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st_aurafinaTitle: Iterations
Summary: "I knew Charles Xavier at Oxford. I used to meet him in a pub now and then. We'd have a drink, we'd flirt. You know, I should have married him. He'd have been a real father to Jason."
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ion_bond
Request Used: In 2000, Charles Xavier travels through time back to 1953. What would he tell his younger self? Magneto/Xavier, please. (Any method of time travel, mechanical or mutant-powered, real or illusory is fine with me, although I like Forge and Bishop and movieverse Jason Stryker WAY better than Cable.)
Rating: R
Warnings: Domestic violence
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
xmmficathon. Thank you to lilacsigil and d_generate_girl for beta reading. Ion_bond, I, uh, loved your prompt so much I also made a tiny fanmix, which is here.
It's late when the argument turns nasty enough that neither of his parents care if the neighbours can hear. Jason is sweating under his sheets, but he's too tired to shift in his bed to find a cool place. There's no point, anyway: the model plane hanging by the open window is still, and the sky beyond is dark but clear. There's no change on the horizon.
They're fighting about the school and the glossy leaflet that has been sitting by the fruit bowl for a month, slowly gathering creases as Jason's mother reads and re-reads it.
"He's my boy, and I'm not letting Xavier get his hands on him. You stupid bitch, if you knew half the things I did about the man…"
It's the first time Jason's father has been home in weeks, but that's not unusual. Most of the kids on the base don't see their fathers very often. For some of Jason's schoolmates it's a matter of pride, a symbol of the important work their fathers are doing, but for Jason it's a relief. The house seems bigger when his father is gone. Jason doesn't feel like he is being crushed against the walls. There's room for things like hugs and lunchboxes. He wonders what it would be like at this new school, and what kind of secrets get other kids sent there.
"Oh, don't pretend you're interested in your son. I know what you want from Jason, and it makes me sick. You're no father."
Jason used to feel a clench of terror and pride when his mother stood up for him in fights. Lately, though, she has been so frightened by the things he does - the things he can't help doing - and Jason's stomach squirms with guilt and fear when she defends him, like he doesn't deserve it. It's hard not to listen to the commentary inside her head while his father rages: if only Jason were normal, if only she hadn't gotten pregnant, if only she had never left England, if only she were somewhere else.
The smash of glass is a body hitting the china cabinet. The dull thump of plaster is a fist in the wall. Jason blinks slowly and counts. If it's quiet for the count of twenty, then the fight is over for the night. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen.
"You know, I knew him at Oxford, Charles Xavier. I used to meet him in a pub now and then." His mother's voice is filled with quiet venom. Every word is laden with disappointment, which makes Jason squirm. "We'd have a drink, we'd flirt. You know, I should have married him. He'd have been a real father to Jason."
With the words comes an overlay of sensory detail: the smooth wood of a curved bar, the smell of beer sinking into carpet, and the bright, blue-eyed gaze of a man he presumes is Xavier. Then comes pain, vivid red with fear as his father has the last word.
Jason rallies the energy to turn over, so he can project the memory against the white wall. The man who could have been his father takes his mother's hand and tells her she has beautiful eyes. This is a good memory, he thinks. He will keep it with all the others.
Soon he finds sleep.
---
First Iteration
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather have Babar?" Charles holds up the tattered copy for Jason to see. It had been his, once. His name is scrawled inside the cover in shaky, unjoined letters. He flips the book open, and sees someone has added underneath 'And Raven.' He frowns briefly at the unfamiliar hand.
Jason shakes his head. "You know what I want." He pushes his hair out of his eyes, and looks up at Charles. He's four, now, and deeply invested in his own rituals.
Charles tucks the blankets around him; it's unseasonably cold for August. "I suppose one can truly never get enough of The Very Hungry Caterpillar ." That book – a particular favourite of Jason's lately – brought back memories of some very suspect parties Charles attended at Oxford.
Jason frowns. "What's psych… psychedelic?" The blankets change colour under his hands, fantastic swirls of purple, green and orange that shift with a fluidity Charles finds oddly nostalgic.
Charles pushes Jason's long bangs back and presses a kiss to his forehead. "Something I sincerely hope you don't find out about until you're at least in college."
Jason's ability to alter perception had appeared when he was three: after Easter, Jason had imagined up a clutch of pastel-coloured rabbits in his bed. Marcy had been puzzled at first, then alarmed. Charles was entranced.
"But what if he imagines something dangerous? What if he makes a knife or a gun?" said Marcy, cradling Jason on her lap.
Marcy and Jason looked back at Charles with their mismatched eyes, and he wrapped his arms around the both of them. "The most important thing is not to panic. This is something natural. If we're not afraid, then Jason won't be either. There is a place in this world for his abilities. We need to help him find that place."
Lately, Jason has been showing a low-level telepathy, picking up on words and images at the forefront of his parents' minds. Charles theorises that it allows Jason to tailor illusions better. He has been helping Marcy to build some mental shields, to deal with the practical issues of raising a child with mutant abilities.
