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Erik finds him in the storage hold, crouched down low in a corner with his head in his hands and eyes squeezed shut so tightly that it looks painful. He doesn’t even realize Erik is there until Erik raps loudly on the container beside him.
“Having second thoughts?”
The good doctor blinks blearily at him, vivid blue eyes foggy with pain and something else. “No. Well. Yes. It’s too late for that sort of thing, though.” His voice is thin and weary. The water pressing in on all sides of their metal box feels like it’s pressing in against his very skull, making it hard to see straight let alone think. “It doesn’t matter, does it?”
“No,” Erik says flatly, “it doesn’t.”
Not here.
X
Charles is just finishing writing up the prescription for the little girl sitting on the edge of the table when the door to his examination room is thrown open, a tall red-skinned man in an impeccably-cut suit striding in without so much as a greeting. “He will see you now.”
“I’m with a patient,” Charles says calmly, tearing off the paper from the pad and handing it to the little girl’s mother. “Get this filled at the chemist’s down the street and she’ll feel better in no time.”
“Thank you,” she replies, quickly collecting her daughter and hustling her out of the room while trying not to stare too obviously. Her discomfort and alarm radiates out in the small room, ripples in a pond, and lingers in the air even after the door swings shut again.
“You can’t barge in here when I’m with a patient,” Charles says firmly, turning at last to his visitor. “It’s unethical and I won’t abide by it. I mean it.”
Azazel smirks, probably because he does not care. “He will not be kept waiting. We go now.”
Charles sighs and accepts the offered arm because it’s not like he has a choice.
X
“Do you think there’s actually anything down here?” Charles asks over the loud rumble of the truck, which means he’s practically shouting. Still, it matters little—he thinks he could scream and no one would hear him over the sounds of their convoy as they forge their way through the inky darkness of the vast underground cavern that they’ve fallen into, lost in the void of the unknown. He’s starting to forget what fresh air tastes like.
Beside him Erik doesn’t respond at first, his eyes firmly on the narrow pathway ahead as he drives. Charles takes in his stern profile in the flickering light from the lamp that swings back and forth wildly on the side of the truck, etching the harsh cut of Erik’s jaw and cheeks into his mind. The road is winding and bumpy, the truck vibrating and rattling nonstop and for the first time in his life Charles has a headache that doesn’t stem from his telepathy. It’s practically a novelty.
“I think McCoy is a fool,” Erik replies at long last, barely audible over the noise. If Charles couldn’t hear his thoughts forming each word, precise and neat like a well-oiled machine, he wouldn’t have caught what Erik said at all. “And I think Shaw is insane.”
Charles snorts. “Well that’s a given.” He grips the seat tightly as the truck forces its way across a deep pothole, stuck for a moment until Erik gives it a shove with his power and forces them forward again. His teeth feel like they could rattle right out of his head. “But Hank is alright when you give him a chance. He’s quite brilliant, actually. He’s the only reason we’ve survived this long, after all.”
“His mission is the reason 200 men are now dead,” Erik says flatly, and Charles has no energy to refute it.
It’s hard to keep track of time without the passage of the sun to judge the hours and harder still for Charles to work out what direction they’re even going. Erik claims that they’re heading slowly but gradually downward a few degrees off from dead north and Charles is inclined to believe him over their compass that hasn’t stopped spinning ever since they resurfaced in Hank’s promised pocket of air deep beneath the ocean, fleeing the hungry beast. Charles estimates they’ve been steadily making their way through the series of looming caverns for three days now, but often it feels more like three weeks.
Later when they’ve stopped for the day, or night, or whatever this is, and they’ve had their ration of the questionable slop cooked up by Sean, Charles curls in closer to Erik’s side in their small tent that they’ve shared since the first day, or night, or whatever this is, because of Charles’ insistence. It’s not as if Erik had put up much of a fight anyway.
“You didn’t answer my question from earlier,” he says. He’d like to have sex, maybe. They did on that first night, rough and frantic even as they tried to keep it as muffled as possible, the urgency hatched straight from the relief of having both survived to reach the rocky shore of the underground cavern. But now they’re both worn and exhausted, a bone-deep ache ingrained into them from the long road.
Erik doesn’t move to accommodate him, just lies stiff and flat on his back, keeping his eyes closed even when Charles puts his head on his chest. His thoughts are a low-level buzz, comforting against the backdrop of the vast emptiness that surrounds them; it presses on Charles even more than the water did, all this hollow silence. He’s lucky that Erik is—Erik.
“There’s nothing down here,” Erik says, the words vibrating up from within the depths of his chest beneath Charles’ ear and cheek, “nothing but death.”
“There’s something down here,” Charles insists because he can feel it, like a voice whispering just on the edge of his hearing only it’s in his head and too far lost amidst the hollow silence that he doesn’t dare try to traverse alone. It would swallow him, leave him as a husk or abandoned crab shell, empty and hollow. He presses closer to Erik’s mind with his own.
“Don’t chase it,” is all Erik says. Perhaps he can sense it too, feel it like an echo from Charles’ own mind. Charles can tell that he doesn’t like it—Erik doesn’t like things he can’t fight with his bare hands.
“We’re not going to die,” Charles says adamantly, switching subjects abruptly by latching onto the latter half of what Erik said before. He can feel Erik’s hand, large and warm, slowly tracing down his side but he doesn’t move. “You’re not going to die.”
Erik makes a noncommittal sound, and Charles can’t tell whether it’s in agreement or something else but at this point he doesn’t really care as Erik’s hand has found its way down between his legs, slipping under the waistband of his trousers and gripping him firmly. Charles hisses, twisting a little where he lays half on top of Erik as the other man begins to stroke him, the dry calluses on his hand painfully perfect.
