1.White Noise

0

Charles has long known he's on the wrong side of the war by the time they come for him in white masks with holes for eyes. Out of habit, he opens the door without caution and they file into his living room. He knows some of them by voice. Some he knows because they're familiar enough; the mask is celebration, war paint and symbol all at once, it seems. It is only then after the first shock of being confronted by the not-faces fades away that Charles discovers he can't read any of the minds flocking before him.

"It must be strange for you. Is it more like having your tongue yanked out or you know, like going blind from old age?" One of them stretches out on his sofa, gesturing politely for Charles to take the armchair opposite him.

"It's a bit like both, I'm afraid, William." The crowd titters, Charles is sure their faces must be cowering in dismay. They'll be wondering how many other names he's figured out. But not Stryker, who chuckles pointedly and rifts through the mail on his coffee table.

"I told you he'll not disappoint." Stryker states to the world in general; a world that is, for Charles rapidly shrinking to the apartment and how fast he can get out the door they forgot to close.

"And so easy on the eyes…" A woman, her mask shining new, peers down at Charles. "Such a shame."

"I think I'd like you all to get the fuck out of my house, now." Charles stares directly at her and at eight other faces exactly like hers, expressionless and blank. This sets them going, all of them laughing in tandem.

"Oh, we plan to leave soon…but there's just one thing we'd like you to do…" Stryker snaps his fingers and two burly shapes come at him. Charles kicks out, hardly caring what he connects with. He feels something soft bend against his heels, a groin or the cartilage on a knee. A roar reaches him, it's Stryker who pins him down, someone's got his feet. Charles claws at the nearest faces. And then a fist gets him, once square in his eye and then again and again on the side of his face.

The woman laughs like she has tears in her eyes, only Stryker looks up, Charles sees in the blur of motion around him. Their masks certainly seem to be in love with each other.

"Fucking mutant bitch…" Someone growls at Charles, yanking his face up by the hair. "He's gay too. Pervert, I've seen him down at that gay bar…"

"Well, I say we carve the real him out…" Stryker pulls out a knife, and Charles remembers the mutant child left with a big bleeding M on her back and both her ears cut out. "How about an M on his back and a G on his forehead?" He thinks aloud, his eyes alight with happiness as he sees his handiwork play out in his head.

"Wait, he's a homo?" The woman trills, staying Stryker's hand with a touch. "Wait…"

They close a tight circle around Charles, the woman fluttering with excitement. "I have just the thing for you…" She bends close to Charles's ear, and a silver cross falls out of her dress. She dances her way out of the apartment without another word.

"Would it kill her to tell us-" A man begins to voice his protest at her flippancy, when she returns with a small bag in one hand and a pink lump of cloth in another. Charles almost sobs when she carefully shuts the door behind her.

"Bring him in here…" She points to the bedroom. Stryker eases himself off Charles and pulls him to his feet. Charles does the one thing he can and digs in his heels; he does not count on the shove that sets him going where Stryker wants to take him.

"The rest of you wait here. You'll love it…No peeking." The woman's sing-song trails their wake.

"What're you doing? Please, what're you doing?" Charles asks the woman when he's in the bedroom and she's tearing at his clothes. Stryker's knife comes from behind him to sit menacingly at his throat, stilling him completely. She slides his shirt off him and doesn't care that he flinches when his pants are pooling at his feet. Charles can barely see with the tears swimming in his eyes.

She takes his hand and leads him to the dressing mirror, a regular piece of vanity, Charles cannot bring himself to look. His face is forced, with a cramped hold on his jaws, into a smoldering pout.

"Luscious red for you, I think."

For a moment, Charles does not comprehend. She reaches into her bag and picks out lipstick. Stryker laughs out in surprise. Charles strains to get away, only to have Stryker hold his head steady for the woman. She pauses to consider the task at hand and with a cock of the head, begins. She takes her time, lining his lips and then filling them out.

"There…" She says, dabbing the final touches on. Stryker smiles with all the mirth he can conceive of. "Now, that hair…" She is generous with the hair gel, soothing his hair down tidily. It's over, Charles thinks, she's done. But then she picks up the cloth and Stryker bellows with joy.

