Aftermath

He wasn't sure how he became aware of the presence, hovering at the edge of his perception even past his closed lids and the heavy silence. It was a gradual realization, despite all logic of his finely honed instincts, as if his body could tell even without looking that the intruder wasn't a threat. Perhaps that was why, as he forced his eyes open to take in the night-shadowed figure, he wasn't surprised by who stood above him.

Even though it was completely impossible.

"Charles."

The other man continued to peer down at him silently, his brow furrowed and eyes flicking across Erik's face as if searching out the answer to some unvoiced question. The weight of the gaze settled uneasily over Erik like a physical presence, and he did the only thing he could in response: blinked the last remnants of exhaustion from his eyes and met it squarely. Whatever Charles saw in those eyes made him flinch, and Erik's lips twitched in the faintest of self-satisfied smiles. He slid one arm up behind his head – forced nonchalance, and knowing Charles, he no doubt saw right through the façade. But there was little Erik could do about that. Instead he focused on looking unruffled, attention flicking from the other man's drawn features to the narrow frame, and down to the most jarring element of all.

"A dream then, I suppose." Above him, Charles tilted his head curiously, and the moonlight cast a web of silver across his pale features. "Or are you really him, come visiting me in my own mind to inspire guilt and plague my conscience?"

The visitor shifted slowly, adjusting his weight on those two impossible legs, and if he was hoping to draw some reaction out of Erik by it, he was sorely disappointed. The older man watched his movements with unflinching eyes. If he felt any remorse, if his gut twisted of the sharp reminder of what could never be again – not in reality, anyway – well, Erik's entire life had been an exercise in discomfort.

Even as he watched, he reached out with his power in search of the familiar presence of a crushed bullet tucked away inside his desk across the room. It was there, the size and dimensions of the deceptively tiny piece of lead and tin now as familiar to his sixth sense as his mark of enslavement was to his eyes.

So that had not been a dream, then. That day in Cuba, the wearying weeks since. He couldn't deny the small pang of regret that assurance brought him. Despite his triumphs that day – his long-sought revenge fulfilled, a team that mirrored his own ambitions formed – he couldn't help but wonder if he wouldn't take it all back, do it all over, for just the chance to alter the outcome of one split-second mistake.

The figure let out a soft sigh, as if hearing Erik's silent reverie (and, this being Charles after all, why should he not?) and shifted backward slightly as if planning to depart.

Well, Erik wasn't about to let that happen, even if this was only just a dream. He sat up in one fluid motion, raising a hand to his temple thoughtfully.

"Poking around in here, Charles? Trying to inspire some spark of regret by appearing and walking about in the only place you can now? My mind?"

The specter of Charles Xavier paused his retreat, but avoided Erik's gaze as he un-pursed his lips and murmured the first words he had spoken since his arrival.

"I'm here to be whatever you need me to be, Erik."

The self-satisfied smile slipped from his face.

"That's a rather generous gesture to bestow upon the man who crippled you."

It must have been a joke. He'd been steeling himself for accusations, sharp recriminations, a mental barrage of pain and suffering in retribution for his actions out on that beach. In fact, he'd been expecting it for weeks now, expecting it so assuredly that he hadn't removed the metal helmet for five straight days after the events in Cuba, and hadn't slept for over a week. When utter exhaustion had begun to undermine his leadership amongst his new mutant brothers - Azazel in particular had begun to possess a distinctly power-hungry look in his already demonic eyes – Erik had finally conceded to Raven's insistence that he rest, at least for brief intervals. The short periods had calmed his nearly frayed nerves and managed to quell any rumors that he wasn't fit to hold the position he'd rightfully earned. But he'd always been waiting for the other shoe to drop, taking the helmet off only just before he went to sleep, and now he'd finally been proven right.

Except that it wasn't going at all the way he'd expected it to.

Charles glanced toward the door again – a strange, uncharacteristic pause as though wondering what he was doing there just as much as Erik was. Then he sighed, squeezed his eyes shut, resigning himself to a long, exhausting conversation. Erik sucked in a breath through his teeth, steeling himself as well… but Charles continued to surprise him.