“We’re not—going to—die,” he pants out anyway, rocking helplessly into Erik’s relentless grip and Erik actually laughs, a low rumble of sound that Charles can feel reverberating through them both, and answers as his hand speeds up, “Keep telling yourself that, Charles,” and Charles gasps out a protest and moans and comes.
X
The submarine is a marvel from a technological and engineering standpoint, and Charles can’t even begin to imagine how much money Sebastian has invested into this project. He stands on the fringes of the ship’s lower deck, out of the way of the bustling activity of the crew loading up supplies, and stares up at the craft that hangs suspended by thick, heavy chains.
He can see Sebastian across the deck, closer to the gangway leading up into the submarine, one arm around Henry McCoy’s shoulders as he laughs loudly. Charles wonders if McCoy has any idea of the treachery that lurks beneath Sebastian’s shiny-slick exterior, the hidden greed and malice that is so carefully masked. Probably not. McCoy looks young and impressionable and like he still can’t quite believe his luck to even be here.
This is, after all, a perfectly crafted mission straight from the young linguist’s wildest dreams—the chance to make the biggest archaeological discovery ever in the history of the world to date, completely funded by the benevolent Mr. Sebastian Shaw. Charles can clearly remember being in McCoy’s shoes, or ones very similar to them, only a few short years ago. It’s easy to be dazzled.
“You’re thinking rather hard about something,” Emma says as she slides up beside him. She’s somehow acquired army fatigues cut for her figure in pure white, which remain spotless even here on a grimy ship.
“You can assure Sebastian that I’m not planning on running,” Charles tells her calmly even as he ups his shields. He trusts Emma Frost just about as far as he could throw her, which wouldn’t be far considering she’d probably switch to her diamond form the second he moved.
She laughs and the sound rings false, a single note of discord in her otherwise perfectly composed melody. “Oh, Charles,” she says, mockingly fond, “as if you’d have anywhere to run to.” She walks off towards Sebastian and McCoy while making it appear more like the entire world shifts beneath her instead, rearranging itself to suit her better.
Charles doesn’t let it get to him. It’s really not worth it. Instead he looks back up at the massive submarine and swallows and thinks of what it’ll be like trapped in a pressurized metal can at the bottom of the ocean with nothing but silence in his head.
The money is worth it, he tells himself, a silent mantra that he’s been chanting ever since Shaw made him the deal, the money is worth it.
X
Erik takes the doctor—Charles Xavier, he introduces himself, pleased to meet you, my friend—up from the storage hold to the mess hall and sits him down with a tray of slop and a glass of water.
Xavier only blinks at him. His blue eyes are looking a little clearer now but he still looks pale and strained, on edge despite the fact that they’ve only been on the submarine for an hour and won’t arrive at their target location off the coast of Iceland for another six at least.
“Not that I’m ungrateful,” he says when Erik merely stares back, “but why are you doing this?”
“You’re the only medic Shaw thought to include on this mission,” Erik says simply, “if you’re unwell then we all suffer.”
Xavier chuckles, but even that sounds off. “All about the cause, are you?”
“I think this mission is little more than a harebrained quest for glory that does not exist,” Erik says smoothly, mincing no words, “and I also assume that you’re in on the real scheme here, in which case I might add that it’s one big power play that in the end is going to get us all killed.”
Xavier blinks his ridiculous eyes again but to Erik’s satisfaction he doesn’t look remotely close to being surprised. “The money is worth it,” he says. He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.
Erik gives him a rare smile, teeth and all. “The money is worth it.”
Xavier smiles back grimly, picking up his fork as an excuse to lower his gaze down to his plate even though he can’t actually be interested in the food. “I’m glad we understand each other, Mr. Lehnsherr.”
“Likewise,” Erik says. They all have their reasons for being here, beyond the obvious common denominator of Shaw. It will make things a tiny bit more bearable if at least one other person isn’t trying to pretend that they’re not in this for selfish reasons.
Erik’s are…particularly selfish, in a certain light. In another they are entirely altruistic.
“This food isn’t going to help me,” Xavier says abruptly, looking back up at him. “I’m not ill because of…normal reasons.”
Erik lifts a brow.
Xavier swallows. His throat is lovely when it moves and Erik has to force himself not to stare. “I am an Omega-level telepath and we’re trapped in a box at the bottom of the ocean.”
The revelation that Xavier is a mutant is hardly news—Erik would never expect Shaw to waste his time with a baseline. A telepath, though. Now that is interesting. Erik thought that one pet telepath in Frost would be enough but apparently not. Then again, Xavier isn’t nearly as wrapped around Shaw’s finger as she is—the fact that they’re having this conversation is proof enough.
“Surely with the crew there are enough minds to tide you over.”
“250 are nothing compared to an entire city,” Xavier says flatly, “for you it’d be like walking about with one ear plugged. The ocean is…a lot of very empty space.” He sounds bleak for a moment. “The silence of emptiness, it…eats at you. I’m not used to being alone in my head, Mr. Lehnsherr.”
“Erik,” he corrects with a wave of his hand. “I’ll make you a deal, Xavier.”
“Charles,” he corrects cautiously. “I am very weary of deals, Erik.”
“This is a good one.” Erik holds his gaze unblinkingly. “Focus in on me. That should help, shouldn’t it?”
Charles’ eyes have widened slightly. “A great deal, yes,” he agrees slowly. “But you realize that there would be no privacy between you and I as far as your thoughts are concerned.”
“Of course.”
“I would not delve deeply,” Charles says haltingly. “But your surface thoughts I won’t be able to help overhearing.”
“You don’t have to convince me, Charles, seeing as I’ve already made up my mind.”
“Then,” Charles asks, still wary, “in exchange, I…?”
