Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Charlotte was a little girl she dreamed her wedding would be fairytale perfect. It would be held at Graymalkin so she could descend the grand staircase just like her mother did on the day she married Kurt Marko, the banisters woven with flowers and ribbons, and all of the guests looking over their shoulders as she walked down in a vision in lace and white. 

Within the year, Charlotte has a much more realistic view of weddings, and marriage itself, as well as divorce. Not that her mother ever listens to her pleading that this isn't necessary, that she could still get a divorce and keep everything. "I'm not going to go from being a widow to being a divorcée," her mother always says, her mind like an abandoned room emptied of all hopes. "Who would want to marry a divorced woman? And the neighbors would never stop talking." 

Charlotte grows disenchanted with this kind of thinking, and the spectacles that grow out of it, including extravagant weddings with hundreds of guests. 

So when the time comes, the courthouse is perfect. It doesn't even occur to her to hesitate that day on the road. Not even though the way Erik asks her is, "Nevada doesn't have a waiting period after getting a marriage license."

"What?" Charlotte answers. "Well, sure, it's so people can get quickie marriages in Las Vegas. But that's not legally recognized anywhere else."

Erik shakes his head. "No, it is. They have to recognize them, it's US federal law."

"Oh, really?" Charlotte asks, faintly embarrassed she was wrong. "Where did you hear that?"

Erik shrugs, and Charlotte never knows if it was something he just knew—maybe marriage license law was useful for nazi hunting?—or if he looked it up specifically. Maybe he checked in every state they visited on that recruitment trip. Charlotte has no idea. 

"You go to the courthouse," Erik explains. "And fill out a form and pay a fee. If there's a judge available you can get married right away."

"Oh," Charlotte replies. "Is that all? That could be useful, you know. We could get you citizenship without needing the CIA's intervention."

Erik nods, shrugging again.

They end up having to wait an hour for the judge to get out of sessions. The clerk suggests they go to the chapel up the street if they're in a hurry, but Erik balks, and when Charlotte asks if there are any local rabbis she just looks confused.

They spend their one-hour engagement window shopping on the street outside the courthouse, not talking about the future or what this means, merely enjoying each other's company as they always do. It's the shortest engagement Charlotte has ever heard of, and undoubtedly the shortest of her usual social circle. 

The clerk and a man waiting to pay a parking ticket serve as their witnesses. The ceremony takes all of ten minutes, but Charlotte cries anyway. It feels so right. She's absolutely certain they made the correct decision. 

They honeymoon at the same rundown motel they stayed at the night before. They don't have rings, but Erik tells her he'll make some as soon as he has access to precious metals. He doesn't want to make her some cheap thing that will tarnish or be easily scratched, though Charlotte says she doesn't care.

He never has time. It's unimportant, really. It's not like Charlotte could even wear a ring since they're keeping it a secret from everyone. Still, later, on the last day of their cohabitation as a married couple, she wishes she had a ring, something she could wear on a chain around her neck as a reminder of what they promised to each other. Maybe it would have helped if Erik had one. 

Maybe it wouldn't have. 

After Erik leaves, sometimes she wishes she insisted. On good days, it seems like a relief that she doesn't have a physical reminder of their marriage around her neck. Erik already weighs so heavily on her all on his own. On bad days, she wishes she had at least one token, one reminder that what they had was real. She thinks she'd wear it on a long chain so it rested above her heart. 

Months pass with more bad days than good. In August, on their anniversary, Erik sends her an envelope. It's a large manila one, the kind used for sending official documents, and when she opens it she immediately recognizes their wedding certificate from the Nevada state seal on top. She remembers the raised notary's stamp, which she traced with a finger one year ago today. She shoves it back inside the envelope and then gets very, very drunk. 

She can't bring herself to get rid of it that night, though she wants to, she's angry enough to. Instead she puts it on the highest bookshelf she can reach and tries to forget about it. She tells herself she might need it, if she ever wants to make their separation official and get it annulled. Not that it's likely she'll ever have a reason to remarry now. Not many men want a crippled wife who can never have children. But that envelope weighs on her, just as the ring she doesn't have sits on her chest like the heaviest platinum.

One night she drinks exactly two fingers of bourbon and resolves to burn it. She sits across from the fire that she had Hank light earlier, sweating from the extra warmth on the late summer night. She opens the envelope and starts to slide it out, tears prickling in her eyes despite her resolution not to cry. She looks at the certificate again, tracing the notary's mark before she pulls it fully out of the envelope. A scrap of folded paper she didn't notice before falls into her lap. She unfolds it with shaking hands. The writing is in Erik's neat script, elegant even when he's in a rush.

For safe keeping.
              -Your husband

Charlotte ends up finishing the bottle of bourbon that night. She doesn't burn it.

