Title: Souvenir
Fandom: XMFC
Rating: G
Length: ~1300
Content notes: XM-DoFP!Charles, angry, depressed and in denial. Enjoy!
Author notes: stewardess's superpower is clarity.:)
Summary: a shattered lamp would have been so much preferable



Of all the many, many things Charles misses with a searing, never-ending anger, simple pacing is right up there. Fucking idiots. How the fuck did they think he'd react, popping up in Charles's own house like the ghost of Christmas future and demanding that he turn his life inside out? Christ.

Charles is, as always, in his room, which is in fact his old, ground floor study, after all this time still the only minimally accessible room in the mansion. If asked, though no one does ask anymore, Charles will claim he hasn't the energy to make the massive changes that would allow him to inhabit the entire place, although he always seems to have plenty of energy to obstruct Hank's attempts to order the work done. But Hank has largely given up, as well, bringing Charles his meals and clearing them away, little touched, without comment. Hank doesn't meet Charles's eyes these days, which makes it easier for Charles to imagine there's no pity there.

Of course "accessible room" means only that the furniture has been packed into one end, wing chairs and occasional tables stacked atop massive leather couches to make space for an adjustable bed, the rugs, thick like sand, pushed back to provide a straight shot to the bathroom, itself barely usable. But then Charles has plenty of time these days to wrangle himself around an unaccommodating bathroom. After all, as Hank used to think loudly and often, Charles does fuck all else.

Hank probably still thinks that, though Charles no longer knows. He has become expert at ruthlessly corralling his telepathy. Charles's relationship with the world inverted that day in October; it's a powerful motivator for control when one absolutely does not want to know what anyone else in the vicinity is thinking, because they are most likely thinking about you and none of their thoughts are good. Not like the old days, eh? Not at all.

Charles is of two minds whether this perversion of his favorite room is a retreat or a trap, but hiding is fine. Completely appropriate.

So Charles propels himself around the room, following the longest path possible. An acute triangle, as it turns out, north passageway door (the other is blocked) to bathroom door, past the narrow bed and the dust-choked fireplace to his desk, and back to the passageway door, moving in frustrated jerks, wrenching the chair in the turns and cursing the intrusion of the telephone table's claw-footed legs into his path because it's safer than cursing his own. The fifth time he approaches the turn at the desk, a narrow shaft of sunlight sneaking unwanted through the heavy, red velvet drapes catches the glass of the desk lamp, making it glow, and he stops.

Charles rolls up to the desk. There's space for his chair, but the height is wrong and he hasn't bothered in a very long time. The soft glow of the colored glass amidst the midden pile of paper, unanswerable and intolerable, overwhelms him, what was and what is in stark, desperately avoided contrast. White hot rage boils up with a suddenness that makes him ill and, anchoring himself with his left hand, he lunges forward to sweep his right arm through the morass. His clouded, roaring mind harbors a dim intention of shoving the wretchedly beautiful lamp to its destruction, but before he can reach so far, his palm strikes something hard and cold under the mass of shifting paper. His hand closes on the object, drawing it into his lap.

* * * * *

Charles paced back and forth at the end of the long bar, waiting for word from Miss Salvadore so they could leave Club Lucky Star behind. He chafed as always at the inefficiency of face to face communication, but impatience could easily undo their work of the evening. Erik lounged on the last stool, looking relaxed, though alert (when was he not) and more than a little bemused. He was fiddling idly with a glass ashtray, feeling its smoothness, trying to set it spinning on one axis or another, but with no particular result because his eyes never left Charles.

The evening had been an unquestionable success. Professionally, they had found and recruited a fascinating mutant from the list Hank compiled. Personally? Well. Charles wasn't yet entirely clear on the reason, but working together to intrigue Angel had loosened something in Erik. Perhaps the way they had played off each other. Charles hadn't noted a great deal of humor in Erik to that point, but had taken a chance and won. Erik's startled laughter when Charles showed him what he'd shown Angel was a treasure Charles held close.

Just then Angel appeared, eyes wide above the huge collar of her voluminous wrap. "I wasn't sure you were real." She held out a slip of paper.

Charles fished an envelope from his inside pocket and handed it to Angel in exchange. "Oh, we are," he smirked, projecting a faint glimpse of Erik in cocktail dress and wig.

Angel snickered. "Gotta run. See you guys soon." She vanished.

Charles turned to see Erik grinning, sharp as always but with a subtle sweetness that took Charles's breath. While Charles watched, Erik tipped a nod towards the ashtray in his hand and, slipping the heavy glass into his jacket pocket, headed for the door.

Charles stood for a moment, puzzled, trying to imagine any reason at all why Erik would filch an ashtray from a tawdry strip club. It made no sense. Neither of them smoked, and as far as Charles had observed, Erik was not one for souvenirs. He seemed to keep nothing unnecessary about him, and glass, however hefty, was hardly his weapon of choice. It took several heartbeats for Charles to accept the mystery and follow Erik out.

Charles said nothing about it, that day or later. The episode was so unaccountable, so oddly endearing that, as with many things about Erik, Charles hesitated to peek or to question, unwilling to find less than he imagined. Fool he might be, but there it was. The wretched, puzzling hunk of glass turned up in their motel rooms. In Erik's room in Virginia. In Charles's room. It miraculously survived the destruction of the CIA compound to reappear on the mantelpiece in Charles's study at the mansion. It was only there, in the tiny pocket of calm between disaster and disaster, as they argued and played chess, worked with the kids and talked about everything, that Charles discovered how few events in Erik's life he allowed himself to be reminded of, even fewer whose memory he pursued. When Charles at last understood that the two of them, working together, was one of the latter, the ashtray from Club Lucky Star migrated to Charles's desk.

Then they saved the world but lost themselves, and Charles spent no more time on memories.

* * * * *

Charles stares at the ashtray in his lap, clear glass, star-shaped, with L - U - C - K - Y emblazoned on its points. He takes one deep breath, then hurls it into the fireplace with strength born of using arms in place of legs. There is a sharp crack of thick glass against stone but no satisfying, irreparable shatter. The ashtray rocks a little as it settles on the hearth, one point shortened but essentially whole. Thwarted, too empty to feel surprise, Charles sits back in his chair and stares at the ceiling, counting the carved beams north to south along its length. No answer there, he slumps forward, scrubbing his hands over his face, his elbows coming to rest on unfeeling thighs. He remains there a long time, until his cuffs are soaked with tears and his breath no longer comes in ragged gasps.