When Charles was this age, there had been nobody who understood his abilities. Now, Jason lies half-asleep and curled under his blankets, in a household where he is accepted and loved.
Charles sits on the bed and opens the book. Jason snuggles beside him to see the pictures. "In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf."
When Jason is finally sleeping, Charles closes the book and slides it back into position on the crowded bookshelf. He shivers and goes to the window, then stops with one hand on the blind. There's a man on the lawn, in the square of yellow light cast by Jason's window. Charles' mind scrabbles for details. He doesn't know this man, and yet he does. The hair is dark when it should be white. How can he know that, and not know the man's name?
"Erik," he says, softly. The man cannot possibly hear him, but nonetheless gives a sardonic little bow. Charles puts a hand to the glass and finds smooth ice instead. Reality has developed an edge, and that edge is encroaching on him. The sensation is horribly familiar. He turns to his son. Jason is huddled under the blankets with wide eyes, his mind roiling with guilt and fear.
Reality shatters.
---
Second Iteration
It's been the four of them in the house since Jason came along, though they're careful to keep it under the radar. This may be the decade of free love, but the matrons of Salem Centre are not ready to accept a polyamorous relationship under their upturned noses.
It hadn't been easy to establish the dynamic that seems effortless now. Erik had been so very damaged after Cuba and Shaw's death, and it had taken Charles a long time to forgive him. Marcy knew about their previous relationship, of course; Charles could never lie about that, but she and Erik did not immediately strike up a friendship. It took Marcy's pregnancy and Jason's birth to pull them together as a family. Now Charles can't imagine it any other way.
He and Erik are piecing Cerebro together again from Hank's original schematics. Erik has some good ideas about widening the range, though Charles is not completely happy with the amplitudes he proposes. There's so much they don't know about telepathy. There's no way to be sure it is safe.
Erik is scornful. "What do you have to fear? You're the most powerful telepath we're yet to see."
They're working in the lower half of the dome; Charles is waist-deep in a maintenance well, rewiring Erik's work. "It's not fear, Erik. The strength of my power is the issue, but not in the way you're thinking." He holds up a circuit. "With amplification like this, it's possible I could burn out a person's mind. I will not knowingly put people at risk, not when there's a safer way."
"How many lives will we lose, Charles, while you're bumbling around in the shallow end of the pool? Have you considered that?" Erik's fists are closed tight on a cable. His expression – scorn and anger and desperation – is familiar in a way that makes Charles' stomach clench. They've had this argument before, he's certain. When? He can't remember. More worryingly, neither can Erik.
Erik knows the feather-light brush of Charles' mind by now. "Get out of my head, Charles," he says with a mild frown, as casually as if he were telling Charles to stop reading over his shoulder. He knows and trusts Charles' power. He knows Charles will never look deeper, not without an invitation. He has never sought ways to keep Charles out.
Charles relaxes, suddenly thrilled with the degree of faith there is between them. "Come on," he hold out his hand. "Help me up."
Erik scowls but lowers his hand. Instead of climbing up, Charles pulls him down into the well, laughing. "We'll find a way," he says, wrapping his arms around Erik's shoulders. "We don't have to compromise anything."
Erik is still frowning, but a smile lurks in the corners of his eyes. Charles presses a kiss there, where the skin is creasing.
"Let's not frighten the children," Erik whispers, nodding upwards. Charles follows his gaze: Jason is sitting on the gangway, bare legs swinging back and forth over the abyss. He's seven, that intrepid age when one goes looking for adventure inside wardrobes and attics. It frightens Charles sometimes, Jason's independence.
He smooths the hair at the nape of Erik's neck, and heaves himself out of the well, then presses fingers to his temple. The distance is too great to shout, and Jason is no stranger to Charles' power. *Jason, darling, how did you get in here? Where's Mummy?*
Jason's own powers don't allow him to communicate with words - at least, not yet - but with a ripple of light, he shows them what Charles wants to know. They stand first at the open doors to the Cerebro chamber, then briefly in Marcy's study where she is typing furiously on the second draft of her dissertation. Then they are standing again at the bottom of Cerebro, looking up at Jason.
"I swear I locked those doors," says Erik. He is perfectly able to comprehend the danger to a single child, even if the abstract danger of magnifying Charles' power is apparently irrelevant. He grabs a cable and uses his power to haul himself up to the gangway. There, he crouches down to Jason's height and ruffles his hair. "Can you give us some space, kid? Tell you what: go build something with all that Meccano. Later, we'll go out on the roof and make it fly."
Charles doesn't need telepathy to see Jason roll his eyes at the utter repulsiveness of grown-ups, but he scrambles up from the gangway obligingly.
Erik locks the doors behind him, then floats downwards on a tangle of cables. He steps down into the well so that he is face to face with Charles. "Now, what were you saying?" The smile has reached his mouth now; it curls upwards, cat-like.
Charles reaches for him, so happy that he is here, that they have trust and family and love all around them.
