Forgive Us Our Transgressions 9/16
Nov. 19th, 2011 10:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
poor_medeaErik, woke, disoriented. It was a feeling he had grown accustomed to over the last few weeks, waking and not knowing where—or who—he was.
Now, though, the source of confusion was the warm body in his arms, the legs tangled with his own, the soft hair tickling his nose. He blinked his eyes open, sleepily focusing on the brown curls mere inches from his face.
Charles.
The previous night came back in a rush of warm skin, wet lips, and the nearly overwhelming affection he felt for the other man.
Even if Charles weren’t the noble, kind, amazing man that he was, how could Erik help but feel that way? He had been entirely at Charles’ mercy since the moment he woke with no memories but his illness, the small bedroom he was in, and Charles. The man provided his food, his shelter, his care—how could Erik help but love him?
And yet Charles was a kind, noble, amazing man, and Erik felt so grateful that it had been Charles who he woke to, Charles the only face he knew.
It had been terrifying, realizing his mind was a complete blank, being sure of only one thing: his own name, the only thing lingering in the empty, white expanse of his mind.
He remembered his illness—strange and sometimes terrifying fever dreams.
A red-skinned devil appearing in a burst of smoke, looming over him like he had come to drag Erik off to Hell.
A wounded-looking girl, wings unfurling from her back, rising into the air with every gossamer beat and that fragile look permanently etched onto her pretty face.
Other beds, other rooms, other places flashing before his eyes, a psychedelic jumble of colours and sounds, pulsing over him.
And then Charles.
The world seemed to come to a stand still and all Erik could hear was the sound of his own laboured breathing and all he could feel was the cool touch of Charles’ hand on his face, the perfect respite from the feverish heat that oppressed him.
Charles, who had taken care of him, told him who he was and shown him the amazing power that rested within himself.
Charles, who lay sleeping peacefully curled in his arms. Erik tightened his grip, unconsciously drawing the other man closer.
“Hmm?” Charles stirred, murmuring a soft, sleepy sound that made Erik’s chest ache with the intensity of his feelings.
He loosened his grip, letting Charles turn in his arms, and gazed into those astonishing blue eyes, hazy with sleep. He watched, entranced, as a light flush spread over the man’s face, brightening his cheeks and creeping down the length of his pale throat, to where his flesh bore the mark of Erik’s teeth. He could see the sleep clearing from the other man’s mind; the realization dawning that Erik was in his bed, naked.
“So last night wasn’t a dream?” Charles said, reaching up to trail light fingers over the planes of Erik’s face.
He couldn’t help but grin. “Do you dream of this often?” he teased.
Something flickered in Charles’ eyes, there and gone. “More than you know,” he murmured, dropping his gaze.
Erik reached out, cupping a hand over Charles’ slender shoulder. “And how did reality compare?” he asked, keeping his tone light.
There were moments—just fleeting moments—when Charles shuttered himself, the light in his bright eyes dimming. Sometimes Erik couldn’t discern the reason, but it always happened when Charles spoke of before, of the fact that they had, apparently, been separated for some indeterminate amount of time.
Erik never pressed, happy to guide Charles back to the present, to coax a smile to his red lips.
But he wondered what had happened between them. What on earth could have driven them apart?
Perhaps they argued—though what could have been serious enough to keep them separated for so long? He couldn’t imagine willingly keeping his distance from Charles—he had felt the pull of the other man from the moment he woke from his fever dreams, thrumming deep within him, as inexorably a part of him as the metal around him. That feeling had made it easy to guess the nature of their relationship—Charles seemed to own a very piece of his soul. Of course they had been lovers.
And now they were again, and Erik refused to let the ghost of their past interfere with their future.
“There’s no comparison,” Charles responded, a soft smile chasing the guarded look out of his eyes.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Erik said, sliding closer. “But I’m sure I have room to improve.”
“Well,” Charles laughed against his lips, “practice does make perfect.”
They descended for breakfast together, side-by-side, but the moment they reached the kitchen Charles untangled his fingers from Erik’s. Surprise—and maybe a hint of hurt—must have shown in his eyes, because Charles paused, laying a gentle hand on Erik’s arm.
“This is a place of tolerance and acceptance,” he explained softly, “but not everyone will want our relationship flaunted in front of them.”
There was something more, something lingering unsaid behind Charles’ words. But Erik didn’t press. The morning was a happy one—blissfully so—and he intended to keep in that way.
“I understand,” he said, taking a step back to leave an appropriate amount of space between them. “Shall we?”
The grateful smile Charles flashed him almost made the distance worthwhile.
