Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing except for the plot. The title is from William Shakespeare's Richard III and the characters belong to Marvel. Sigh.

So, this is an early holiday present for all of you. I'm going to be updating once a week, though the day will vary. This week it's Monday because I'm bored. The story is complete, it just needs posting.

I wrote this purposely as a three-part story that ties into my Perks verse but won't actually appear in the Perks verse except by mention in one of the later chapters. I really loved the scene, but I was already getting bombarded with six thousand other ideas to write in the story, so this one had to get cut out. Oh well. It makes for a really good spin off story, in my opinion.

It's going to be three chapters including an epilogue. The first two chapters are about 6 pages and the epilogue is about 5. It's written like Perks, which means it starts in the present and switches to the past and then switches back. Be sure to pay attention to line breaks, because that will signal a change in time.

I hope you enjoy the story! Be sure to read and review. : )

The Winter of Our Discontent

Chapter 1: Hell Is Cold

A faint dusting of snow glistened on the evergreen tress and the cold, hard ground, making the icy darkness appear almost fairy-tale like. The howling, icy wind quickly dismantled that illusion, though, tearing through the trees and dumping freezing mounds of snow from the trees to the occupants of the ground below.

Two lone men stumbled through the darkness, looking like macabre contenders in a three-legged race. One, tall and imposing, had a dark gash weeping blood down the left hand side of his face. His light brown hair was matted with snow, dirt, twigs, and God knew what else. He had one arm wrapped tightly around his side, with his other thrown around the shoulders of a shorter, less imposing man with boyishly long hair. The second man looked pale and ghostly in the faint light. There were no outward signs of distress, save for the occasional stumble, which could be just from exhaustion.

A roar of gunfire could be heard faintly over the screaming wind. Both men halted, the taller one nearly falling on his face. The shorter grunted as he adjusted the taller man's position.

The two exchanged a look, brilliant blue eyes locking on exhausted and pained gray green. There was a wordless argument between them. The shorter man sighed heavily as he looked away first.

"They're growing closer, Erik."

"I noticed, Charles."

Erik's voice was faint, barely audible, even with his mouth right next to Charles' ear.

Charles pursed his lips as another wordless argument took place between them. This time, he was determined not to look away first.

Erik growled.

"You should just leave me here."

"Forget it."

"Charles…"

"I'm not leaving you. So just shut the hell up, Erik."

Charles fiddled with his fork, obviously anxious and on edge. Erik didn't have to be a telepath to pick up on that, but did his best to ignore it anyway as he concentrated on eating the eggs and toast that were in front of him. Years of being in a concentration camp, and then later, completely broke taught him never to pass up food. Especially free food that was completely delicious.

But Charles seemed determined to ruin Erik's near reverent like consumption of food with his ever growing anxiety. He had gone from merely fiddling with his fork to tapping it annoyingly on the edge of the table and drumming his free fingers right along side.

Erik sighed and set down his fork, staring mournfully at the eggs on his plate. They were perfectly cooked, scrambled with cheese and extra pepper. The toast looked amazing, perfectly browned but not burnt, with an extra large heaping of glistening butter right on top.

And Charles was ruining it.

Erik cast a swift glance at his friend, completely unsurprised to find the telepath's face ashen and his eyes darting nervously around the room.

"Relax, Charles. I'm sure she'll be here soon."

Charles sighed and set down his fork, but did not stop drumming his fingers. Erik was half tempted to take the fork and wrap it around the telepath's fingers, just to see what would happen, but that would draw unwanted attention.

"She's twenty minutes late, Erik."

"There's this little thing called traffic. I'm sure you've heard of it. It usually involves lots of cars, maybe an accident, and people being late."

Charles scowled.

"The CIA knows where she is. Hell, they're the reason why we know where she is."

It didn't take a genius or a telepath to know where Charles' mind was, but sometimes Erik wished he did have the gift of telepathy, just to make it easier to understand Charles at times.

"Their anti-mutant campaign hasn't taken root in this state yet. You know that, Charles."

Charles seemed determined not to listen to reason.

"I should have insisted on meeting with her last night. I don't like this. She's late."

Erik resisted the urge to bang his head on the table.

"She'll be here."

"How do you know that?"

The door to the small café swung open with a chime, admitting a young woman with shining red hair. Erik heaved a mental sigh of relief, recognizing her instantly from Charles' memories and the files.

"Because she's right behind you."

Whoever had said that Hell was hot was a liar. This was Hell, and certainly was not hot. It was freezing. It was beyond freezing. It was so damn cold that he could literally feel his hair freezing to his skull, even through the thick cap he was wearing.

Snow and sleet fell in thick, white sheets, blinding him, and making him colder than he ever thought was possible. Colder than he had been when he was nine and had to live through the worst of Poland's winters in nothing but a threadbare jacket and fingerless gloves. Colder than when that night he had tried to stop a submarine with nothing but his mind in the middle of the God forsaken ocean. He was cold. Frozen. A human icicle. He highly doubted that he would ever be warm after this.