Later, in Erik's bed, Charles shivers and tugs the blankets up around them both. Erik has one arm under Charles' neck; half-asleep, he pulls Charles close. Charles leans in against him, glad of the warmth. He makes a brief check on Jason: his son is happily constructing some behemoth out of Meccano.
"I'm so glad we are a family," Charles says. "Thank you for being kind to Jason."
Erik murmurs in his sleep and kisses Charles' forehead. Charles is drifting off himself, when he realises that there's an oddness to the way they are lying together. He looks down the length of their bodies, and sees that his knee is raised, that he can feel Erik's shin against his toes. Something is very, very wrong.
"What is it?" Erik is awake in an instant, cued by the tension in Charles' body.
Charles grabs him, holds onto his shoulders, looks into the face that he remembers from so long ago. "Erik, are you here? Are any of us really here?"
Erik laughs, falls back against the pillow. "What kind of question is that? I mean, realistically, what are you going to do if we don't exist?" He is relaxed again, long-limbed and languid, half in and half out of the covers. He doesn't seem to feel the cold, though there's frost in the corners of the room now, and the crystals are fanning out across the ceiling.
Charles doesn't know if he will get another chance. He leans up, presses their mouths together, and pours love from his mind to Erik's. The ice creeps over the two of them, dry and stinging. Charles feels his heart crack and still.
---
Third Iteration
It's just the two of them now. Charles doesn't know how he will cope, but there's no time for self-indulgence with a ten-year-old to look after. He picks Jason up, pulls him onto the wheelchair like he did when Jason was a toddler. Jason is still mute with shock, he curls up his legs and leans his head against his father's shoulder. Charles pushes them both away from Marcy's grave.
There's a woman waiting by the Rolls Royce, tall and blonde, in a leather coat. Charles braces himself, then finds he doesn't have the energy for both a fight and the drive back to an empty house. He doesn't even have the resources to be angry that she would confront him at his wife's funeral.
"Raven, please, not now." Against his chest, Jason whimpers, and Charles strokes his hair, presses him closer so that the argument will at least be muffled. He looks up at his sister, wills her to see that Jason is frightened and distressed. He is startled to see sympathy there.
"We can fight later," says Raven. She holds up the keys to the car. "You don't have to go through this alone."
Relief brings tears to Charles' eyes. He helps Jason fasten his safety belt, and collapses into the passenger seat. Raven folds the chair, stows it in the back, and manages the adapted steering with ease. The whole drive back to Salem Center, Charles sits in silence with his head in his hands.
Raven is still as practical and unafraid as he remembers, though it's been a clear decade since they last spoke. While he organises Jason into a bath and clean pyjamas, she bustles in the kitchen, cooking the first square meal Charles has eaten in days.
It's only mac and cheese – Raven is a terrorist, not a housewife, after all – but it's hot and delicious and Charles wolfs it down while Raven watches. She spins and flips a knife between her fingers, a nervous habit she's acquired in the years they have spent apart. When Charles has scraped the plate clean, he carries it to the sink and stops there, lost.
He sees Raven beside him in the reflection of the kitchen window. She's let her disguise slip, and Charles feels that odd double vision of nostalgia, from that first cold night when he crept down to the kitchen with a baseball bat over his shoulder. In the chair, he's even the right height again. Suddenly, soaring above the grief, he feels the same delight from decades ago. He is not alone.
"What do I do now?" he asks her, because he can, because there's someone else who understands.
He's talking about the future, but Raven's answer addresses the immediate.
"Now? Now you get extremely drunk," she says, and pulls out the cooking sherry. It's disturbing how at home she is with the grieving process. Charles watches her pour the sherry into tumblers, and he's saddened by her ease. What kind of life has Erik given her, that she is so unafraid of loss?
They sit at the table even though it's too high for Charles, and they throw back glass after glass of eye-watering fortified wine. Raven laughs at what a light-weight he's become, and Charles admires her ability to spin a knife and pour wine at the same time.
When they are both slouched in their seats, and Charles is flushed and bright-eyed, Raven finally brings Marcy into the conversation.
"I'm sorry I never met her. I thought it was better not to interfere." She stabs the end of the knife into the table, and flicks off a splinter of paint.
"Oh, she would have sent you away with a flea in your ear," says Charles. He pushes the glass in front of him until he hears it clink against the bottle. "Never one to put up with rubbish, was Marcy."
"She sounds… Oh, look, I can't lie, it was so weird to think of you married." Raven obligingly tops up Charles' glass. "Where did you propose to her? I'll bet it was as corny as hell."
Charles laughs, and swallows the sherry. Then he winces. He can't remember proposing to Marcy at all. He did, of course - he's still wearing his wedding ring - but where? When? This must be grief. God, he can't remember anything after the moment they met in the pub. Where did they first make love? What was she like, pregnant with Jason?
Raven is sharp-eyed, and even after a decade apart, she knows her brother. "What?"