“Good morning,” Charles said cheerfully as they strolled into the vast kitchen.
Alex and Sean were already at the table, hunched over their own breakfasts, although Hank and the children were nowhere in sight.
“I bet it is,” the blond replied with a snort, focusing his hard gaze on the bowl of cereal in front of him.
Charles stilled. “I beg your pardon?”
Alex looked up, eyes narrowed. “I guess you also had a good night last night,” he said flatly.
Charles frowned, turning helpless blue eyes on Sean, who was flushing a colour that rivalled that of his fiery hair.
“You were kind of projecting last night,” he mumbled, not quite meeting either of their eyes. “It wasn’t exactly anything we wanted to hear.”
Charles blanched. Erik glanced over at him, seeing him floundering for what to say.
“Well,” Erik said cheerfully, stepping smoothly up to the other man’s side, “so much for discretion.” After a quick glance at Charles to gage his reaction, Erik reached for his hand.
“Really?” Alex demanded angrily, dropping his spoon with a clatter into his bowl.
Erik frowned. He hadn’t gotten a chance to know the blond boy—Alex kept his distance, seemingly always busy with something for the school whenever Erik was around. But he knew he was Charles’ employee, and damned if he was going to let him talk to Charles that way.
“Hey,” he said sternly. “I know some people say homosexuality is wrong—”
Alex looked at him with surprise. “Screw that,” he interrupted. “Charles can sleep with who he wants. He could screw Hank for all I care.”
At any other time Erik would have laughed at the look that cross Sean’s face at that mental image.
“It’s you I have a problem with,” Alex finished, standing abruptly from his place at the table.
“Look, I understand that you’re just being protective,” Erik said, placating, squeezing Charles’ hand in his own. “I don’t know everything that happened between us before, but I can promise you that I love Charles, and I’ll do everything in my power not to hurt him.”
Surprise flashed in the boy’s eyes, making Erik wonder. Were those words he had never spoken before, or just never said in front of other people?
“Yeah, well, we’ve all heard that before,” Alex scoffed. “I hope you know what you’re doing, “he said to Charles before turning and storming out of the room.
After a moment, Sean stood to follow. “For what it’s worth, Professor,” he said hesitantly. “I’m happy for you.”
He trailed after Alex, calling the blond boy’s name and leaving Erik and Charles alone in the cavernous room.
“Charles,” Erik began, reaching to grasp both of the man’s hands, pulling him to bring them face-to-face. “I’ve been reluctant to ask, when you so obviously don’t want to talk about it. But I need to know: what happened between us? Before?”
“Oh, Erik,” Charles said, shifting his gaze away. “Now’s not really the time, is it?”
“When would be the time?” he pressed, holding Charles still. “Alex hates me. Why?”
“Things…weren’t always smooth between us,” Charles said evasively. “Alex is merely protective of me.”
Erik knew that wasn’t it, that wasn’t everything by a long shot. But he could also see that Charles didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t even seem to want to think about it. He sighed. “You will tell me one day, won’t you? Or do I have to wait until my memories come back?”
Charles’ hands jerked in his. “No. I don’t want that,” he said, and Erik frowned, for a moment wondering just what the other man was referring to.
Erik was reading in Charles’ study—or what he liked to think of as their study—one of the novels Charles kept hidden away behind his genetic tomes, a trashy spy thriller that at turns made Erik’s blood pump and made him scoff at the inaccuracies depicted therein.
How he knew they were inaccuracies—that that wasn’t the way to intercept a transmission, to tap a phone line, to tail a mark, that if you wanted to keep a man talking you’d never stab him there—he couldn’t say. The knowledge rose up to the surface of his mind with the turn of every page, and yet, when he went chasing the half-remembered fact down, it disappeared again into the ether.
He was just reading a particularly ludicrous torture scene—really, the man would be dead already, Erik snorted—when voices rose up from the floor below, loud and angry.
Erik froze, straining to hear. Alex had a hot head, as breakfast the other day had shown, and sometimes he went off, on Sean, on Hank and—very rarely—even on Charles.
But he couldn’t make out the rough strains of Alex’s voice. Instead, he could hear Charles, words pitched low and consolatory, and an unknown female voice, rising high and strained.
He was out of his chair as he realized it wasn’t one of the girls—not Ororo or Lorna or Jean, upset about a training session.
It was an adult woman, shouting the house down around Charles’ ears.
He didn’t know what it could be about, the words were rushed and hard to make out, but he was going to lend what help he could.
He was out of the room and down the stairs in an instant.
In the foyer was Charles, neck strained as he maintained eye contact with the woman looming over him.
