Forgive Us Our Transgressions 6/?

[poor_medea]

Charles looked up sharply at the knock on his door.

“Erik?” he called, feeling the man’s untroubled presence on the other side of the thick door.

A moment’s hesitation, and then the door swung open, and Erik peered uncertainly around its frame.

“Am I disturbing you?”

“No,” Charles said with a frown, glancing down at the papers spread before him. “Is something wrong?”

He could feel Erik’s nerves humming from across the room, but the man answered before he had a chance to delve deeper.

“No. I just…haven’t seen much of you today.” Erik didn’t quite meet his eyes as he made the admission.

Charles, so rarely startled, could only blink at him for a moment. It seems that this Erik took him by surprise at every turn.

Seeing Erik interact with the children, seeing the joy on his face as he played their games, had left him spooked.

The old Erik had no time for games, for children, for learning. He wanted soldiers, spat out from the womb ready for combat. It had been…unsettling to see his wide easy grin, flashed at Lorna and the others.

He wore the same face, and yet was such a different man. A stranger really, nothing like the man Charles had once known.

And yet, the changes were good. He was kinder, more considerate, more serene. He wasn’t quick to anger, or impatient or sarcastic. He didn’t go looking for fights, he never assumed that the whole world was out to get him.

Having seen the way the children took to him, the way they smiled at his easy encouragement, Charles was convinced he was doing the right thing.

And yet, he had drawn away, uneasy about so many things. Uneasy, for the first time in years, about his much-touted morality.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” he replied, schooling his face into neutrality. “I’ve had a lot on my plate for the school.”

“Of course,” Erik said immediately. So quick to forgive.

The old Erik had been jealous of Charles’ time, militant in ensuring that he got what he considered his fair due. He lingered in Charles’ office, in his meetings, in all aspects of his life, asserting his claim.

Who would miss that? Charles thought with a sigh.

“It must take up a tremendous amount of your time. Running a place like this.”

“I suppose it does,” he admitted, honest for once. Of course, there was so much more to the Xavier Academy than met the eye. Running the school was challenge enough. Running the X-Men was enough to overwhelm even the strongest man.

“Did you need something?” he asked after a moment, as Erik hovered by his door.

“I thought maybe we could play a game of chess,” the man replied, something almost shy about his tone.

“Oh,” Charles said, tilting his head as he regarded the other man. There was something more, buzzing just beneath the surface. “Alright,” he agreed. “Come have a seat.”

Erik moved across the room easily, and Charles wondered about muscle memory—Erik had walked across this room so many times, navigating the old, heavy furniture, finding the most comfortable chair.

The exact chair that he took now.

Similarities warred with differences in every encounter with Erik, leaving Charles off-balance and uncertain.

The man settled into his seat, squirming slightly. Charles narrowed his eyes with interest.

“There was one other thing,” Erik said, reaching into his pocket. “I made you something.”

Charles was really going to have to get used to being surprised.

Erik passed him an object, small enough to fit into the palm of his hand.

Metal, of course.

It was a tiny sculpture, made up of sinuous lines and gleaming surfaces.

“I’ve been experimenting with what I can do,” Erik told him earnestly. “And I just wanted to be able to give you something. I’m sorry it’s a bit abstract.”

“No,” Charles said, staring down at the object in his hand. “It’s beautiful.”

It wasn’t anything, really, just a shape, but it was beautiful, its curves and lines pleasing to the eye, its smooth surfaces pleasing to the touch. It was lovely, and nothing like something the old Erik would have made.

He didn’t use his power for fun, or beauty, but if he had, if he had taken to sculpture, Charles was entirely sure he would never have produced something like this.

That Erik would have worked on a grand scale, forging huge masterpieces of iron or steel, all hard lines and imposing angles. Charles had seen modern art that reminded him of Erik—a violence to its very form, cold and rigid and austere.

Nothing like this.

Charles’ heart warmed to see it.

“It’s very, very beautiful,” he repeated softly.

“I’m glad you like it,” Erik said, and Charles thought he saw a faint rosiness tinge the man’s cheeks.