"It's a Vera Wang." She chirps at Charles. It's pink and simple, a linen frock. In the mirror, Charles can see his face breaking or maybe it's his heart breaking and he can't see it. He struggles in vain to make it harder for her, but it doesn't matter, she has her way in the end. When it's on, Stryker zips him up and squeezes his hips after. Charles is really crying now.

"Pretty, isn't he?" The woman asks, leaning over Charles's shoulders to kiss Stryker.

"Come on, don't be shy…come meet the family."

It's infinitely easier to be lead along when one's limbs fail, Charles finds. He listens to the mocking laughter that erupts the moment he steps into full view. A short, flabby man with bad breath touches the hem of the frock, threatening to pull it up. Charles whimpers pushing his hand away. There's a burst of giggles and wolf whistling.

"Baby, do you dance?" Someone asks, and hums a wedding song, Charles knows this one.

"He asked you a question…" Another voice growls and Charles has to shake his head quietly for no. There's a clamor of protest, they want to be entertained. A wad of notes flicked in his direction lands squarely at his feet.

But Stryker puts up his almighty hand.

"Enough!" He yells. "This has been fun...but…" Charles sees the glint of the knife. Several other sharp points of light pop up in the crowd before him. "All good things must come to an end…"

Charles shrinks to a corner.

"Relax, at least you won't have to be here when the war ends and we fucking burn all of you alive."

There is nowhere for Charles to go.

i

"What started with Klaus Schmidt in Germany, Magneto finishes in New York." The TV blares.

Charles sits himself down because he knows what's coming.

"The last human stand is down!" a triumphant woman proclaims, "Bolivar Trask has been declared missing in action."

Behind her, the Pentagon is barely recognizable with angry, buzzing mutant soldiers stomping on its ruins. Unknown human faces scamper away and are dragged back into the burning building. The camera pans to the horrified crowds, a clear line away from the rabble of cheering mutants leading a chant.

Charles frowns when he realizes they're calling for Magneto, the man with his cape and helmet now stepping out. The human section snaps backwards in a wave. Fear, even though it seems far from Charles, is awe inspiring to see.

"I say this to the humans, the civilians." Magneto speaks. An unnatural hush falls. "Your soldiers and leaders have failed. Your battle is done. We have won."

The mutants erupt in a frenzy of energy. Without even thinking about it, Charles wraps his own mind down to stop the curious mix of disappointment and anxiety that eats into him.

Magneto puts a hand up.

"But we are not the people we replaced. We are not petty humans. You can have your lives back. Only…adhere to us."

Emma Frost emerges from behind him. It seems as though her lips barely move: "Surrender and we will be merciful. Every human, every last man, woman and child must register at our offices here. Just like every mutant did in your reign of oppression."

Magneto's voice returns with timber.

"To Mystique and her pro-human rebels and to the human sympathizers, I have just this to say..."

And Charles knows from the pursing of Magneto's lips that it will be nothing easy to hear.

"We know who you are and we will find you."

Charles feels the first firing of panic.

Magneto and his cape swirls back into the shadows of the Pentagon, a grinning Emma Frost flanking him. Charles turns the TV off.

ii

The first time Erik lays eyes on Charles, he craves and craves and craves. It doesn't matter that he is a human sympathizer. It doesn't even matter that Charles is neater than the bloody Supreme Court, and probably smells like mint coffee; Erik smells like rust and blood, fresh from the war.

Emma Frost smiles knowingly. "Must I do everything around here?" Erik knows she's finding her secret ways into the man's head.

"Interesting, he's a telepath…don't worry, he's not dangerous…he thinks humans should be our equals…"

Charles swivels around from where he thinks he's inconspicuous in the milling queues, glancing rapidly between Erik and Frost. "And he will never say yes to you."

Erik loves the subtle slide of Charles's face into misery and dark alarm.

iii

Erik knows when the time is right.

"You will take only the most essential items. Clothes, medicines…" Charles listens wide-eyed and confused to an officer of the First Mutant Regime; Erik thinks the name slightly comical.

"He's not going to the camps." Erik supplies casually, walking up to hover behind Charles. The officer springs out of his chair to show how respectful he is.

"Magneto…"

Charles does not move to look up over his shoulders. Erik doesn't mind.

The officer starts to rustle through important looking papers. "He's a…a class four telepath, sir…"

"Thank god you're all on teleblockers…Send him to Azazeal." Erik is curt.