Chapter Text

The next time Charlotte sees Erik again is in battle. It's a year later, and under predictably tense circumstances. The X-Men are breaking into one of the first Trask facilities, intent on gathering intel on the new anti-mutant technology the US government is investing in so heavily.

The Brotherhood, coincidentally, is also invading the same facility, but not with the intention of gathering intelligence. They came to destroy, and unfortunately Hank nearly gets blown up along with a hanger full of half-finished Sentinels. The result is a predictable fight as both sides accuse the other of foul play and quickly come to blows.  

Although Charlotte is well out of the center of the fray, the Brotherhood soon realizes the importance of neutralizing her. Of course, she realizes this as well, being in their minds at the time, but that doesn't stop her from getting distracted when Riptide hurls a small tornado in her direction. She nearly gets lifted right out of her chair and topples over in an awkward heap on her side. 

Luckily, the X-Men are too distracted by their own battles to notice what's happened, and she manages to crawl to her chair and right herself before anyone seems to notice her indignity. Erik choses that moment to swoop down and hover menacingly above her. He's almost unrecognizable in his scarlet cape. Even the helmet has been updated, painted to match the garish colors of his new costume. He raises his hands palms up in a gesture of peace—ironic coming from him—and calls out, "Halt! Stop this, my brothers and sisters! Mutants should not fight with one another."

"Perhaps you should have thought of that before nearly killing one of my X-Men," Charlotte says, not impressed by his out-of-character moment of good sense, or the new paint job on his helmet. 

Erik's jaw clenches in response and he lowers himself down to stand in front of her, his feet landing on the dirty floor of the warehouse with a soft thump. "I didn't—I heard what happened," Erik says, his eyes sweeping down to take in her chair. "But until today I hadn't..." He drifts off, apparently unable to complete his sentence.  

Charlotte meets his eyes, refusing to be embarrassed by him seeing her like this. She's acutely aware of the others—both her boys and Erik's Brotherhood—and where they are circled around them defensively. They're not quite in hearing distance, but they're surely watching them closely, waiting for the first sign of renewed hostilities. "What happened?" Charlotte repeats, giving into her anger. "Do you mean what you did to me?"

Erik looks away. "I don't want to fight with you. Or your men." 

Charlotte sighs. She wipes the back of her hand across her face, sweeping some of the dirt and grime off. "Neither do I. Shall we call a truce then?"

Erik nods and waves to his Brotherhood, motioning for them to retreat. Azazel begins taking them away one-by-one, popping in and out of existence as he transports his scattered fellows. 

Erik turns back to Charlotte while he waits for his turn, fishing in his pocket. He pulls out a handkerchief and holds it out to her. Charlotte eyes it warily, not understanding the gesture at first. 

"You have—" Erik motions to his forehead, running one finger over his brow. 

Charlotte almost rolls her eyes at his sudden chivalry, but she did agree to a truce. She takes it from him and swipes it absently over her grimy face. "Better?"

Erik nods. Azazel arrives next to him, appearing with a crack that makes Charlotte startle. He clasps Erik's shoulder and Erik gives her a final nod before he's gone. The damaged hanger echoes with the loud, sharp crack of Azazel's last teleportation. 

Charlotte doesn't notice until later that she still has the handkerchief. Erik never asked for it back. Upon closer inspection she finds that it's embroidered with small purple flowers and ivy along the edges, and with abstract patterns in darker green at the center. It seems unusually floral for Erik, but Charlotte is afraid to read into it at first, afraid to see purpose where there's only accident. 

Embarrassingly, she doesn't realize that the green stitches are Hebrew letters until the second or third time she looks at the thing, pulling it out from her shirt pocket and toying with the fabric absently. It takes some time for her to interpret it, laboring one evening over one of the dictionaries in her father's library, but she can't bear to show it to anyone else for help, even if she were to erase their memory immediately afterward. It takes her some time before she realizes that it's a familiar quotation, and then it's easy enough to find the relevant verse for comparison and confirm her amateur translation.

I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine.

Chapter Text

It takes a while for Charlotte to understand what Erik is doing. It's not until the third gift that she fully understands, and as soon as she does she is livid with anger.  

"How dare you," she says, lofting the heavy crystal goblet in her hand. The box in her lap tumbles to the ground, tissue paper spilling out at her feet. "I don't want your gifts, Erik. Why would I want to remember the anniversary of a marriage that never was?"

Erik is silent, his lips pressed together in a thin line as he accepts her abuse. He arrived suddenly, without warning, and Charlotte is so very angry at him. She nearly forgot, almost missed what day it was until he appeared at dusk, tapping at the window with a box in one hand wrapped in delicate gold paper. Romeo at the balcony. A bridegroom who would never be a husband. 