There was a soft, warm breath in his ear, reminding him that he was not alone in this bitter, icy Hell. It was no comfort. He didn't wish this horror on anyone, not even his worst enemies—which he had a fair amount of. And he certainly wouldn't want it for the one person who was there with him at the moment, either. This was beyond Hell. This was…

"While I understand what you're thinking about, Erik, I don't think there is anything worse than Hell. That's why it's called Hell. Because there is nothing worse."

Erik shivered, his teeth chattering, despite how hard he clenched them together. It was so damn cold.

"Shut up, Charles."

His voice stuttered and broke so many times during those three simple words that he doubted Charles actually expended the energy to decipher what he said and instead picked the words out of his mind.

Charles heaved a sigh and shifted his weight to take another step forward. Erik protested the movement with the beginnings of a whimper as pain exploded in his wounded shoulder. His already snowed out vision went completely white, and then a pretty shade of black as he fought to remember how to breathe.

Through it all, he was aware of a constant presence in his mind, soothing him, and attempting to take away the pain. Some part of Erik knew he should protest this, that he was not okay with Charles taking the pain as his own, but he could barley remember how to breathe, let alone form conscious thoughts that Charles could understand. Besides, Erik was fairly certain that Charles would ignore whatever arguments stood in his way, per usual, and do whatever the hell he wanted.

He shivered again, Actually, it was more of a violent shudder, but for his own mental image, he called it a shiver. There was no need to be alarmed over the fact that he hurt and was completely and utterly frozen.

"Erik, I swear, you are a paradox."

"I've been told that before. Mostly by you."

That wasn't exactly what came out of his mouth. Actually, it wasn't even close. Between the bullet in his shoulder and the overpowering cold, it was amazing that Erik could even think coherently, let alone speak. And besides, he was trapped out in the middle of nowhere with a telepath. What he said didn't matter. It was what he thought.

"That was utterly profound, my friend."

Charles was only this glib when he was scared out of his mind. Erik secretly didn't blame him. He was scared too.

Charles sighed again.

"We're going to get out of here, Erik. I promise you that."

Her name was Felicity Greer. She was twenty-three years old, studying liberal arts at Washington State University. She was the only child of the late Patrick and Clarissa Greer, who died in a car crash last September. She had no other relatives.

She was also a telepath.

Charles let out the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding as the cautious mind reached out and touched his own before he turned around to face her. She was shy and wary of him, which was understandable, given the current state of mutant affairs in the government. She wanted to believe his story, but at the same time, she was scared to trust him in case it was a trap.

Charles smiled at her, both physically and mentally. He wanted to reassure her that he was trustworthy, that she had nothing to fear.

He heard Erik's thoughts buzzing in the background, but didn't register them.

"Hi."

Felicity spoke in a soft, yet unnerved voice that belayed little of the anxiety she was feeling in her mind.

Charles' smile widened as he stood up to shake her hand. Behind him, he heard Erik mutter something about overly polite telepaths, but didn't have to turn to know that the metal wielder had followed suit. While he had all but been raised by wolves, Erik could be a gentleman at times.

"I'm Charles Xavier. This is my companion, Erik Lensherr."

"I'm Felicity."

Her pale face flushed with embarrassment. Charles heard her mental admonishments, which just made him smile even more.

You have nothing to fear from us, Felicity.

She froze at Charles' mental reassurance, her green eyes growing wide in surprise. She obviously hadn't believed him yesterday when he told her that he was like her.

I—you—you can communicate with minds, too?

Charles nodded once.

Yes.

He didn't let on that he could do a lot more than that. He didn't want to frighten her off or offend her.

Charles, I hate to break up your telepathic love connection, but can we please finish breakfast before having any deep conversations about the mutant fight for survival? I'm starving. Not all of us can survive on bread and water for weeks at a time.

Charles sent a mental eye roll in Erik's direction.

"Would you like to join us for breakfast, Felicity?"

She looked hesitant, her wide green eyes shooting to Erik. Charles intercepted and quickly interpreted the look.

"I assure you, Erik's completely harmless."

I thought you didn't lie, Charles.

Shut up, Erik.

Felicity still looked anxious, but slowly nodded her head once.

"All right."

Charles smiled again.

Erik flinched as Charles gently prodded his shoulder. He had thought by now the cold would have numbed him past the point of pain, but apparently, Erik wasn't that lucky.

Charles muttered something incoherent before sighing heavily.

"You got lucky. The bullet went straight through your shoulder."

Erik let out a laugh that sounded more like a cough.

"You call that lucky?"

"Well, it could have gotten stuck in a bone and caused you to lose your shoulder. As it is, I'm pretty sure the bullet just grazed the bone. The only real danger you're in right now is having a really ugly scar."

Erik resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He wasn't sure if he could at this point. He was fairly certain his eyeballs were frozen over.

"Don't be ridiculous, Erik. Your eyes would have to be open for that to happen."

Erik sighed.

Do you try to be this annoying, or does it come naturally to you?