"I can't remember anything!" Charles is holding onto the edge of the table now, as if the world will tilt and he will slip away.
Raven spins suddenly, knife at the ready, turning towards movement Charles sees from the corner of his eye.
He shouts, realising. "Raven, no!" Oh, God, his fingers are freezing, his breath is coming in clouds.
Jason stands in the open doorway, eyes red-rimmed and hair tousled. "Daddy? Are you angry?" He is entirely untroubled by the blue woman with a knife pointed in his direction.
Charles tries to remember the first time he held his infant son, and there is nothing. The chair rolls backwards, and his head hits a wall of ice.
---
Fourth Iteration
Silence rings as Charles puts the phone carefully back in the cradle. William Stryker's bellowing was perfectly audible to anyone in the room, though from Jason's posture you wouldn't know that he has heard any of it. He sits in the chair opposite the desk, slumped forward, hidden behind his hair. He is as unengaged as if this were geography class.
Charles takes a breath and plans his words. Stryker is right about one thing: Jason has not been a good fit for the school. His problems extend far beyond that of his mutant abilities. He has profound emotional disturbances that could potentially put the other students at risk. However, he won't be the last child Charles must care for who has suffered abuse, perhaps because of their powers, perhaps in spite of them. Charles will not give up.
Jason is watching Charles now, through the thin, lank hair that is always in his eyes.
"What would you like to do, Jason?" Charles phrases the question in neutral tones; this is not a challenge for Jason to rail against or fail. Jason expects to disappoint people. It is, after all, the thing he believes he does best.
Jason ignores him, but Charles waits him out. Eventually, when it's apparent that Charles really does expect a response, Jason tips his head back to meet Charles' gaze.
Charles repeats the question. "What would you like to do, Jason? If there were a way to make things better for you, how would we start?"
"Nothing gets better. It doesn't matter what you do. Even when things are perfect, they fall apart." Jason barely opens his mouth to speak, but Charles has no problems hearing, not when he can skim the words from the forefront of Jason's brain. Jason raises an eyebrow at this - he's perfectly aware of the telepathic contact - but does not retaliate. Charles sees this as a good beginning.
Jason chokes out a sound, something between laughter and a sob. "This is not the beginning of anything."
Charles checks: there's a light telepathic tendril extended in his direction. "Jason, you know that your illusion powers are not effective here."
Jason pulls his knees to his chest, and laughs weakly. "No, of course not." He looks so tired suddenly: nobody his age should feel defeated by the world. Charles' reserve breaks, and he pushes his chair away from the desk and moves over to Jason's seat.
"Tell me what is frightening you, Jason. Please let me help." Charles means it. The images he caught from William Stryker were appalling. He will not send Jason back to be dissected. That Stryker can think of his son in that way turns Charles cold with dread.
"I don't… I don't know how to do things right," Jason offers, tentatively. His shoulders are slumped now, as if he's given up on everything. "I've tried, I've really tried, but I can't make things happen the way they're supposed to. I want things to be good. I guess I just don't know what good feels like."
"Oh, Jason." Charles' hand is moving before he realises it, and he brushes the hair back from Jason's face. "It's all right. It will be all right." He's speaking to Jason as if he were a child, and he doesn't know why, but it seems like the right thing to do. "There are people who care for you, Jason. Let us make things right for you. You don't need to fight for survival, not here. There's nothing wrong or shameful about letting go of old battles." Poor Jason. Who loved him, when he was small enough to fold into someone's arms? Who cradled him and read to him and taught him the things he needs to know? And why does this lack of care fill Charles with outrage?
Jason looks at him in shock, and backs as far into the office chair as he can. "I didn't make this. This isn't how it happened. You never thought those things before." He swallows, and swipes his sleeve across his face.
"Sometimes, the best family is the one you make yourself," says Charles. He looks down at his hand, puzzled - it is still extended in Jason's direction, as if he'd like to take the boy in his arms and hold him. "I haven't always made the right choices with my family - even the family I chose - but I think it might be time to try a little harder. I would certainly be willing to help you find family here."
Jason's voice is hoarse, and for a moment he sounds much older than his age. "Thank you. I think that would have been nice."
Something cool brushes Charles' cheek. He reaches up his hand, curious, and touches snow.
---
It's just him.
Charles is standing by the window, on legs that feel pillowy and wrong. He looks down at his feet, feels tears on his cheek.
"Jason, stop it!" Charles scrabbles for purchase against Jason's mind, searching for ways in. For a moment he thinks he has a connection, but the ice is too thick.
This time, when reality breaks, it's the quick, clean snap of ice underfoot. Charles goes under, and he does not come up again.
---
Charles doesn't know what happened here, but there is a frightened child, and he can help her.
"Where are all the other students?" he asks, gently.
"I don't know." She is shivering in her nightgown, but she trusts him. That is the most important thing.
"We'll have to find them, then." He wipes the tears from her face. " Come on. We'll use Cerebro."
He takes her hand, and the chair hums towards the chamber. Together they'll find all the mutants.