“Keep Frost out of my head entirely,” Erik answers readily.
Charles studies him for a moment. Erik might actually like him when he doesn’t bother asking why. “That is easily done. Very well, Erik.” He licks his lips. “We have a deal.”
Erik can already feel a curling warmth in the back of his head as Charles carefully settles in, so flippantly he thinks about the red of Charles’ lips and how splendid they would look wrapped around his cock. Charles instantly flushes red, color returning to his cheeks in a rush, and Erik has to grin as he holds out his hand. “A pleasure doing business with you.”
To his credit Charles shakes his hand firmly, meeting his gaze despite his lingering blush. “Yes,” he says, “a pleasure.”
X
“Atlantis, my good man, Atlantis!” Sebastian lounges back in his chair, his legs folded casually so that his ankle rests on his knee. “I’ve found a promising young man who will be able to lead the way. It’s all already taken care of and set to go. I just need you, dear doctor, to say yes.”
“I couldn’t possibly refuse such an opportunity, could I?” Charles murmurs, keeping his gaze on the fish tank that covers one entire wall and stands as high as the ceiling. Florescent-colored fish dart in schools around barnacled rocks. Ostentatious as befits the man himself.
Sebastian’s eyes glitter in the odd half light glow from the tank that swathes them both in pale blue. “You’ll be paid, of course. Well enough to square away the last of your debt, I imagine.”
Charles looks at him sharply, searching his face for the lie that he knows lurks beneath the false promise. “Forgive me if I remain skeptical, Mr. Shaw.”
Sebastian laughs and lifts his wineglass in a gesture of careless acknowledgement. “You have ample reason to be. But this time I can assure you that your debt to me will be cleared in full.”
“I want it in writing,” Charles says immediately. “Twice.”
“So eager to be rid of me?” Sebastian asks with a chuckle but he’s already reaching into a drawer and pulling out two documents, sliding them onto the table. “I’m wounded, Charles.”
“Nothing personal,” Charles says blandly even though it is every single bit personal and has been since the beginning of Sebastian holding this over his head for eight long years now, “I am merely interested in being able to wholly focus on my practice instead of worrying about what I—rightfully—owe you. A clear conscience makes for better medicine.”
“Admirable,” Sebastian says idly as he signs each document with a flourish of thick black ink. Charles watches each of his cursive letters form, wide and looping. “I always knew you’d make a good doctor. That’s only ever why I helped you in the first place, you know.”
“I’m sure.” Charles says without inflection. He doesn’t wait for the ink to dry, pushing himself to his feet and picking up both of the documents, shuffling them together on the edge of the table. “Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Shaw.”
Sebastian remains relaxed and at ease in his chair, regarding Charles over the rim of his wineglass much like a lazy predator eyeing prey poised on the verge of fleeing. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at the harbor, Charles. Bright and early.”
“I look forward to it.” Charles scans the typed letter in his hands briefly. Everything seems to be in order. It’s a sudden relief—a heavy weight suddenly gone from his chest, allowing him to breathe properly for the first time. With this, he can be free.
“Azazel can return you to your office, if you’d like.” Sebastian makes to reach for the bell that will call the red-skinned man back to the lavish study.
“No—no,” Charles says quickly. Teleportation always leaves him with an uncomfortable addled feeling, as if his brain has been scrambled like an egg. “I’ll see myself out and walk. Enjoy the feeling of…dry land for now.”
Sebastian laughs again. “Quaint. Do enjoy your stroll, Charles. Until tomorrow, then.”
Charles takes his leave, and if his back is tensed the entire time half in expectation for a knife to find its way between his shoulder blades, that’s his own personal, cagey prerogative.
X
Erik takes him against the bulkhead later, lifting him clear off his feet in the cramped corner they practically fall into while Charles wards off the attentions of anyone who happens to pass by. Charles parts his legs willingly and wraps them around Erik’s narrow waist, tipping his head back against the metal with a dull thunk. They’re breathing raggedly and Charles isn’t sure how they got here in the first place because Erik’s mind is hot and bright against his own just as his mouth is hot and insistent against his own and Charles is dizzy with the sensation of being consumed alive.
“Erik,” he says, or maybe he thinks it straight into Erik’s head but either way it doesn’t matter. The next sound he makes is closer to a whine that starts low in the base of his throat when Erik grinds their bodies together, a full press of long flat muscles as Erik kisses him again to muffle the desperate sounds that are spilling out of—someone’s mouth. Charles can’t tell anymore where he ends and Erik begins.
When Erik gets their belts open without using his hands Charles loses his concentration on his own power at the way Erik’s mind practically glows with the usage of his and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He tries to tell Erik this but the words get caught between his tongue and teeth, thoughts shuddering to a halt as Erik pushes up into him slowly.
It hurts and burns and Charles is dimly aware of a few stray tears welling up at the corners of his eyes but it’s all nothing compared to the searing tidal wave of want and pleasure and lust from Erik that bowls him over and leaves him breathless. It’s enough to tide Charles over, losing himself in the current and rocking into Erik’s every upward thrust. The pain becomes a flicker of memory as something deeper and richer settles in—it still burns, but it burns good.
“You,” Erik breathes into his mouth, steely eyes glazed as he erodes Charles away in both mind and body, and perhaps this is how Atlantis felt when it was swallowed whole by the sea, “you—”
They come together, that first time, and Charles is always grateful for how they remain as they are for a few long minutes afterwards, allowing the rush of his blood and the pounding of his heart to settle, much like the ocean after a storm.
X
“Would you just look at the size of this!” Hank exclaims at the foot of the pillar, gesturing wildly as his excited voice echoes through the bottomless chasm below. “It’s gotta be, what, half a mile tall at least!”