This is when Charles turns slowly to look at him. And Erik knows there's nothing more to be said. He leaves.

iv

Charles reels, breathing in acrid sulfuric smoke before the first light of dawn hits him.

"This is my street…" Charles sags in relief. He doesn't know where he expected to be taken instead, but he remembers what was in Magneto's eyes. "I…I can go?" He waits for confirmation from Azazeal.

"Which one is yours?" Azazeal asks and starts walking to the building Charles points at. Charles, too, follows. A few people are already on the streets, humans and mutants, most of them curious enough to stare and recognize Azazeal. That's all it takes for them to vanish into their houses.

Charles is sure there'll be no help at hand, no one who will protest if Azazeal really is going to take him away somewhere.

He stops at the door. "I don't know where my keys-"

He is whisked away in a burning deluge of smoke and finds himself in his apartment.

"That's probably for the best. You won't need the keys." Azazeal clicks his heels together. "You don't leave this house for anything till our review committee meets with you. And from the look of things, that'll be very soon-"

"But…I have a job…"

"I don't think you have a job anymore." Azazeal is deadpan.

"I'm not…" Charles's voices cracks, despite him throwing all his will into keeping it steady. "Magneto...he can't…"

"I think you'll find he can."

Charles does not know what to say to this. After all, he's pretty sure he'll find that Magneto indeed can.

v

Charles jumps a little when the needle breaks his skin. The serum is cold in his veins. He feels numb immediately.

"That's good, Mr. Xavier." A hand curls viciously on his shoulder lest he does something desperate. "You're probably feeling a little light-headed right now. That's just the serum shutting down your mutant genes. It works fast, and it's painless for most."

Emma Frost leans forward into his vision: he knows her. She smirks.

"He's going…I can no longer sense his consciousness…and he can no longer sense mine hiding in his…"

Charles imagines it'll be like everyone's on teleblockers, but it's superiorly worse. He's trapped and swirling in his own head. Even his apartment is strangely outside him now.

"Then, that's the final recommendation of the expert for the Review Committee?"

Frost beams warmly at Charles when she mouths her next words.

"I testify that Charles Xavier, known human sympathizer, is no longer a threat to law abiding mutants anywhere. I recommend he be put on watch and allowed use of his powers only after careful scrutiny and evaluation of his mental state and attitude toward the First Mutant Regime for a period not less than six months."

"You weren't an active agitator, Mr. Xavier. That's the only reason the expert is being considerably lenient."

Charles thinks he will be sick. He barely reacts when someone hands him a pen and asks him to sign some documents.

Erik will be pleased.

He doesn't know who Erik is but then sees the face Emma Frost is thinking at him. Charles startles visibly, his signature going off at tangents in the paper. That is all the satisfaction he deigns to give Frost. He pretends he's shaking because of the serum coursing through his body.

Yet he can't bring himself to look her or anyone else in the eye for the rest of the Review Committee hearing.

vi

Erik is rapt, solemnly silent and aware. He slips his hands around Charles's wrists, and basks in the touch. Charles has the good sense to be still. He understands, Erik thinks, how kicked-in-the-guts, how weary Erik really is. Perhaps he also understands what Erik will do if he is refused.

"Come to bed." Erik says and every kind of desire he can think of is in his voice. If Charles still had his powers, he might see what Erik means. Maybe he does even now as his frail body tenses, arching a little to test Erik's grip. Power or not, Charles never stands a chance. Erik just draws him closer. "Come to bed." He repeats with a little more demand, more want if that were possible. Charles is stone-still, fear is a lot like paralysis after all.

"Charles…" Erik croons, there is more warning than seduction. And maybe Charles really does not know what Erik will do if he is refused. Erik lets the metal beadings in the curtains sing to him. Without preamble they snake up Charles's body, wrapping around his wrists where Erik held him. Erik can't shake off how sacrificial he looks, hanging off the ground, this must be what it's like on a cross.

Surely Charles knows the game is up, and Erik has won; surely he knows writhing is just going to bring more pain. But when he doesn't stop Erik pulls him taut, trapping Charles in a wordless, tearless scream. When Erik goes to Charles there is malice in his steps that scares Charles sober.