Summary: "I knew Charles Xavier at Oxford. I used to meet him in a pub now and then. We'd have a drink, we'd flirt. You know, I should have married him. He'd have been a real father to Jason."
Recipient:
ion_bondRequest Used: In 2000, Charles Xavier travels through time back to 1953. What would he tell his younger self? Magneto/Xavier, please. (Any method of time travel, mechanical or mutant-powered, real or illusory is fine with me, although I like Forge and Bishop and movieverse Jason Stryker WAY better than Cable.)
Rating: R
Warnings: Domestic violence
Notes: Written for
xmmficathon. Thank you to lilacsigil and d_generate_girl for beta reading. Ion_bond, I, uh, loved your prompt so much I also made a tiny fanmix, which is here. It's late when the argument turns nasty enough that neither of his parents care if the neighbours can hear. Jason is sweating under his sheets, but he's too tired to shift in his bed to find a cool place. There's no point, anyway: the model plane hanging by the open window is still, and the sky beyond is dark but clear. There's no change on the horizon.
They're fighting about the school and the glossy leaflet that has been sitting by the fruit bowl for a month, slowly gathering creases as Jason's mother reads and re-reads it.
"He's my boy, and I'm not letting Xavier get his hands on him. You stupid bitch, if you knew half the things I did about the man…"
It's the first time Jason's father has been home in weeks, but that's not unusual. Most of the kids on the base don't see their fathers very often. For some of Jason's schoolmates it's a matter of pride, a symbol of the important work their fathers are doing, but for Jason it's a relief. The house seems bigger when his father is gone. Jason doesn't feel like he is being crushed against the walls. There's room for things like hugs and lunchboxes. He wonders what it would be like at this new school, and what kind of secrets get other kids sent there.
"Oh, don't pretend you're interested in your son. I know what you want from Jason, and it makes me sick. You're no father."
Jason used to feel a clench of terror and pride when his mother stood up for him in fights. Lately, though, she has been so frightened by the things he does - the things he can't help doing - and Jason's stomach squirms with guilt and fear when she defends him, like he doesn't deserve it. It's hard not to listen to the commentary inside her head while his father rages: if only Jason were normal, if only she hadn't gotten pregnant, if only she had never left England, if only she were somewhere else.
The smash of glass is a body hitting the china cabinet. The dull thump of plaster is a fist in the wall. Jason blinks slowly and counts. If it's quiet for the count of twenty, then the fight is over for the night. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen.
"You know, I knew him at Oxford, Charles Xavier. I used to meet him in a pub now and then." His mother's voice is filled with quiet venom. Every word is laden with disappointment, which makes Jason squirm. "We'd have a drink, we'd flirt. You know, I should have married him. He'd have been a real father to Jason."
With the words comes an overlay of sensory detail: the smooth wood of a curved bar, the smell of beer sinking into carpet, and the bright, blue-eyed gaze of a man he presumes is Xavier. Then comes pain, vivid red with fear as his father has the last word.
Jason rallies the energy to turn over, so he can project the memory against the white wall. The man who could have been his father takes his mother's hand and tells her she has beautiful eyes. This is a good memory, he thinks. He will keep it with all the others.
Soon he finds sleep.
---
First Iteration
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather have Babar?" Charles holds up the tattered copy for Jason to see. It had been his, once. His name is scrawled inside the cover in shaky, unjoined letters. He flips the book open, and sees someone has added underneath 'And Raven.' He frowns briefly at the unfamiliar hand.
Jason shakes his head. "You know what I want." He pushes his hair out of his eyes, and looks up at Charles. He's four, now, and deeply invested in his own rituals.
Charles tucks the blankets around him; it's unseasonably cold for August. "I suppose one can truly never get enough of The Very Hungry Caterpillar ." That book – a particular favourite of Jason's lately – brought back memories of some very suspect parties Charles attended at Oxford.
Jason frowns. "What's psych… psychedelic?" The blankets change colour under his hands, fantastic swirls of purple, green and orange that shift with a fluidity Charles finds oddly nostalgic.
Charles pushes Jason's long bangs back and presses a kiss to his forehead. "Something I sincerely hope you don't find out about until you're at least in college."
Jason's ability to alter perception had appeared when he was three: after Easter, Jason had imagined up a clutch of pastel-coloured rabbits in his bed. Marcy had been puzzled at first, then alarmed. Charles was entranced.
"But what if he imagines something dangerous? What if he makes a knife or a gun?" said Marcy, cradling Jason on her lap.
Marcy and Jason looked back at Charles with their mismatched eyes, and he wrapped his arms around the both of them. "The most important thing is not to panic. This is something natural. If we're not afraid, then Jason won't be either. There is a place in this world for his abilities. We need to help him find that place."
Lately, Jason has been showing a low-level telepathy, picking up on words and images at the forefront of his parents' minds. Charles theorises that it allows Jason to tailor illusions better. He has been helping Marcy to build some mental shields, to deal with the practical issues of raising a child with mutant abilities.