Angel snorts derisively beside Charles where they stand back several yards away by the lead truck. “Overestimating it a little, isn’t he?”
Charles smiles ruefully. “It is rather impressive, though.” Which is true, at the very least—while not quite half a mile high, the column is at least fifty feet in diameter and carved ornately, standing tall and proud on the edge of the dark abyss. There’s no doubt it’s a relic from Atlantis, a relief in of itself: at least something is down here, something besides the hint of voices that almost whisper in his head.
Charles’ eyes are drawn more to Erik, crouched nearby where Hank stands and bent over his task of wiring his carefully-placed explosives together. Charles has little interest in groundbreaking archaeological evidence of an ancient civilization previously thought to be a myth in the face of the long, graceful curve of Erik’s back and ass, stark in the harsh lantern light that swings haphazardly in Hank’s hand. Charles sometimes wonders if Erik himself was sculpted from stone, carved meticulously by a perfectionist who couldn’t bear to leave a single contour out of place.
“It must have taken hundreds—no, thousands of years to carve this thing,” Hank babbles on in wide-eyed wonder even as Erik straightens, brushing his hands off and catching the linguist by the shoulder, towing him back and away from the column.
“Oh dear,” Charles says faintly as Erik tosses Hank down to the ground beside the fuse box located just far enough back, and then he closes his eyes when Erik kneels to push the lever down before the linguist can get another word in edgewise, setting off the dynamite with an explosion that makes the rock beneath their feet tremble.
He opens his eyes again in time to watch as the base of the giant pillar crumbles and the stone topples forward with a crash, falling horizontally across the chasm, reaching all the way to the other side. Hank’s mouth is open in shock as he scrambles to his feet, slowly approaching the fallen relic with something close to horror, staring at it wordlessly as the dust settles.
“Hey look, I made a bridge,” Erik tells him, and Charles knows Erik well enough by now to catch the dry humor circling just below his flat tone, “it only took me, what, ten seconds? Eleven tops.”
Angel laughs and swings herself back up into the truck she rides with Sean, and Charles waits for Erik as he winds up his remaining wire and collects his fuse box, hefting it over one shoulder as he walks back towards the waiting convoy.
“Erik,” Charles says when he’s close enough, falling into step beside him and together they walk back towards their own truck as Shaw calls for the company to continue forward now that the way is clear.
“Just doing my job, Charles,” Erik tells him, nudging him towards the cab when Charles tries to follow him around to the back of the truck, “can’t fault me for that. Get in and get it started for me, will you?”
Charles sighs and climbs in, leaning over to twist the key in the ignition even though Erik could probably do it himself. The engine roars to life and he draws his legs and feet up onto the seat, curling in on himself as he watches the first of their five remaining trucks slowly roll out onto the makeshift bridge and suddenly has an awful thought.
“How much dynamite do you have left?” he asks when Erik rejoins him, sliding into the driver’s seat and shifting the gears without even touching them. He keeps his gaze forward, hugging his knees.
Erik eases the truck back into line, tires crunching over rock and rubble. When he answers, he doesn’t look over at Charles either. “Not enough.”
X
“You two make quite a pair.” Sebastian smiles at them indulgently when they arrive on the bridge of the submarine and like all of his smiles it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Erik bristles beside him, concealed but still there, especially to Charles who now grounds himself entirely in the metalbender and can feel every last synapse in Erik’s brain firing with hatred for the man who stands beside the captain at the wheel, but Charles only says, “I’m glad to have met someone who can play chess nearly as well as I can, it will certainly make time pass a little faster.”
“You don’t actually believe this mission will be boring, do you?” Sebastian asks, still wearing his indulgent smile. “This is the most exciting place to be standing on the planet, gentlemen! We’re on an adventure.”
“I don’t want to get my hopes up,” Charles responds neutrally. Emma stands on the opposite end of the deck, watching them with narrowed eyes, but it’s small matter to keeper her from infiltrating either his own mind or Erik’s. Their deal aside, Charles has no desire to allow Emma to glean what exactly they’d actually been doing before receiving the summons to the bridge.
He can still feel the press of the bulkhead against his back, the press of Erik against his front, and the press of Erik’s cock inside his ass.
“Can we make this quick?” Angel Salvadore asks, folding her arms. “I’ve got a couple tune-ups I need to get to so I’d appreciate it if we could make this quick.” She has a smudge of grease on one cheek and looks like she’ll punch the first person who brings it up. Her mind is an odd mixture of turning gears and wisps of cloud tinged with the burn of acid rain—or perhaps carburetor fuel.
“Surely the engine room can wait for what Henry has to share with us?” Sebastian beams as McCoy trips into the room, nearly banging his head on the low frame of the door. “It’s always good to know what we’re in for, and Henry here has a little presentation for us explaining just that.”
Angel sighs and blows her bangs out of her face with a puff of breath, and Charles can feel Erik rolling his eyes, equally unimpressed. Charles tries to listen as McCoy starts to blather about underwater passageways and pockets of air deep underground but he’s still dazed and blindsided by Erik and he has to consciously keep himself from closing his eyes where he stands and drift off towards the alluring pull of Erik’s mind that he has anchored himself to; a trench of secrets that he has promised not to touch.
“I used to take lunch money from guys like this,” Angel mutters, and amusement rolls in waves off of Erik despite his blank expression as they watch McCoy fumble with slides for the whirring projector.
“It’s called the leviathan,” McCoy explains, flustered. His mind is flighty, with strands of thought in four different languages stretching off into several different subjects at once, translating and drawing connections in flashes that Charles can’t follow. He puts up a slide of an old piece of pottery that depicts a giant lobster-like monster tearing a ship in half. “This is the creature that is said to guard the entrance to Atlantis. It’s probably not real, though, and more likely it’s just a carving or a sculpture to ward off the superstitious.”