"It's all apart of my charm. Now, open your eyes, Erik, or they are going to freeze shut and I will reserve the right to laugh at you for the rest of your life."

However long that may be.

Charles didn't respond, but Erik didn't miss the sudden sadness that seeped through their mental link. That, more than anything else, got Erik to open his eyes.

His vision was blurry and he could barely make out anything besides shadows and whiteness. He blinked, hating how much of an effort it took to open his eyes again, but was rewarded with everything sharpening into blurred images.

Charles was standing next to him, looking simultaneously surprised and relieved to see Erik's eyes open. He smiled, though the expression looked forced. There was something off about him, something Erik couldn't quite put a finger on.

Before he could figure it out, however, Charles changed the subject.

"Come on. We need to keep going. I think the CIA is gone, but I don't want to take any chances."

Charles and Felicity had hit it off instantly, from the moment she had joined them at their corner table. Erik wasn't surprised—there were very few people who could resist Charles' overwhelming charm and charisma. In fact, the only one who Erik could really think of was Stryker, and that didn't count. The feeling was more than mutual.

Erik sat on the edge of the conversation, keeping most of his comments to himself and letting Charles take the lead. This was usually how it worked on these recruiting missions. Charles did all the talking and Erik made sure no one tried—or succeeded—in killing them.

Your input is always valuable, Erik. It's your choice to keep silent.

Erik resisted the urge to roll his eyes and instead got up to get more coffee. He doubted Felicity and Charles even noticed.

That's bullshit, Erik, and you know it.

The metal wielder sighed.

Stay out of my head.

Well, stop projecting your thoughts. It's getting—Erik, we need to leave. Now.

The slight teasing note in Charles' thoughts vanished instantly. Erik looked back at the table, his mouth tightening into a firm line when he saw Charles' grim expression.

So much for a happy breakfast. What's going on?

Felicity apparently has a stalker. And he just showed up.

Anyone we know?

Erik was not about to get involved in some petty human stalker crisis. Though, he highly doubted that was the case, given how pale Charles' face had just gotten.

I've seen him in Stryker's thoughts.

His projected thoughts, you mean.

Yes. Now hurry up and get back here.

Where's this stalker? Who is he?

His name is Wilson Cobb. He's sitting down three tables over. Wearing a green tie, white dress shirt. Good God, Erik… we were wrong. There is a CIA base here. It's close.

Get Felicity out of here.

I'm not leaving you behind!

You are not going to endanger a college kid's life on account of this. I'll take care of it.

Erik…

Go Charles.

The mental conversation took all of about five seconds, but it was enough to draw attention from the man in the green tie. He looked up, meeting Erik's eyes with the slightest hints of a smile. His left hand brushed against an unmistakable L-shaped bulge.

It was Erik's turn to smile. This man obviously didn't know about his powers.

Erik, don't do anything stupid. I'm taking Felicity back to the hotel. If you're not there in half an—god damn it all!

Charles?

Alarm spiked through Erik as he tore his eyes away from the Wilson fellow and looked back to Charles. The telepath was halfway out of his seat, two fingers pressed against his temple, and his eyes squeezed tightly shut in pain. Felicity was nowhere in sight.

The damned CIA has a telepath!

Erik froze mid step. He looked back at Wilson, fear shooting through him as the man's smile widened. Beside him, sat a mirror image of Felicity, her beautiful face twisted into a nasty grin.

Charles…

There was a brief moment of silence, though it wasn't cause for alarm. Yet. Erik could feel Charles in his mind and winced at the sudden pressure.

Sorry.

Don't be.

Shit. I should have suspected this.

What should we do?

Well, one thing's for sure…

The mental connection broke off as Charles let out a soft cry of pain. It registered no affect on the dining room's companions, but it spurred Erik into action. He couldn't take his revenge on the telepath or Wilson without letting Charles get hurt, and that was not an option.

He made it across the room in a few short steps and placed a gentle hand on Charles' shoulder.

Time to go, Charles.

But what about the bill?

The mental connection shook with pain, but Erik was relieved at the sad humor.

I'll tell them to leave it on our tab. Come on. Before Wilson starts shooting at us or Felicity launches another attack.

She's not going to.

Erik didn't question the grim statement, for he knew better than to ask at the moment. Wait until there was a point about six months from now when they both had sufficient alcohol to even think about what they had done.

You know, I'm pretty sure that's not healthy.

Charles was walking now and they quickly exited the café with no interruptions. Not that they were expecting it—the CIA would trail the two mutants quietly, wait until they got back to the hotel, and then set up an ambush.

Are you okay?

Charles nodded once, his face still extremely pale and his lips tightened into a thin line. His eyes were full of self recrimination.

Erik sighed. Nothing bad had happened—they would avoid their hotel and head for the airport where Hank was hopefully already waiting for them—and yet, Charles still seemed content to blame himself for everything.

Charles squeezed his eyes shut again just as a bullet ripped through the quiet street and slammed into the wall right next to Erik.

Shit.