"I don't blame you for what happened on the beach, Erik."

A brow twitched, the only visible sign of the shock he felt.

"Is that so? That day it sounded rather as if you did."

The figure glanced down again, and Erik found himself wondering if he could grab him, shake him, or if his hands would go right through as if he were a ghost. If one of his subordinates were to enter the room right now, would they find him speaking to empty air, the real Charles hundreds of miles away and projecting his image with the help of Hank's science experiment? Or was Erik altogether unconscious, dredging up this whole scene from the dark parts of his subconscious that felt the need for absolution?

In any case, there was no way Charles was really here, in front of him, and so Erik resisted the urge to grab him, shove him, demand answers from him. Barely.

"You were hurting Moira, threatening the humans on the ships. I needed you to realize that they didn't deserve your wrath. I was trying to save lives."

"Innocent lives, Charles is that how you see it? The poor, fragile humans needed to be protected from the dangerous mutant?"

"You know that's not true, Erik. And I'm not here to argue."

Erik smirked bitterly, leaning back. His fingers, bracing his head, curled out to absently caress the iron bedpost. The smooth, cool metal soothed him, and it was the only thing that kept his voice from transforming into a snarl.

"If not to argue, then why? If not some misguided desire to make me see the error of my ways, then I can only guess you're here for revenge."

"I told you, I'm here for you."

The silence that hit the room then practically buzzed with undirected energy. Or maybe that was just the pile of paperclips on his desk rattling in its tin. Erik narrowed his eyes, fighting the swell of emotions that threatened to reveal itself in his expression, his words, and felt them escape instead in the barest of shivers that threaded down his spine. He would not let this man get to him. Even if Charles was naïve enough to try and forget the walls towering between them, Erik would not. They'd chosen their paths; they'd parted ways.

Aloud, he huffed a sigh, turning his gaze away in a casual dismissal.

"Then you've come in vain. We have nothing more to say to each other."

"Don't lie to me, Erik. I know you too well."

He sneered.

"Clearly you don't. All that time, we were speaking right through each other, interpreting each other's words into what we wanted to hear. We only ever saw what we wanted to in each other."

"Is that what you think?"

Despite his best efforts, Erik felt his gaze being drawn back to the now decidedly tense Xavier.

"You're different," he observed blandly. "Angrier."

"And you've gone and shut your emotions off completely. Pretending you don't feel anything… anger, sadness, guilt, love… it isn't the way to achieve any of your goals. Mastering your power, protecting the other mutants… Everything in your life is going to be negatively affected by this act you're putting on. This isn't the way to lead, and it certainly isn't the way to get people to follow."

The exhaustion was starting to catch up with him again. Maybe that's why he allowed himself a real laugh.

"And now you sound like Raven. 'Let people in, we care about you. Tell me what you're feeling…'"

"You don't have to tell me what you're feeling, Erik." And gottverdammt but how did Charles manage to get under his skin like this? No one else could begin to touch what a knowing gaze and a few gentle words from that man could, not even Raven, who had been quietly approaching him for weeks attempting everything from heartfelt pleas to a reenactment of their first night together (minus the modest sheet and plus a few more wild suggestions involving a length of chain and his magnetism) to get him to open up. Of course, there was the obvious fact that Charles could know what Erik was thinking in a way no one else could, but it was more than that. Something less telepathic and more… intuitive. More empathetic.

Despite his naivety where the human race was concerned, there was some indescribable quality about Charles Xavier that made everyone who met him want listen, to work harder, to be worthy of his trust. Erik had seen it back in that ostentatious mansion of his, watched all of those children fight, struggle, and swallow their doubts just to earn one of Charles's approving nods.

"Listen," the telepath continued softly, and though nothing in Erik's expression betrayed what lay beneath the surface, his attention was rapt. "I'm here to tell you: you don't need to be feeling it."