When Charles was this age, there had been nobody who understood his abilities. Now, Jason lies half-asleep and curled under his blankets, in a household where he is accepted and loved.
Charles sits on the bed and opens the book. Jason snuggles beside him to see the pictures. "In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf."
When Jason is finally sleeping, Charles closes the book and slides it back into position on the crowded bookshelf. He shivers and goes to the window, then stops with one hand on the blind. There's a man on the lawn, in the square of yellow light cast by Jason's window. Charles' mind scrabbles for details. He doesn't know this man, and yet he does. The hair is dark when it should be white. How can he know that, and not know the man's name?
"Erik," he says, softly. The man cannot possibly hear him, but nonetheless gives a sardonic little bow. Charles puts a hand to the glass and finds smooth ice instead. Reality has developed an edge, and that edge is encroaching on him. The sensation is horribly familiar. He turns to his son. Jason is huddled under the blankets with wide eyes, his mind roiling with guilt and fear.
Reality shatters.
---
Second Iteration
It's been the four of them in the house since Jason came along, though they're careful to keep it under the radar. This may be the decade of free love, but the matrons of Salem Centre are not ready to accept a polyamorous relationship under their upturned noses.
It hadn't been easy to establish the dynamic that seems effortless now. Erik had been so very damaged after Cuba and Shaw's death, and it had taken Charles a long time to forgive him. Marcy knew about their previous relationship, of course; Charles could never lie about that, but she and Erik did not immediately strike up a friendship. It took Marcy's pregnancy and Jason's birth to pull them together as a family. Now Charles can't imagine it any other way.
He and Erik are piecing Cerebro together again from Hank's original schematics. Erik has some good ideas about widening the range, though Charles is not completely happy with the amplitudes he proposes. There's so much they don't know about telepathy. There's no way to be sure it is safe.
Erik is scornful. "What do you have to fear? You're the most powerful telepath we're yet to see."
They're working in the lower half of the dome; Charles is waist-deep in a maintenance well, rewiring Erik's work. "It's not fear, Erik. The strength of my power is the issue, but not in the way you're thinking." He holds up a circuit. "With amplification like this, it's possible I could burn out a person's mind. I will not knowingly put people at risk, not when there's a safer way."
"How many lives will we lose, Charles, while you're bumbling around in the shallow end of the pool? Have you considered that?" Erik's fists are closed tight on a cable. His expression – scorn and anger and desperation – is familiar in a way that makes Charles' stomach clench. They've had this argument before, he's certain. When? He can't remember. More worryingly, neither can Erik.
Erik knows the feather-light brush of Charles' mind by now. "Get out of my head, Charles," he says with a mild frown, as casually as if he were telling Charles to stop reading over his shoulder. He knows and trusts Charles' power. He knows Charles will never look deeper, not without an invitation. He has never sought ways to keep Charles out.
Charles relaxes, suddenly thrilled with the degree of faith there is between them. "Come on," he hold out his hand. "Help me up."
Erik scowls but lowers his hand. Instead of climbing up, Charles pulls him down into the well, laughing. "We'll find a way," he says, wrapping his arms around Erik's shoulders. "We don't have to compromise anything."
Erik is still frowning, but a smile lurks in the corners of his eyes. Charles presses a kiss there, where the skin is creasing.
"Let's not frighten the children," Erik whispers, nodding upwards. Charles follows his gaze: Jason is sitting on the gangway, bare legs swinging back and forth over the abyss. He's seven, that intrepid age when one goes looking for adventure inside wardrobes and attics. It frightens Charles sometimes, Jason's independence.
He smooths the hair at the nape of Erik's neck, and heaves himself out of the well, then presses fingers to his temple. The distance is too great to shout, and Jason is no stranger to Charles' power. *Jason, darling, how did you get in here? Where's Mummy?*
Jason's own powers don't allow him to communicate with words - at least, not yet - but with a ripple of light, he shows them what Charles wants to know. They stand first at the open doors to the Cerebro chamber, then briefly in Marcy's study where she is typing furiously on the second draft of her dissertation. Then they are standing again at the bottom of Cerebro, looking up at Jason.
"I swear I locked those doors," says Erik. He is perfectly able to comprehend the danger to a single child, even if the abstract danger of magnifying Charles' power is apparently irrelevant. He grabs a cable and uses his power to haul himself up to the gangway. There, he crouches down to Jason's height and ruffles his hair. "Can you give us some space, kid? Tell you what: go build something with all that Meccano. Later, we'll go out on the roof and make it fly."
Charles doesn't need telepathy to see Jason roll his eyes at the utter repulsiveness of grown-ups, but he scrambles up from the gangway obligingly.
Erik locks the doors behind him, then floats downwards on a tangle of cables. He steps down into the well so that he is face to face with Charles. "Now, what were you saying?" The smile has reached his mouth now; it curls upwards, cat-like.
Charles reaches for him, so happy that he is here, that they have trust and family and love all around them.