______________________________________________________________


Erik grew stronger every day, and Charles watched him carefully, seeing the way his energy returned, his muscles strengthening, his interest in the world sparking.

And yet, no memories seemed to come back to him.

Each time Charles knocked on Erik’s door in the morning he held his breath, afraid of what was going to greet him when the door opened. Erik seemed to be getting his old self back—physically at least.

Charles could only pray that memories wouldn’t follow.

“Good morning, my friend,” he said, poking his head around the door. Unlike the weeks previous, Erik was already awake, showered and dressed. Charles had sent a very reluctant Sean out for more clothes for the man, and now he was outfitted the way Charles remembered him—crisp trousers and sleek turtlenecks, all highlighting his long, lean form.

The Magneto getup—with its ridiculous jumpsuit and cape and helmet—had been a crime against that body.

And yet seeing him dressed the way he was in Charles’ memories was startling, a surprising bridge between the here and now and what had become to him only fantasy.

“Good morning,” Erik returned cheerfully, and Charles let out his customary sigh of relief.

He had at least another day, without Erik remembering, without Erik leaving.

He dreaded the anger that would come if Erik regained his memories, the accusations from Erik and the rest of the Brotherhood. But more than that, he dreaded losing his friend.

They were not as close as they had once been, but Erik—this new Erik—had wormed his way into Charles’ heart in his own right, not just a shadow of the lover he had once had, but a friend who’s company he valued now.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” he offered.

Erik smiled, but then glanced down at the wristwatch he wore—a gift from Charles, he delighted in the feel of the metal against his skin. “Can I persuade you to put it off until this afternoon? Hank has finally agreed to show me his lab.”

“Really?” Charles couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice. Erik’s presence over the last several weeks had worn down the scientist’s resistance, bit by bit, but he had still been hesitant to interact with the man who had already betrayed them once.

Alex still wouldn’t give Erik the time of day, although Sean had progressed to greeting him in the halls without looking like he was going to pass out from sheer terror.

A reaction that had been difficult to explain to Erik, given the circumstances.

“It took some persistence,” Erik admitted. “But he does so many amazing things! You hadn’t even told me about Sean’s flying suit—I never would have guessed it was possible if I hadn’t seen him using it myself, just outside my window.”

Charles smiled blandly, but made a mental note to scold Sean. He was trying to keep the evidence of the X-Men to a minimum while Erik was in residence. After all, how did you explain a highly trained fighting unit, without explaining who they were fighting against?

He wanted to maintain the illusion that the Academy was just a school, that the men living there were teachers, nothing more. He knew he was building a house of cards, but couldn’t help but shield it against every gust of wind.

He wanted to keep Erik.

“This afternoon, then,” he agreed. “Don’t let Hank wear you out. He’s very enthusiastic about his work.”

“I’m not sure he could. It seems like I can’t get enough of learning about mutants’ powers. Was it something I worked on, before?”

Charles divulged almost nothing about Erik’s past, and the man had been surprisingly reticent about asking questions, seemingly happy to explore and discover for himself.

“In a sense,” Charles admitted. “You’ve always been very interested in the application of mutations.”

For war, he didn’t way. As power, as aggression, a means to invoke fear.

“Well, they are marvellous things,” Erik smiled, the sweeter, softer version of his old smile, which Charles had come to value just as highly as the old.

This Erik thought every mutation was marvellous, even if it had no application in a battle, like Lorna’s shock of hair. He thought teaching the students history and math and science was just as important as teaching battle strategy, as training.

He delighted in talking to the children, not to figure out what use they could be to him, but because they had interesting things to say.

“Have fun with Hank,” Charles said wistfully, momentarily thinking about tagging along. But he knew he needed to give Erik space, to let him be his own person. He wasn’t a prisoner here, he wasn’t an enemy who needed to be watched. He wasn’t even an invalid anymore, so Charles had no excuse.

Except that he liked to be near him.

“I’ll see you at lunch?” Erik asked, stepping closer.