His head twisted to the side, a sharp denial, an attempt to break free from that impossibly captivating gaze. After several seconds Charles's brows creased again, faintly perplexed, and Erik realized how telling his continued silence must be. That was enough to free up his throat, even if his words came out loud and sharp and drier than usual.

"That's right, you said. You don't blame me anymore. Why don't we hug while we're at it to finish off this warm moment?"

The confused look crumpled into a scowl, and before Erik could react Charles had stalked forward, dropping down onto the bed. The mattress shifted under the extra weight and Erik flinched back from the sudden proximity, his back digging incrementally harder into the bedpost.

"That was sarcasm," he intoned to mask his tension. "I'm not the 'hugging' type."

It was a weak defence, as obvious and pedestrian as his first comment had been, but it somehow managed to break Charles's tension. His shoulders relaxed, a wistful smile creeping across his face.

"That's the first time you've joked in a long while."

"Sense that, do you?"

For a moment Charles didn't seem to hear the question. He just perched there, watching Erik with that pleased, indulgent smile on his face, and it was as if nothing had changed. As if they were back sitting in that oversized living room to the accompaniment of crackling flames and quietly clicking chess pieces, and Charles had just pulled off a particularly difficult victory, or had convinced Erik to lift himself five feet in the air with only a quarter to stand on ("Control," Charles had often reminded Erik, "is just as important as brute force, when the occasion calls for it.")

But there was still that pang, that twisting undercurrent, the feel of a single bullet scraping against Erik's awareness, keeping him from being pulled into the illusion that things could be as they once were. More than Charles's spine had broken on that beach, and there was no use pretending it hadn't. As so, for the third time, Erik felt himself utter:

"What are you doing here, Charles?"

The words tugged Charles back from the tip of the fantasy as well. His smile was forced now, pained.

"I told you, I'm here to be what you need. To tell you to stop fearing retribution; I'm not coming after you. Even if… if I were angry, you know I don't have that kind of hatred in me."

The unvoiced addition "like you do, Erik," hovered between them for a moment, before Charles pressed forward.

"And I don't blame you, Erik. Do you think I would have told Raven to go with you if I wanted you dead? If I thought you were dangerous, or untrustworthy?"

He felt the tears prick his eyes before he realized how the words were affecting him. Or how much he had needed to hear them. Eyes red, he averted his gaze and started to blink them away… before a hand caught his chin and forced his head forward again. He stared, surprised by the sudden contact.

"Not so insubstantial after all, are we?" But Charles wasn't to be distracted.

"You're trying to carry too much alone, Erik. You live as if the whole world rests on you, and maybe I can't help you carry that burden. Maybe… we view the world through such different eyes that we can't hope to walk the same path without stumbling. But the weight of one mistake, the weight of my injury, I can do something to lift. Stop blaming yourself, Erik. I know you didn't mean for it."

The walls broke down. A hot tear slid down his cheek.

"My mother was shot and murdered because of my 'mistake'."

It shouldn't have ever escaped his lips, and even if it had, it never should have come out sounding so miserable, so vulnerable. But then, he never could hide anything from Charles.

The younger man's hand fell from his cheek, his expression the very picture of surprise and horror. Erik gritted his teeth, half wanting to stand up and leave – never mind the fact that he couldn't hope to stalk away from a mental projection. But the dawning realization in Charles's eyes held him still.

"Your mother…" A hand clenched reflexively. The bedpost screeched and bent. "That explains so… Erik, you can't possibly connect the two. This was… like a bullet bouncing off a shield and hitting the defender's ally."

Ignoring, of course, the fact that the two had been at blows less than thirty seconds before the shooting. Hardly "allies" at the moment. It was a hopelessly naïve view of the situation, but then, that was very Charles as well, wasn't it? To see the positive side of every situation, even if the positive only really existed in his imagination.

The mark of that lone tear burned across his face like a badge of weakness, but he refused to acknowledge it enough to wipe it clean.

"Forget it, Charles. What's done is done anyway, and no apologies, no acts of contrition, can do anything to alter our destinies. This is the road I've built for myself, and I don't regret walking it."