Later, in Erik's bed, Charles shivers and tugs the blankets up around them both. Erik has one arm under Charles' neck; half-asleep, he pulls Charles close. Charles leans in against him, glad of the warmth. He makes a brief check on Jason: his son is happily constructing some behemoth out of Meccano.
"I'm so glad we are a family," Charles says. "Thank you for being kind to Jason."
Erik murmurs in his sleep and kisses Charles' forehead. Charles is drifting off himself, when he realises that there's an oddness to the way they are lying together. He looks down the length of their bodies, and sees that his knee is raised, that he can feel Erik's shin against his toes. Something is very, very wrong.
"What is it?" Erik is awake in an instant, cued by the tension in Charles' body.
Charles grabs him, holds onto his shoulders, looks into the face that he remembers from so long ago. "Erik, are you here? Are any of us really here?"
Erik laughs, falls back against the pillow. "What kind of question is that? I mean, realistically, what are you going to do if we don't exist?" He is relaxed again, long-limbed and languid, half in and half out of the covers. He doesn't seem to feel the cold, though there's frost in the corners of the room now, and the crystals are fanning out across the ceiling.
Charles doesn't know if he will get another chance. He leans up, presses their mouths together, and pours love from his mind to Erik's. The ice creeps over the two of them, dry and stinging. Charles feels his heart crack and still.
---
Third Iteration
It's just the two of them now. Charles doesn't know how he will cope, but there's no time for self-indulgence with a ten-year-old to look after. He picks Jason up, pulls him onto the wheelchair like he did when Jason was a toddler. Jason is still mute with shock, he curls up his legs and leans his head against his father's shoulder. Charles pushes them both away from Marcy's grave.
There's a woman waiting by the Rolls Royce, tall and blonde, in a leather coat. Charles braces himself, then finds he doesn't have the energy for both a fight and the drive back to an empty house. He doesn't even have the resources to be angry that she would confront him at his wife's funeral.
"Raven, please, not now." Against his chest, Jason whimpers, and Charles strokes his hair, presses him closer so that the argument will at least be muffled. He looks up at his sister, wills her to see that Jason is frightened and distressed. He is startled to see sympathy there.
"We can fight later," says Raven. She holds up the keys to the car. "You don't have to go through this alone."
Relief brings tears to Charles' eyes. He helps Jason fasten his safety belt, and collapses into the passenger seat. Raven folds the chair, stows it in the back, and manages the adapted steering with ease. The whole drive back to Salem Center, Charles sits in silence with his head in his hands.
Raven is still as practical and unafraid as he remembers, though it's been a clear decade since they last spoke. While he organises Jason into a bath and clean pyjamas, she bustles in the kitchen, cooking the first square meal Charles has eaten in days.
It's only mac and cheese – Raven is a terrorist, not a housewife, after all – but it's hot and delicious and Charles wolfs it down while Raven watches. She spins and flips a knife between her fingers, a nervous habit she's acquired in the years they have spent apart. When Charles has scraped the plate clean, he carries it to the sink and stops there, lost.
He sees Raven beside him in the reflection of the kitchen window. She's let her disguise slip, and Charles feels that odd double vision of nostalgia, from that first cold night when he crept down to the kitchen with a baseball bat over his shoulder. In the chair, he's even the right height again. Suddenly, soaring above the grief, he feels the same delight from decades ago. He is not alone.
"What do I do now?" he asks her, because he can, because there's someone else who understands.
He's talking about the future, but Raven's answer addresses the immediate.
"Now? Now you get extremely drunk," she says, and pulls out the cooking sherry. It's disturbing how at home she is with the grieving process. Charles watches her pour the sherry into tumblers, and he's saddened by her ease. What kind of life has Erik given her, that she is so unafraid of loss?
They sit at the table even though it's too high for Charles, and they throw back glass after glass of eye-watering fortified wine. Raven laughs at what a light-weight he's become, and Charles admires her ability to spin a knife and pour wine at the same time.
When they are both slouched in their seats, and Charles is flushed and bright-eyed, Raven finally brings Marcy into the conversation.
"I'm sorry I never met her. I thought it was better not to interfere." She stabs the end of the knife into the table, and flicks off a splinter of paint.
"Oh, she would have sent you away with a flea in your ear," says Charles. He pushes the glass in front of him until he hears it clink against the bottle. "Never one to put up with rubbish, was Marcy."
"She sounds… Oh, look, I can't lie, it was so weird to think of you married." Raven obligingly tops up Charles' glass. "Where did you propose to her? I'll bet it was as corny as hell."
Charles laughs, and swallows the sherry. Then he winces. He can't remember proposing to Marcy at all. He did, of course - he's still wearing his wedding ring - but where? When? This must be grief. God, he can't remember anything after the moment they met in the pub. Where did they first make love? What was she like, pregnant with Jason?
Raven is sharp-eyed, and even after a decade apart, she knows her brother. "What?"
