markedformore | (no subject)

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One of Erik's steady routines has become a drink at eight PM, after dinner, at the closest bar to his apartment. Since Neil has re-opened his bar, he's transferred his patronage there, given his loyalty to the man (or perhaps it's merely a sense of shared commiseration given their last shared home). Tonight is no different. At eight, he's found his way to the bar and has ordered himself a beer, choosing to drink light tonight. It's become a respite for his thoughts and with Charles taking his serum, those thoughts have free reign in a way they rarely have since the island.

There, he had no worry of Charles diving into his mind to search and find the secrets he's been shielding (from what he had done when sent back to that camp, how he had nearly jumped off a building, his feelings for Rogue and much deeper than that, much deeper than all of it, his feelings when it comes to Charles). It's been frustrating to keep those thoughts locked up, knowing that only shielding can keep Charles out, but with the serum at play, he needs not worry about that.

It's why he feels capable of having a second, then a third beer, scoffing wryly as he thinks of the ones they'd shared on the road during their recruitments.

Time's passed a great deal for him and doubly so for Charles.

The world is no longer what it used to be.

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"I'll make sure you get there safely," Erik says without a single tone brooking argument. If Charles' legs are giving out on him, he'll need all the help he can get and Erik's singular focus is on helping him (not even a flicker of thought goes to putting up his shields, given that he has no idea how long it will take his powers to come back). "Come on," he encourages, slouching just enough for Charles to be able to put an arm around his shoulders for the bolstering help.

The thoughts were an onslaught now, without Charles even having to try. Moments in a place he couldn't remember. That island, Erik had spoken of. Fragments of conversations they'd had-- or Erik and this other version of Charles Xavier, unburdened by the years they'd spent apart, hating one another. A Charles who still had full use of his legs, without the use of Hank's wonderful, awful serum.

And with the thoughts came a surge of emotion. Erik's mind, the bright burn of it, of regret and frustration and need. There were other thoughts, too. Voices. Patrons from the bar. But above all, there was Erik.

Bloody hell.

"Erik. You might want to be more careful, at the moment," he warned, his fingertip briefly touching his temple. "I'm having a bit of trouble controlling it."

Erik bows his head down as he brings Charles out of the bar with the use of his arms and a slight assist from his powers, leaving a few dollars behind for their drinks as he pushes his way through the crowd. He could shield himself, but if Charles has been delving in, then perhaps he ought to let him. After all, he'd never hid anything from Charles on the island, it's only the vast years that separate them that makes him shield himself. Then I don't really need to speak, do I? he thinks in Charles' direction. Which way do I turn? I don't remember how to get back to yours from here.

Charles arched a brow, cutting a look in Erik's direction.

No, I don't suppose you do. Right, out of here. Left on Scoone.

He considered apologizing, but was either too stubborn, or thought it unnecessary. For them, it was perhaps too late for apologies.

Erik watches the streets and gives any passing pedestrians a look that implies if they don't move, they'll be immensely sorry for their lack of cooperation. It seems to do the trick, allowing them an unencumbered walk back, though the entire time, Erik is glancing down towards Charles' legs with worry. "Are you fine to walk? Or should I construct you something?" It wouldn't take much, he thinks, just pulling the metal from several nearby items to bend them into a wheelchair.

It was getting increasingly difficult to move his legs, sweat popping up on his brow, Erik's thoughts a cacophony in his mind.

"I think you might be carrying me, in a moment," he admitted, his feet beginning to drag.

"Steady, now," Erik advises, but it's for himself as much as it is for Charles, easily picking him up into his arms to avoid Charles struggling for a moment while Erik draws the metal from various nearby newspaper stands and other items to create a wheelchair, fashioning the wheels out of smooth platinum from machinery that won't miss the parts. Once he's affixed handles and brakes to it, he settles Charles down into the makeshift device, staying crouched in front of him as his worry shows on his face.

"Is this all right?" he asks, touching a hand to the wheel.

"I didn't mean literally," Charles protested, but there was really nothing he could do. And then, in mere moments, he was lowered into the makeshift chair, Erik's eyes boring into him, all that regret and pain and frustration seeping from Erik's mind and making a home under Charles' skin.

And that low buzz of desire was becoming more difficult to ignore.

"Yes, yes it's fine," he said, unsure of how to deal with Erik's concern. His care. His friendship. It was all right there, as if it had never left.

Erik dismisses the notion that Charles doesn't want the literal version, thinking that it will suit him just fine. He steps to the side cautiously and waits for him to take control, though Erik is ready to push him along given a moment's notice. "Is there more, then? Your next dose waiting for you at your flat?"

"No. There won't be any more."

There was more, but he wouldn't be taking it. Not now. He would be keeping it-- for emergency, he'd tell himself. But he was done with chemically induced silence, for awhile.

Erik is grateful for it and doesn't even temper that feeling. It's not that he wants Charles to suffer, but it had seemed so unendingly torturous to put one's self through. Guiding Charles along, he thinks back to the island and being without his powers. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you wanted to be without your powers. Where I came from, that island, you didn't have them there. You could walk, too," he says.

"And you seemed happy. I suppose I never understood how you could be, without the thing that made you special, different; better."

"I never thought it made me better, Erik. Different, yes, but not better."

It was through his actions that Charles believed he could rise above the fear and distrust that plagued so many. The violence and hatred that caused so much misunderstanding between their people. So much death. They needed to become the better men through their actions, not because of their powers.

"And you? I suppose I'm to assume you weren't happy in that place."

Erik raises his brow and taps his temple to give Charles permission to dive into his mind to find the memories he wants to -- of how he had been in that strange loop of time and thought that ending things would be the simplest way, of how he had saved Tracy's life only by offering up his own. Actively, he hadn't wanted to die, but in a passive and quiet way, he'd also thought there had been nothing much to stand and live for without his powers.

"No," he says. "I wasn't. I was weak and powerless and lonely. And you are better," Erik insists. "Not only for your powers, but including them. You're smart and clever and resourceful and wise and kind," he says each word like they are targeted weapons themselves. "And your capacity of power is incredible. You saved me, didn't you?"

With a bit of reluctance, Charles touched a fingertip to his temple, directing his focus into Erik's mind. The memories were painful. In them, Erik was resigned. Resigned to death-- not quite wishing for it, but caring little for the desperately normal and aimless future ahead of him.

"I thought I'd made a mistake, in trusting in you. I've spent the last ten bloody years wanting you to be a monster. It was easier, believing that. In fact, I did very little besides what was easy, for all those years. I'm not inherently better, Erik. We're both more than capable of making bad choices."

Erik can feel Charles rooting around in there, but he remains silent and allows Charles his explorations. Only when he speaks does Erik close the door gently on those memories, not quite slamming it shut with a padlock as he's tempted. "Then shall I make a mad request?" Erik offers. "Can we make these bad choices here, together, in friendship?"

There is a thread of desperation in his voice, having not realized how much he would miss Charles' affections and friendships until they were gone.

Lord help him, but there was a part of him still screaming for him to say no. He was still driven by the need to keep distance between himself and Erik, to protect himself from the pain Erik had caused him.

From the pain they'd caused each other.

But instead, he rested his hands in his lap, leaving Erik's mind without complaint, as the door was shut to him. "Yes, I think it's time we did," he said, his voice suddenly rough with emotion he would've rather kept hidden.

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