"Obedience" Erik takes his face roughly between his palms "goes a long way, Charles." He presses a deep kiss to his lips, a lover's kiss. "Now, come to bed or I'll have you here like this." Erik's hand is already on the drawstrings of his cotton pants. "Choose fast, I'm nearly out of patience."

This is how they end up in bed, Charles, sobbing and trembling beneath Erik, but quietly also belonging to Erik and his many urges. This is all Erik remembers of his first visit to the little apartment in Westchester.

vii

Charles screams all the while. Obscenities, followed by pleas. Nothing will change Erik's mind. He pushes in greedily, again and again. At one point, all of Charles's pleading melts into a single cry, broken and painful. Erik silences him with a kiss, swallowing his voice.

"Stop, stop, stop, stop…" Charles wails when Erik moves his mouth away. "You're hurting me, you're hurting me…please…" Erik whispers something warm in his ears and it sounds horribly like it's supposed to. Nothing is supposed to hurt this way.

"Erik!" Charles urges. "Erik!" The sound of his name is a struggle, but Erik hears it for what it really is.

"I'm trying not to…you need to let me…" He says, slowing his body down, but never promising to end it. Charles is ready for anything, anything that will make Erik stop.

"I'm letting you, please, I'm willing, I'm willing…" Charles screams senselessly. Anything. Erik must be smiling into his skin; Charles is weeping bitterly by the time Erik pulls out.

"It's alright, it's alright now…" Erik murmurs hotly. "It'll be better next time, you'll see."

Charles feels like such a fool to have believed it won't begin all over again.

viii

Erik is restless. Angel asks him about it and he blames the weather. He blames it on Emma Frost. He blames all the humans.

"It's that little brunette sticking under your skin." Frost opines, her pristine white adding to the quality of truth.

"Mind your own business…"

"I can make him like you, if that's important to you, Erik."

"Fuck off!"

"You are allowed to have fun, Erik." Angel does have a way of making the innocuous perfectly suggestive.

"I assure you I am." Erik cants. "At any rate, I'm not talking about my love life with you lot."

"If you say so." Emma concludes with that smile that makes it okay for Erik to hate her. Azazeal gracefully refrains from adding to any of it. And for that Erik is thankful.

ix

The knocking on the door is too persistent to be ignored. Charles knows it's not Erik; he would throw the lock with a bored flash of his hand. Or Azazeal, who never bothers with doors and knocking anyway. It's someone far too naïve. It is this knowledge that brings Charles to the door.

The young man on the other side bares his teeth in a bright smile.

"This is 3 A, isn't it? Hank McCoy…" He extends a ready hand that Charles doesn't even pretend to be interested in. "Oh…I…I'm here with something for Magneto…" He finishes unsurely, giving the metallic suitcase at his feet a nervous jingle.

"Magneto doesn't live here." Charles says tersely.

"I'm sorry, this is the address he gave me…" McCoy reaches into his pockets and pulls out a dirty scrawl on a torn bit of paper.

The writing on the paper says exactly that. It makes Charles want to break something.

"Are you alright? You don't look so great…"

"What do you want?" A bitter swell of rage; Charles can't stand it anymore.

"I'm to wait here for him. This is important."

"Fine. Wait here for him, then."

He slams the door shut on McCoy's shocked face, and gets into bed to fall peacefully asleep.

x

Erik finds Hank McCoy huddled at the door and thinks it's bloody amusing. McCoy attempts a weak explanation. "He seemed…unhinged…"

"I don't doubt it, my friend. It's high time he took to some…subtlety…" Erik dismantles the lock, sending the door yawning open. The lock itself glistens ominously in the air.

Charles walks slowly into the living room, clearly apprehensive of Erik's reaction.

"Evidently, you didn't think your rudeness through." Erik gets the lock gently floating to Charles, who looks leaden at the prospect of a fight. "Never start what you can't end, love." The disfigured metal falls with a clunk to the floor.

This is defeat, Erik would tell Charles if they were alone.

Instead he turns to an increasingly uncomfortable Hank and asks him for the suitcase.

"Umm…yes, the suitcase…I need you to type in a password of your choice, minimum of six letters. We'll work with that."

The next time he looks up, Charles has disappeared into the bedroom.

xi

When Erik asks Charles about the police case, he knows he will be lied to.

"Everything in that file is true."

"So you invited eight random human men over and then tried to seduce them in a pink dress?"