"I can't remember anything!" Charles is holding onto the edge of the table now, as if the world will tilt and he will slip away.
Raven spins suddenly, knife at the ready, turning towards movement Charles sees from the corner of his eye.
He shouts, realising. "Raven, no!" Oh, God, his fingers are freezing, his breath is coming in clouds.
Jason stands in the open doorway, eyes red-rimmed and hair tousled. "Daddy? Are you angry?" He is entirely untroubled by the blue woman with a knife pointed in his direction.
Charles tries to remember the first time he held his infant son, and there is nothing. The chair rolls backwards, and his head hits a wall of ice.
---
Fourth Iteration
Silence rings as Charles puts the phone carefully back in the cradle. William Stryker's bellowing was perfectly audible to anyone in the room, though from Jason's posture you wouldn't know that he has heard any of it. He sits in the chair opposite the desk, slumped forward, hidden behind his hair. He is as unengaged as if this were geography class.
Charles takes a breath and plans his words. Stryker is right about one thing: Jason has not been a good fit for the school. His problems extend far beyond that of his mutant abilities. He has profound emotional disturbances that could potentially put the other students at risk. However, he won't be the last child Charles must care for who has suffered abuse, perhaps because of their powers, perhaps in spite of them. Charles will not give up.
Jason is watching Charles now, through the thin, lank hair that is always in his eyes.
"What would you like to do, Jason?" Charles phrases the question in neutral tones; this is not a challenge for Jason to rail against or fail. Jason expects to disappoint people. It is, after all, the thing he believes he does best.
Jason ignores him, but Charles waits him out. Eventually, when it's apparent that Charles really does expect a response, Jason tips his head back to meet Charles' gaze.
Charles repeats the question. "What would you like to do, Jason? If there were a way to make things better for you, how would we start?"
"Nothing gets better. It doesn't matter what you do. Even when things are perfect, they fall apart." Jason barely opens his mouth to speak, but Charles has no problems hearing, not when he can skim the words from the forefront of Jason's brain. Jason raises an eyebrow at this - he's perfectly aware of the telepathic contact - but does not retaliate. Charles sees this as a good beginning.
Jason chokes out a sound, something between laughter and a sob. "This is not the beginning of anything."
Charles checks: there's a light telepathic tendril extended in his direction. "Jason, you know that your illusion powers are not effective here."
Jason pulls his knees to his chest, and laughs weakly. "No, of course not." He looks so tired suddenly: nobody his age should feel defeated by the world. Charles' reserve breaks, and he pushes his chair away from the desk and moves over to Jason's seat.
"Tell me what is frightening you, Jason. Please let me help." Charles means it. The images he caught from William Stryker were appalling. He will not send Jason back to be dissected. That Stryker can think of his son in that way turns Charles cold with dread.
"I don't… I don't know how to do things right," Jason offers, tentatively. His shoulders are slumped now, as if he's given up on everything. "I've tried, I've really tried, but I can't make things happen the way they're supposed to. I want things to be good. I guess I just don't know what good feels like."
"Oh, Jason." Charles' hand is moving before he realises it, and he brushes the hair back from Jason's face. "It's all right. It will be all right." He's speaking to Jason as if he were a child, and he doesn't know why, but it seems like the right thing to do. "There are people who care for you, Jason. Let us make things right for you. You don't need to fight for survival, not here. There's nothing wrong or shameful about letting go of old battles." Poor Jason. Who loved him, when he was small enough to fold into someone's arms? Who cradled him and read to him and taught him the things he needs to know? And why does this lack of care fill Charles with outrage?
Jason looks at him in shock, and backs as far into the office chair as he can. "I didn't make this. This isn't how it happened. You never thought those things before." He swallows, and swipes his sleeve across his face.
"Sometimes, the best family is the one you make yourself," says Charles. He looks down at his hand, puzzled - it is still extended in Jason's direction, as if he'd like to take the boy in his arms and hold him. "I haven't always made the right choices with my family - even the family I chose - but I think it might be time to try a little harder. I would certainly be willing to help you find family here."
Jason's voice is hoarse, and for a moment he sounds much older than his age. "Thank you. I think that would have been nice."
Something cool brushes Charles' cheek. He reaches up his hand, curious, and touches snow.
---
It's just him.
Charles is standing by the window, on legs that feel pillowy and wrong. He looks down at his feet, feels tears on his cheek.
"Jason, stop it!" Charles scrabbles for purchase against Jason's mind, searching for ways in. For a moment he thinks he has a connection, but the ice is too thick.
This time, when reality breaks, it's the quick, clean snap of ice underfoot. Charles goes under, and he does not come up again.
---
Charles doesn't know what happened here, but there is a frightened child, and he can help her.
"Where are all the other students?" he asks, gently.
"I don't know." She is shivering in her nightgown, but she trusts him. That is the most important thing.
"We'll have to find them, then." He wipes the tears from her face. " Come on. We'll use Cerebro."
He takes her hand, and the chair hums towards the chamber. Together they'll find all the mutants.