With something like that I’d have white wine, I think, Erik deliberately projects and Charles has to stop himself from snorting.
“Commander. Commander, you should hear this.” The scratchy smoker’s voice of the radio operator cuts in, overriding both spoken word and thought as Charles blinks, refocusing. “I’m picking up something on the sonar.”
“Put it on speaker,” Sebastian says, and moments later a deep, eerie sound is echoing through the bridge, making the hair on the back of Charles’ neck stand on end. It lasts for several long seconds, rising and falling in pitch and Charles finds himself peering forward out the front view of the submarine in a vain attempt to see forward through the gloom of the water. All that’s there is the craggy ocean floor, bare and desolate, illuminated by the sub’s sweeping floodlights only so far before the inky blackness becomes impenetrable.
“What is that?” Emma asks calmly, voicing the thought she can probably hear first and foremost on everyone’s mind.
“A pod of whales?” Sebastian suggests, and then Charles hits the deck face-first when the sub rocks viciously and everything goes straight to hell.
X
The money is worth it, Charles thinks on repeat, the money is worth it.
X
“You know we’ve been pretty tough on Hank,” Charles says in a low voice as they sit around the campfire waiting for Sean to bring over whatever questionable concoction he’s prepared for dinner. He’s looking across at the linguist, who sits by himself at a small camper table, nose deep in his book. “Don’t you think we should cut him some slack?”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Angel says with an exaggerated sigh when Erik says nothing, staring into the fire. She swivels on her upturned bucket and calls, “Hey Hank, why don’t you come sit with us?”
Hank perks up at once and fumbles awkwardly over to join them and their ragtag group of ten or so, pleased to finally be included. Charles watches Erik, pressing close to his mind but not intruding on the tangle of thoughts as he’d promised. This is the fifth or sixth day they’ve been down here and Erik’s thoughts are tinged with the bone-deep weariness that they all have now and yet they still burn bright—Erik’s not finished, not yet. Not until he achieves his end goal, the only reason he allowed Shaw to twist his arm into coming on this mission to begin with.
You’re going to kill him, Charles thinks, the first time either of them have brought the subject to light even though Erik must know that Charles knows, for why else would he want Charles to shield his mind from Frost if not to conceal the fact that he is constantly thinking of his plans, running over them again and again, a constant underground stream of thought with a deadly current that takes no prisoners.
Are you going to stop me? Erik’s eyes glitter in the firelight, the glow throwing strange shadows across the lines of his face.
No, Charles answers because he doesn’t care about Shaw or what happens to him, but he does care about Erik. You don’t have to die with him.
Charles. Erik’s mental voice is heavy with a different sort of weariness, one not gained from their long days of spelunking. What other end to this could you possibly see? He’s a mutant too. Do you know what a joke it is, to have me along as his ‘dynamite expert.’
Charles has to physically stop himself from reaching across the scant space in between them and taking Erik’s hand in his. They’ve kept their—whatever it is, between them, quiet, and he’s sure Erik wouldn’t appreciate drawing attention to it now even though he’s sure the others must know by now. How could they not, when Charles can barely take his eyes off Erik as it is and Erik stays close like a shadow, every motion of his body screaming back off.
I know what he is. Charles has seen it, or hints of it, on the edges of Shaw’s mind before throughout the long years he’s known the man. I don’t understand why he has to die—I’m not going to ask, he says, when Erik looks ready to kick Charles out of his head entirely, and I’m not going to pry. God knows he probably deserves it. But you don’t have to throw away your life like this.
Why are you here, Charles, Erik thinks, his mind like an iceberg floating in cold, black water, what does a doctor need money for.
“Because that’s what all this is about, isn’t it?” Hank is saying cheerfully, both of them abruptly aware again that the world doesn’t contain only the two of them. “Discovery, teamwork, adventure!” He looks around at them all sheepishly. “Unless you’re all, uh…only in it for the money.”
“Money,” Angel says flippantly with a lift of her shoulder.
“Money,” Erik says mechanically.
“Money,” Charles says and holds Erik’s gaze unblinkingly.
“Well, I guess I set myself up for that one,” Hank admits with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck ruefully.
“I’m saving up,” Angel explains, stretching, “so my Papi and I can expand and open up a second shop. He’s the one who taught me everything I know about engines, so I want to help his business.”
“Oh,” Hank says, smiling now. He looks at Erik but seems to think better of it, and his gaze slides to Charles. “What about you, Dr. Xavier?”
“I was young when my stepfather had me disinherited,” Charles answers, though he’s still looking at Erik, “and Mr. Shaw graciously stepped in and paid for my medical school tuition. He also backed the free clinic that I currently run.”
“That’s generous of him,” Hank says, though his eyes flick between them uncertainly.
“It was,” Charles allows, “though I don’t like being indebted to him—it would feel wrong, never paying him back. The money he would pay me for signing on to this mission will settle that debt.” I never should have accepted his help, he adds silently to Erik alone, but I was young and impressionable and at that point I was at a very dead end.
You’ve done other things like this for him. Erik’s face doesn’t change, something which is comforting at the very least. Like this mission.
He’s held my debt over my head for eight years now, Charles answers quietly. But after this mission is over, I’ll be free.
He will never let you go, Erik thinks flatly with a heavy sort of finality that drops down between them like a stone sinking in water.
“What about you, Erik?” Angel asks when it becomes clear that Hank isn’t going to ask. “What’re you going to do with your paycheck, hm? Buy more dynamite?” she teases. “A big empty mountain, too, maybe, to set it all off on?”
“Hardly,” Erik says, moving his gaze away from Charles’ on purpose, “I’m going to open a flower shop.”
