
Charles, it began, no salutation. He could almost hear Raven’s clipped tone, hurt and anger buried under her feigned indifference.
Magneto is sick. He’s had a fever for over a week; he’s disoriented and sometimes hallucinates. We don’t know what caused it, or what to do for him. No doctor will help us.
Bringing him to you was not my decision, but I was overruled. I suppose there’s not much more your ‘X-Men’ can do to hurt him at this point.
Charles blanched. Did she really think—?
The others think Beast is our best hope.
Please don’t prove them wrong,
M.
He squinted at the “M” in confusion, before the name “Mystique” whispered into his mind. Not Raven, not anymore.
Charles sighed, dropping the letter into his lap to meet Hank’s expectant gaze. “They left him for us to take care of.”
Hank snarled out a bitter laugh. “Well, I suppose an invalid would cut into their busy schedule of terrorism.”
Charles sighed, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Hank hurt, too, he reminded himself. The only girl who had ever paid him a mote of attention had turned her back on him. He knew that stung, only too well.
His was not the only heart broken.
“They don’t have the resources, the facilities,” Charles reminded him gently. “They’re on the run, after all.”
“Because they’re criminals.”
“Be that as it may. He is a mutant, seeking asylum.”
That was their duty, their mission statement. To take in everyone of their kind who needed help.
The fact that they were often trying to protect those mutants from Erik, and his more ruthless recruiting style, didn’t bear thinking about.
“He’s dangerous,” Hank said, voice hard.
“Then, we’ll have to be very cautious,” Charles said briskly. “Now, can he be moved?”
Hank sighed, the kind of long-suffering sigh he had built up over the years of working with Charles. Normally it amused him, but tonight Charles wanted to sigh at himself. What was he doing, allowing Erik into his house?
“Where do you want him?”
“One of the bedrooms, I suppose. As far from the students as possible.”
Hank nodded, bending down to scoop up Erik’s lax form. Charles couldn’t help but wince at the way his limbs dangled. Limp and lifeless. “Locks won’t keep him in,” Hank said gruffly.
“Not metal ones, anyway,” Charles agreed.
He didn’t need to be able to see Hank’s face to know he was rolling his eyes. “I guess I’ll be in my lab, then.”
“Good man,” Charles said. It was just an expression, but when he spoke to Hank, he truly meant it. The gentle way Hank handled Erik—their eternal adversary—was proof enough.
“You’re the one who gets to explain this to everyone else,” Hank called over his shoulder.
Charles watched his figure move up the wide staircase, the majority of Erik’s limp body obscured by Hank’s intimidating bulk.
It had been years since he had seen Erik so helpless. And back then it had come in moments of peace and serenity, the gentle sweep of Erik’s eyelashes against his cheeks in the soft morning light, the man’s frame finally uncoiled, relaxed beside him in bed.
Not helpless but unguarded, trusting.
Charles winced, flinching away from the memory.
_______________________________________________________
Chapter Two
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Date: 2011-10-25 03:35 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading!
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Date: 2011-10-25 04:19 am (UTC)the many months he had spent veritably curled up in Erik’s mind, cosy and welcome.
Brb, crying into my tea.
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Date: 2011-10-25 03:36 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading!
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Date: 2011-11-20 03:22 pm (UTC)Thanks for commenting!