The woman with deep blue skin, scales, and scarlet hair.
Erik froze, his eyes roaming over the two figures in front of him.
The woman was in his bed, nothing but the white sheet covering her slender blue form. She trailed her hand over the covers, inviting.
Erik shook his head, shocked.
Where had that come from?
The woman was beautiful, certainly, the colour of her skin deep and saturated, proclaiming her mutant genes for the whole world to see. But Erik had Charles, loved Charles—he didn’t want anyone else in his bed.
The woman, dressed this time, in a ridiculous yellow jumpsuit, watched him with wary eyes. He stretched out his hand; this time, he was calling to her. After a moment, she stepped towards him.
Erik could practically feel the sand under his feet, the hot sun on his back, his hair, wet with sweat, sticking to his head under a heavy…metal helmet?
He clutched the banister, his heart pounding.
“You can’t hold him here,” the blue woman was saying—or, really, screaming. “He’s not your prisoner.”
“I told you, he’s here of his own free will.”
“Well, forgive me if I don’t believe you,” the woman snarled. “Maybe if you’d let him tell me himself.”
“I assure you,” Erik said, trying to keep his voice steady, “that no one is being held prisoner in this house.” He was disoriented, but he wasn’t going to let Charles face those accusations alone.
The woman’s head snapped up, bright yellow eyes narrowing in on him.
“Magneto!” She cried.
We were thinking, you should be called Magneto, and you should be Professor X! a triumphant voice called in his head.
“Raven?” he said, trying out the name that floated to his tongue.
Charles spun his chair, eyes wide with horror.
The woman frowned.
I never want to hear that name again, the voice snarled, forcing its way up out of the fog of his memories. That’s the name of a blonde girl with blue eyes and rosy pink cheeks. An insipid girl who lets everyone else make her decisions for her.
Erik shook his head again, as if that could shake off the confusion.
“Magneto, what are you doing? Why didn’t you call if you were feeling better? We would have come for you.”
“I—” Erik began. He knew this woman—obviously he knew her well. Charles had told him there was no family to call, no friends who were waiting for him, no one to inform of his recovery.
Charles had lied.
“What did you do to him?” the woman hissed at Charles, snarling like an angry cat.
“He didn’t do anything,” Erik said quickly, pushing away his doubts. He loved Charles. Charles loved him.
“Then why didn’t you call me?” the woman said helplessly.
Maybe we could call? he heard that same voice saying, but quiet, timid. Just to see how he’s doing?
No. Erik heard his own voice, cutting her off sharply. If you miss him that badly you can go crawling back to him and his damned X-Men.
And that, that brought a flash of Charles, standing, walking, in a yellow jumpsuit like the one he remembered the woman wearing. Of Alex and Sean, looking ridiculously young, dressed the same. They were all looking at him with serious eyes.
“Mystique,” he tried, a second name echoing in his mind.
“Magneto,” she said, imploringly, “we need you to come home.”
Home.
It was an empty word for him, completely devoid of meaning. His whole life, it had just been a word, a syllable, four letters with no associations, no memories, no importance. Except for the past few weeks, here in the school. These dark halls and well-appointed rooms, these rolling grounds, and hidden training areas. This was his home.
Wasn’t it?
“You—” Erik began, turning his eyes to Charles, who was watching the exchange helplessly, his hands squeezed tight on the arms of his chair, knuckles white. “You didn’t tell me,” he said, the weight of betrayal settling in his chest.
He deflected the bullets easily, swatting them aside like gnats out of the air. Did she really think that would stop him? Was she that stupid, that confident of her own powers as a CIA agent that she thought a tiny, metal bullet could even slow him down? The missiles hung in the air as he waved his hand impatiently, tossing the bullets off their course.
He felt it, the metal sinking into flesh, tearing at skin and muscle and sinew before it hit bone; felt the resounding thunk of the bullet as it ricocheted off of Charles’ spine.
He heard Charles hit the ground behind him.
“You didn’t tell me anything,” he said.
The years stretched out before him, the years that he had been separated from Charles, on the run, hunted down by the government and by Charles himself.
The years of anger, disappointment, betrayal, on both sides.
“Erik—” Charles began helplessly, rolling forward.
Erik held up a hand, cutting him off. “It’s Magneto,” he said, a coldness swelling inside him. He descended the rest of the staircase. “Mystique, let’s go.”
Erik, the word pulsed in his mind. He needed to get his helmet back. Erik, please don’t leave me again.
The door slammed shut behind him.
This story is now complete, and will total 16 chapters.