Angel laughs. “No way, come on. Tell us the truth!”
“That is the truth,” Erik says over the other disbelieving laughs with a small shrug, “a small flower shop on the corner somewhere. Any kind of flower you want. We’ll have it.”
Charles sits frozen on the edge of his seat because beneath the laughter and teasing from the rest of their companions as they try to cajole and pry the truth out of Erik, Erik shows him just a tiny piece of the rest of the iceberg that lies hidden beneath the surface, recalling up a memory that he projects straight into Charles’ head with brutal clarity: Erik as a young boy, sitting on the edge of the counter in a shop—a smiling woman, Mama—flower shop—explosion, flowers burning, the entire building going up in flames and smoke—Sebastian Shaw smiling his terrible smile, she’s dead, son, why don’t you come with me, I’ll take care of you—
Charles chokes on the phantom pain of ash and bile rising in his throat and the memory cuts off, withdrawing back beneath the glassy smooth surface. He’s breathing heavily, panting like he’s run a mile, but fortunately no one seems to notice; the conversation has moved on to the subject of Atlantis, with Hank talking animatedly about what he’s read in his book.
Erik is watching him, though, and his gaze cuts to the bone. That is why Shaw must die, he says, whether I go down with him or not is of little consequence. That is why there is nothing for me down here but death. He pushes himself up to his feet and walks away from the gathering around the fire, stepping out of the ring of light.
Charles sits frozen for a little while longer feeling none of the warmth from the flames and all he can think is, But it matters to me.
X
“Oh,” Charles says the first time Erik kisses him, a mere hour after finding him down in the storage hold, like he’s actually surprised that Erik has done it.
“Oh,” Charles says when Erik yanks him into the tiny little alcove, hoisting him up against the bulkhead, kissing him again.
“Erik,” Charles says when Erik fucks him right there, reciprocating willingly, clinging to Erik both physically and mentally and Erik can’t have enough of him.
He’s just a means to an end, he thinks to himself, so loudly it’s a small wonder Charles doesn’t overhear him, he’s just a means to an end.
X
Later when he fumbles frantically with the straps on the bench of the escape pod to strap Charles in safely as the leviathan tears the submarine apart and the doctor looks up at him with dazed blue eyes, Erik can only think I will protect you until the end.
He’s not sure if Charles hears him or not.
It’s probably better that way.
X
The Atlanteans are a surprise, first and foremost because they’re there and still alive, and only secondly because of their scaly blue skin, though in hindsight Charles supposes he’s not sure what he should’ve been expecting anyway. They’re friendly too, once Hank flips through his impressive arsenal of languages and settles at last on English so everyone can understand, and their princess, who calls herself something long and complicated that starts with an M but more simply just Raven, welcomes them into her city, leading them out across a long wooden bridge over a pit of churning magma to the ruined utopia of Atlantis that sits atop a plateau of water.
Charles tries to take in the sights of the city during their long procession upwards to where the king holds court but he can’t bring himself to feel anything besides weary numbness, a sentiment he can tell is shared by everyone except perhaps Hank, Shaw, and Frost—Hank because at long last his dreams have come true, and Shaw and Frost because they are nothing but glittering-eyed anticipation for what is to come.
The whispering in his head is getting louder, like the ruined buildings themselves are trying to tell him something.
“I hope they’re not cannibalistic,” Charles attempts to crack a joke even as he waves back to the smiling Atlanteans who have gathered along the road to watch the convoy pass. He doesn’t even need to scan their minds to know that they are utterly harmless and hold the same amount of ill intent as kittens.
There’s been an underlying tension between them ever since last night, even though when Charles finally mustered up the strength and energy to leave the campfire behind as well and caught up to Erik at their tent they hadn’t exchanged any more words about anything at all, and instead Charles allowed Erik to pin him down against the sleeping pad and fuck him, hips pistoning like a machine, rough and fast and mechanical but desperate. Charles isn’t sure what Erik’s trying to convince himself of besides the fact of knowing how Erik’s thoughts have been churning in turmoil ever since, frothing and murky like a stirred-up sea.
“I wish that they were,” is all Erik says in reply and Charles knows that he is joking. Mostly.
Despite the eager welcome of the princess the Atlantean king looks at them with old, knowing eyes and orders them to leave the city at once. Charles stands silently behind Erik as Shaw steps forward, oily as a fish, and charms his way into earning them one night’s rest within the city before promising that their departure in the morning will be swift and final. He sees that the king does not believe them even as he acquiesces and this is when Charles begins to feel sick.
“This way,” Erik murmurs in his ear, one hand on his hip to guide him away from the rest of the group as they’re led back down to where they will be allowed to camp for the evening and Charles doesn’t even protest, letting Erik steer him to a private, empty pavilion further away from all the others and stands still in the center while Erik draws the draperies down one by one to shield them from view.
“There weren’t supposed to be people here,” Charles says numbly. “The stupid—Heart of Atlantis. What Shaw wants—there weren’t supposed to be people here, Erik.”
“Shh,” Erik shushes him, bearing him down onto the soft cushions scattered across the pavilion floor and Charles’ head is spinning because he is exhausted and there are voices in his head saying things that he cannot understand and Erik—Erik is—
“You’re going to do it,” he says, hands coming up to grasp at Erik’s shirt as if he can somehow hold Erik down like an anchor and keep him from being swept away by the tides of revenge, “you’re going to—Erik—”
“He’s not going to hurt anyone anymore,” Erik murmurs against his lips, stretched out over him between his legs as a solid, warm weight, and Charles parts his lips with a small moan to let Erik in, in, in, braiding their thoughts together like a fisherman mending a net, tight and strong and unbreaking. Charles suspects he might be more like the fish, caught wriggling in Erik’s net from the start, completely and utterly lost.