"I know." It was barely a whisper. "I understand…"

"You do?" Surprising. He certainly hadn't, before. "Then perhaps I'm not the one who's had a change of heart. There's always a place for you as a part of my brotherhood, Charles, if you've had time to rethink matters…"

"No. Damn it, Erik, that's not what I'm saying."

"Then what are you trying to say?"

Though Charles' expression was taut with frustration, his hand was nothing but gentle as it reached out to wipe away the offensive tear trail.

"I'm saying that you're an idiot." A baffling response. Erik stared back at him blankly. A hint of a grin softened Charles's expression, then flitted away before he could begin to decipher it. "And Erik… if this is the road you are walking, then stop dwelling in the past, looking over your shoulder. I look forward to the day when your… brotherhood, is it? ...can come face to face with my students and discuss our differences openly."

He pushed himself to his feet, offering Erik one last, knowing smile.

"I'm sure we'll meet again."

"Wait-" But Charles had already slipped out the door. "Verdammich!" Erik was on his feet and after him before the curse finished falling from his lips. But, of course, the hall stood empty. Charles had not only slid out of the room, but Erik's mind as well.

He spun back to his chamber, hissed out a wordless snarl, and slammed the door shut. Four strides and he'd crossed his room, reached his dresser, and grabbed the metal helmet that waited there. It was halfway to his head before he paused, gritting his teeth and sliding his eyes briefly shut.

You still listening, Charles?

Only silence answered him. It could have been a ruse, of course, but then... what would have been the point of this interlude? The memory of his last unfriendly encounter with a telepath still lived like a white-hot brand in his memory. Emma Frost had immobilized him effortlessly on their first encounter. If Charles were seeking vengeance, there would have been no need for this charade.

You could have struck me down with a thought.

His arms lifted another centimetre, paused, and then lowered decisively.

So that's the way it shall be, old friend? Enemies on the battlefield, perhaps, but in life… An approving nod, and a true smile touched his lips. To honorable men, there are rules even in war. I look forward to our next meeting.

Depositing the helmet back on his dresser, he moved back to his bed, and drifted into a dreamless slumber.

.-

The lithe form of Charles Xavier pressed himself against the closed door, stifling sharp, nervous breaths with a hand, listening to Erik's angry snarl. That had been too close. A stupid, arrogant move, born out of exhaustion, desperation.

And it might just have paid off.

The door across the hall slammed shut, and the hand fell from Charles' pale lips. Across the room, reflected in shadowed glass, a blue-eyed figure did the same.

The sight of his own form seemed to startle the young man: the eyes widened, lips parted, and a hand came up to brush across the sharp angles of his own face.

"Didn't think I'd be seeing you again so soon." The lips curled up, a rueful smile.
"Thanks for the loan."

And then the features began to melt. Sharp angles curved, softened. The short hair lengthened and brightened, blue eyes flared into brilliant gold, and the pale skin bled into a vibrant blue.

And Mystique stood alone in her darkened bedchamber.

Don't be angry. She thought the words pointedly, felt her way around each one as though a mouthless voice were speaking them. It was the way she had always imagined telepaths speaking to each other, though several dozen childhood exercises had proven that it did nothing to help Charles "hear" her better. I know that's exactly what you would have said if you could be here.

And she did believe that. She had grown up with Charles, seen his warmth, his kindness, his capacity to forgive. And, as the weeks had stretched on since that day in Cuba with no sign of Erik's guilt diminishing, with it manifesting itself in fits of anger, insomnia, and a paranoid compulsion not to remove that garish helmet of his, Raven had been faced with the startling realization that nothing she said, nothing she did, would make the slightest difference. She wasn't the one Erik needed absolution from.

And so she had become the person he did need.

I do miss you, you know, she continued silently, as if Charles could hear her. But right now he needs me more than you do. I hope you understand.

And somewhere, in the faintest corners of her mind that must have existed only in her imagination, she could have sworn she felt the warmth of her oldest friend's smile.

~Fin~