"Yes. It was a Vera Wang."

"And you threatened to make them fall in love with you?"

"I am-was a telepath, after all."

"And you never thought to erase all of this from their minds?"

"I was crazed, didn't you read the file?"

"Were they on teleblockers?"

Charles shrugs.

"And you got that" Erik splays a strangely possessive hand on the misshapen scar on Charles's back. "from them trying to defend themselves?"

"I was lucky" Charles says tonelessly "the police came just as they overpowered me..."

Erik realizes he has been looking at the scar entirely the wrong way. It's not a Z stretched out, it's an M half way to completion.

"The police were all humans?"

Charles nods and adds nothing further.

"So why weren't you arrested?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Would you know where I can find your would-be victims now?"

Erik also expects the heavy silence that follows.

xii

Erik never sleeps in the bed; something he is sure Charles is thankful for. It does make him a little lonely in the morning on the armchair. His clothes are the same crumpled heap as he hurriedly left them the night before.

Charles is contemplating his view of the city, framed at the window against the sunlight, when Erik finds him. The toasts are burnt and the coffee looks muddy and cold.

"I see you're into cooking…" Erik mutters dryly. Charles quickly closes his window, whispering something inaudible in reply.

"Is there any breakfast for me?" Erik quips. "Besides burnt toast, I mean."

"I wasn't cooking for you." Charles replies nonchalantly.

"And you'd think I've done enough to deserve breakfast." Erik shoots Charles a hurt look. "I'd like some coffee, if you don't mind." And that is said with enough power to make Charles set up a chipped coffee mug on the counter. Erik sits himself behind it, watching silently as Charles pours out his coffee.

"Thank you. I'm sure this is going to be wonderful." Erik drawls catching Charles's eyes as they gleam over. He takes a sip and it's bad enough to make him gag. He laughs instead and laughs more when Charles steps back like he can't help it.

"You're insane…Please…just leave and don't come back…"

"What? And miss this heavenly coffee?"

"Look, there must be others who want this…you must have others like me…"

"Yes, but hardly anyone as beguiling as you. You don't need to be jealous." Erik lets his voice sink dangerously; he thinks it's warning enough.

"Jealous? I wouldn't wish this upon anyone-"Charles sounds prepared to brave whatever is coming his way.

"Exactly what wouldn't you wish upon your worst enemies? Being desired by me?" Some of his good humor has been irredeemably lost and there is a voice in his head that tells him to leave the apartment before he does Charles any lasting harm.

"Being raped-" Charles glowers at him, with what is probably the last bit of courage he can muster. Erik is so fast getting around to Charles, flicking the furniture away with his powers. He traps Charles between the kitchen counter and himself.

"Look at you…so brave by daylight." Charles cringes away but Erik is so close that it doesn't make a difference. "Except you're not really, are you? I mean, where were you when your mutant brothers and sisters were being massacred? You were hiding away in here, trying to fit in with the humans. Maybe even helping them…and make no mistake, I will find out if you did…"

Erik decides he likes the flurried pitch of Charles's breath, the shocking warmth of it.

"And don't pretend you didn't have another choice. You could've gone to the camps with your friends. Instead you traded yourself in for your one bedroom apartment and your fucking coffee."

Charles pushes at him, catching him clumsy and unaware. Erik grabs at his t-shirt, snapping him back. "Get off me, get off…" Charles screams and thrashes wildly. "Don't touch me."

"You're really not in a position to demand anything." Erik calmly holds Charles down through the worst of it. Till Charles slumps back against the counter, weeping for all he's worth.

Erik always knows when it's the right time. He leans in, talking into Charles's ear:

"I'll see you tonight and I'll probably want something other than burnt toast."

xiv

Erik finds a pink dress folded out immaculately, in the spare wardrobe; it's ripped apart in the back, and decorated with streaks of blood, cash stuffed into one of its ironed pockets. He thinks he will never forget the lily-lemon scent of the cloth, from the same room freshener as Charles uses. Erik says nothing.

xv

Charles longs for anywhere that is not his house or the bed he shares with Erik. In the mornings, there are the pains, the aches and burns he's getting used to, and the fear and shame, he hopes he will never get accustomed to. The nights belong to Erik.

Charles drops on the floor by the bed and sleeps through his days; little by little, he plans not to wake at all.