“Of course,” Charles murmured, surprised at the way his face heated at the other man’s proximity, even after all this time.

“Excellent,” Erik smiled, his blue eyes alight. He reached out briefly, touching his fingers to Charles’ cheek, and then he was gone, down the hall and off to Hank’s lab.

Charles raised his own fingers to his face, stunned.

________________________________________________________


Charles couldn’t stop thinking about the touch of Erik’s fingers, brief but so startling, against his face.

What had he meant by it?

He brooded in his study, unable to help probing at the minds he could feel in the underground lab, until Hank snapped back.

Stop it, Professor! I’m not torturing him, if that’s what you’re worried about.

No, he didn’t think aloud. I just want to know where Erik is, when he’ll be done. What he’s doing, thinking, why he touched me, so gently…

He very pointedly did not say any of that to Hank.

Sorry, Hank. Just nervous.

He’s fine. He doesn’t remember anything about before. And actually…he’s a pretty insightful guy. He’s made some interesting suggestions about some of my prototypes.

Charles wasn’t surprised, not really. Erik was intelligent, but more than that, he was incredibly pragmatic; he had an amazing ability to narrow in on the most practical application of something—technology, a new power—and exploit it for all it was worth.

Normally what it was worth to him ended in destruction, however.

It had been a relief, these past few weeks, not to be at war. Not to have to worry about where the Brotherhood would strike next, who would suffer, who would die. Not to have to put his own men on the line—men who he still thought of as children, as his responsibility—to try and keep the world in some kind of equilibrium, at least for now.

He hadn’t heard anything from the Brotherhood—from Raven—although he had been expecting it for weeks now. He expected that at any moment they might sweep down upon him, demanding to know what had happened to Erik, to their leader.

He had increased his mental security, to keep out the persistent Miss Frost, just as Alex and Logan had increased the mansion’s physical security.

And there hadn’t been a peep from the Brotherhood.

So everything is…fine down there? he called out to Hank.

Yes, Professor, Hank said, sounding exasperated even in his mind. So can you please leave us alone? Its difficult explaining my designs when you’re constantly poking at my mind.

I apologize, my friend. Just…send him back to me, when you’re done.

Of course, Professor, Hank’s mental voice was a little wistful, and extremely knowing.

Charles sighed. This was all getting a bit out of his control.

If it ever had been in control, to begin with.


_____________________________________________________________


The sound of high-pitched, childish laughter caught Charles’ ears, and he smiled to himself over his work. This new bunch of students, younger than any he had before, were the culmination of his dream, the realization of his Academy for Mutants. Their joy over learning how to use and control their mutations was what made his struggles worthwhile.

It was when a deep peal of laughter joined the children’s that Charles looked up. The sound repeated, followed by a high shriek of joy, and Charles rolled to the window to investigate.

Bobby was icing patches of grass, spreading the slick surface in long streams across the lawn, and Lorna, her shock of green hair vibrant even from a distance, was sliding behind him, skating in her sneakers.

And beside her was Erik.

The man laughed, a deep, booming laugh, as he took a running start, leaping onto the newly formed ice and skidding along, arms akimbo and head tossed back with joyous laughter.

Lorna followed, slipping and sliding delightedly beside him.

Charles could hardly believe his eyes.

And then, as he watched, Lorna lost her footing, her legs coming out from under her. She brought her arms up to brace herself, and Charles winced, fleeting thoughts of broken arms and casts racing through his mind.

And then she just...stopped, caught in mid-air.

Suspended, she let out a triumphant whoop, and Charles saw Erik grin, hurrying to her side.

She was held fast by the metal in her belt buckle, and the snaps on her jacket.

He let out a sigh of relief as Erik gently lowered her to the fresh, green grass, away from the quickly melting ice, and crouched beside her, ensuring she was alright.

She gave him a huge grin and threw herself forward, winding her small arms around his neck.

Charles shook his head. He never thought he’d see the day Erik Lehnsherr embraced a child.

And yet there he was, hugging Lorna, assuring Bobby that he wasn’t in trouble, and drawing the children into another game.


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Chapter Seven

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