“Stay,” he pleads, a moment of weakness where his voice almost cracks and later he’ll almost but not quite hate himself for it while here and now in the present he can only clutch at Erik, so, so tired. “I—you—”
“Charles,” Erik says, two warm hands cupping his face and smoothing back his dirty hair from his forehead, gentle and soft, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The not yet remains unspoken for now.
X
“There’s something here,” is the first thing Charles says upon stumbling onto the rocky shore, his face pale and his eyes wide. “Erik. There’s something here.”
“The leviathan is gone,” Erik answers him, looking at him strangely. His adrenaline is still rushing, heart still pounding wildly from their scraping escape. “There’s nothing here.”
Charles shakes his head, blue eyes wide. “There’s something here,” he says, “I can hear it in my head.”
X
“There you boys are,” Shaw says on the morning after they make it to the underground cave, smiling as he walks around the side of the truck. “Dear Emma couldn’t find you and I was certain we hadn’t lost either of you to the leviathan.”
“What is it that you need, Shaw?” Erik asks shortly without looking up from where he’s washing his face.
Shaw chuckles. “Always directly to the point, aren’t you? I just want to remind you both of our plan.”
“Are you actually serious about continuing with this mission?” Charles asks, climbing to his feet. “We barely made it here alive—200 men are now dead and we’re trapped down here with no way of contacting anyone.” Emma had tried whistling for Azazel, left on the surface in charge of the ship, last night but the teleporter hadn’t shown up. They’re too far down.
“200 humans,” Shaw answers with a shrug, so casually dismissive that for a moment all Charles can do is gape at him. “Really, don’t let it get to you, Charles. Think of it this way—it works better for you because now I don’t have to divvy the payout between so many people. You couldn’t ask for a better—”
“It doesn’t matter if they were mutants or humans,” Charles hisses as Erik straightens slowly, “they weren’t just trash that you can toss aside! You don’t even know if the Heart of Atlantis is real—”
Erik puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once, and Charles falls silent though he stares hard at Shaw, white with rage. Shaw’s cold snake eyes flicker down to Erik’s hand once before tracking back up to each of their faces in turn.
“Keep an eye on the doctor for me, will you, Erik,” he says pleasantly, “I wouldn’t want him to get any sudden noble ideas. That would be a…shame.”
Erik merely nods and Shaw makes his way back around the truck towards the rest of their makeshift camp. Charles turns immediately in the opposite direction and Erik holds his sides when he begins to dry heave, running his fingers up and down soothingly before settling his hands on Charles’ hips entirely, tracing slow circles against his hip bones all while Charles tries to unclog his chest and throat and breathe again. When he’s finally able to straighten Erik allows him to press close, the truck still thankfully blocking them from sight.
“There’s no room for second thoughts here,” Erik tells him quietly.
“The money’s not worth it,” Charles whispers into Erik’s chest and Erik just keeps running one hand up and down his back slowly, looking out across the lake they emerged from only hours ago.
“It’s just a means to an end,” Erik says distantly, and this is when Charles begins to understand.
X
Charles actually takes notice of Erik first while they’re still on the deck of the ship, before the submarine has even touched saltwater for the first time. It’s not how he’s curtly directing the crewmen on how to load his explosive cargo properly, clipped German accent carrying, nor even is it the admittedly desirable figure he cuts, standing with his arms folded as he oversees them all with the air of barely-contained impatience, a shark in the center of a school of bait fish.
Oh, is Charles’ first thought, what a lovely mind.
X
Erik is gentle this time which is almost cruel, first taking Charles into his mouth with all warm suction while Charles gasps and pants to the ceiling of the pavilion, hands fisted in two separate cushions. The voices in his head have faded somewhat, overpowered by Erik’s bright, vivid presence and proximity, nearly enough to burn shadows away—it’s almost too much.
When he’s spent himself in Erik’s mouth Erik only swallows, lapping at him, and then moves down, hiking Charles’ legs up around his shoulders so he can press an open-mouthed kiss against Charles’ clenching hole, pushing his tongue inside and licking until Charles is sobbing, hips thrusting up with what little leverage he has left in a desperate bid for more. Erik keeps him there, teetering on the edge of just this side of rational, though the longer his licks become and the deeper his probing tongue reaches the harder Charles trembles, meaningless babble pouring from his lips like a waterfall of incoherency.
His legs fall open bonelessly when Erik lowers him back down and as Erik fucks him so slow and deep he can taste it in his throat, Charles casts his mind out and sinks into every crevice of Erik’s and stays there, because he can’t fix the shipwreck of Erik’s past but he’ll take all the flotsam and jetsam Erik has left—if only, if only Erik would realize how fiercely bright his mind is for Charles and has been all along, a lighthouse beacon in the empty darkness of the void.
Charles comes for a second time with Erik’s hand on his cock and his voice in his ear, saying, “You’ve been a bright spot in the dark too.”
X
Erik doesn’t look at Charles the next morning when he pushes the rifle into the telepath’s hands because he knows what Charles is thinking and that Charles knows what he’s thinking and this is all one huge spiraling whirlpool—and perhaps it’s been that way from the start—but the time is now; he can’t stop, not when he’s finally so close.
“Hello, Henry,” Shaw says with a pleasant smile, “have a nice swim?”
Erik sees Charles look away when McCoy looks up at them all from where he hangs off the ledge of the pool of water, realization and betrayal flashing through his eyes at everyone else staring back, automatic weapons not yet pointed at him though the message is clear. Perhaps if the boy hadn’t been so foolishly naïve he would have known this was coming.