The goblet is beautifully carved and surprisingly delicate looking and she hates it. There are words engraved around the base, but she doesn't want to read them. 

"What is this?" she asks. "What is the point, Erik? Tell me, because I don't understand why you're doing this. If you love me, why won't you stay with me?" 

He says nothing, maybe he doesn't know himself, and so she hurls the goblet at his head. He ducks and it crashes into the wall behind him. She wanted it to shatter, but it's too heavy and too well-made for that. Instead it cracks in two with an unsatisfying crunch. 

"Go away," she says, feeling hot tears forming in her eyes. "Stop haunting me and go away." 

He does. In the morning, Charlotte asks Hank to clean up the broken glass on the floor of her bedroom. He doesn't ask what it was from, and she doesn't explain. 

Chapter Text

Erik continues to give her gifts, and she continues to ignore or insult them. Sometimes they're normal wedding gifts, an engraved wooden box for the fifth, a beautiful cashmere scarf for the seventh, a handmade tin plaque for the tenth. Other times, when he's particularly angry with her, they're more ironic. He leaves the twisted remains of a Sentinel on the front steps of the mansion for the eleventh—a gift of steel and a warning of what is to come. On the twentieth he sends her a news clipping describing his failed takeover of Hong Kong—a literal gift of China. Charlotte is unimpressed.

As they age, he becomes sentimental again. A beautiful pearl necklace for their thirtieth, coral earrings for their thirty-fifth, a ruby tennis bracelet for their fortieth.

She never wears them.

Instead, she adds each new piece to a box in her room, wrapping each gift in tissue paper and laying them inside, next to their marriage certificate and every other anniversary gift he has ever given her except for the third.

These days, she regrets not saving a sliver of crystal, loath though she is to admit it to herself. If all she'll ever have from their marriage is trinkets, a series of tokens marking their years spent apart, she'll take what she can get.

Chapter Text

Charlotte is expecting Erik, so she leaves the french doors to her balcony wide open. It's an important date for them, and he doesn't disappoint, arriving at his usual time. The setting sun paints his white hair and the side of his weathered face in red and orange as he steps inside.

Charlotte smiles and pushes back from her desk, relieved to take a break from grading first-year English essays. "Didn't you bring me anything?" she asks, taking in his empty arms.

"It's very nice to see you too, dear," Erik says, affectionate. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring box, setting it down on Charlotte's desk on top of the pile of paper there.

"What's this?" she asks, somewhat surprised. He's never given her a ring before.

"Your anniversary present, of course," Erik says, sweeping his cape over his shoulder.

She lifts up the box and holds it in her hands for a moment, hesitant for a reason she can't name. "I hope you didn't spend too much money."

"I spent as much as you deserve," Erik replies, absently settling into the chair across from her.

Charlotte laughs. "Well, now I'm afraid it's going to be a crackerjack prize—" She stops as the box opens with a snap, her mouth going slack as she sees the glimmer of gold inside.

It's a simple band, solid gold and heavy between her fingers. She lifts it out and finds that it's engraved, familiar Hebrew letters running along the outside edge of the band.

"What's this?" she asks.

"It's your wedding ring," Erik says. "I'm sorry it took me so long."

"It's a little late," she replies, still clasping the ring lightly between her fingers, holding it out like she might give it back.

"I suppose," Erik admits. "I was hoping you would accept it anyway."

Charlotte realizes she's going to cry a moment before the first tear flows over her cheek. She keeps looking at him. His face is carefully schooled into an impassive mask, like he's not waiting on tenterhooks for her answer.

"I never wanted the ring, Erik," she says. "I only wanted you."

"You have me," he answers, standing up and walking around the desk to come closer to her.

"Not to keep," she replies, unable to look up at him, her voice trembling like the sad old woman she is.

"No," Erik says. He reaches out and takes the ring from her, his hands as wrinkled and delicate as her own. He holds out the ring, his hands shaking slightly as he offers it to her, the circle of gold empty and wanting. "Not before, but this time. I came to stay."

"Are you—really?" she asks, looking up in shock. He looks serious, every line of him etched with the same intensity she remembers from the first night they met and each conflict since.

He takes her left hand, raising it as he touches the edge of the ring to her fingertip. "If you'll have me."

She's too overcome to answer, only able to nod as more tears spill from her eyes. He slips the ring onto her finger and whispers softly, almost to himself, "Behold you are sanctified to me by this ring."

"What about you?" she asks, wiping her face with the back of her hand once she can speak again. "Where's your wedding band?"

"You can get me a ring later," he says, returning to the comfort of their banter. "I'm not insulted you didn't think to buy one."

She laughs, throwing back her head as he kneels down to kiss her. "In that case, I suppose I can forgive that it's fifty years late."