“I’m more of an Adventure Capitalist, son,” Shaw assures him, openly gloating beside a sneering Frost, and Erik can feel every individual piece of metal in the gun he holds in his hands and yet that will still not be enough. “You’re going to show me where the Heart of Atlantis is hidden, and then we’ll be on our way.”
Raven is impressive when she leaps out from the lake water and fights like a tigress, nearly killing one man before two more finally subdue her and drag her to her feet. Erik doesn’t miss how her golden eyes flicker to McCoy’s and ah, now it’s grown beyond personal for the boy too. McCoy is hauled up out of the water dripping and shivering and then their company of over-armed men is marching on the king’s audience chambers with little to stand in their way, not with the princess as a hostage in front of her peaceful people.
Charles drops his gun and runs to the fallen king’s side after Shaw’s deadly blow, and Emma throws Erik a triumphant smirk as she, Shaw, McCoy, and Raven sink below the ground on the platform in the middle of the room, down to where the Heart of Atlantis resides. Still Erik waits, for Shaw to get what he’s been after for several long years now—what better time to kill him, then when he thinks he’s already won?—and watches Charles’ deft hands, broad but gentle, as he does what he can for the dying Atlantean king.
“This is messed up,” Angel says uneasily in a low voice, shifting on the balls over her feet, “when we came there weren’t supposed to be people here.”
“People matter little to Sebastian Shaw,” Erik tells her without looking away from Charles, “in the end we’re just sand to be eroded away.”
“I didn’t know you were poetic,” Angel says, but her dark eyes are considering, her grip on her rifle not quite as firm as before.
“I’m not,” Erik says. Charles glances up at him briefly.
“Sure, flower shop boy,” Angel says, right before a shockwave of blue light rips through the city originating from whatever lies beneath their feet and Erik sees Charles go rigid, freezing in place.
Erik—
It’s an aborted thought, surprised and confused, and then Charles crumples forward and Erik is not sure how he ends up on his knees beside him, gun tossed aside and clutching his body close, trying to understand what’s happening and Charles answer me—
“Raven has merged with the Heart of Atlantis,” Shaw announces it like it’s the weather, ascending from the depths below like some kind of messiah straight from a nightmare, “let’s pack her up, gentlemen.”
“You can’t do this!” McCoy is snarling but Emma shoves a gun in his face and he backs off, eyes burning bright and Charles isn’t responding, limp in Erik’s arms, and enough is enough.
“Pity it had to end this way,” Shaw tells McCoy as the glowing crystalline figure of Raven is loaded into a steel safe like a statue for the Louvre, “I’d hoped that we’d understand each other better, as fellow mutants. What a shame.”
“Yes,” Erik says, carefully lowering Charles down and reaching out to grip all of the guns with his power, and it has to be enough, “it is.”
X
Where am I, he thinks.
With the kings of old, Raven answers, her mind swirling playfully like a dolphin even as it crackles with tangible power, blue and terrible, this is a sacred place.
I don’t belong here, he says, I think this was a mistake.
Not a bad one, though, she replies gently. You don’t have to be afraid. They’ve been calling us from the start.
I’m not afraid, he says and the ring of truth is surprising. Not for myself.
Good, Raven says, the hint of a laugh curling around the thought, and you shouldn’t be. Everything will be alright. All is good.
Oh, Charles thinks as he spreads his arms wide with Raven to stop the oncoming tsunami of magma, blue light shining bright like a second sun to shield Atlantis from a second sinking, this time the kind it would not so readily survive.
The magma makes a hard, dense shell as it loses its heat and cracks little by little, a spider web of neon blue light that finally bursts outwards, turning rock to dust and leaving Atlantis standing, ready to weather the long passage of time for countless centuries to come.
I suppose you’re right, he says, and Raven laughs delightedly.
X
Charles wakes to a hand cupping his cheek, one callused thumb smoothing the skin beneath his eye. The world is blurry, but he doesn’t need his vision to know.
“You’re still alive,” he croaks, reaching up to cover the hand with his own.
“Shaw isn’t.”
“Ah,” Charles says with a bob of his head, eyes drifting shut again because he’s so very tired and would very much like to rest, “that’s good. She was right.”
“She?” Another hand is positioning him gently, settling him back against a warm body. The voices that have been whispering in his head ever since they washed up on the rocky lake shore are silent and gone, leaving him in peace.
“Raven,” Charles tries to explain, though words are starting to grow heavy in his mouth, “she—she said. All is good.”
“Yes,” Erik says, a small chuckle rumbling up from within the depths of his chest, echoed by the warm glow of his mind that envelopes Charles like a blanket, “it is.”
X
“I think I’ll stay,” McCoy decides, his fingers laced with Raven’s, and Erik thinks that he’ll be just fine.
X
Charles finishes writing up the prescription for the little boy sitting on the edge of the table and escorts him and his mother out of the office, wishing them a good day and locking the doors behind himself, stepping out into the bright and sunny street. A breeze ruffles his hair and he’ll never tire of the taste of fresh air, not for a long time.
The path he takes is well-trodden, footsteps falling automatically as he navigates the sidewalk with old ease, straight down the street to the shop on the corner with the bell on the door that jingles the same way every time, the earthy smell of freshly cut flowers wafting up immediately, comforting and familiar.
Erik leans against the counter and doesn’t straighten even as Charles approaches, though he lazily offers Charles a single brilliantly purple orchid that Charles accepts, twirling the stem between his fingers once to admire it before carefully laying it aside in favor of reaching over to take Erik’s face in his hands and kissing him deeply, his mind lapping quietly at the shores of Erik’s own.
“Having second thoughts yet?” Erik asks when they part only far enough to rest their foreheads together, an old line that they can at least use for humor now.
“None,” Charles assures him, lips curling in a smile bright like sunlight reflecting off waves, “none at all.”