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Charles' assistant Penny knocked on his office door around 4:30 in the afternoon with a manilla envelope in her hands and a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“I need to talk to you,” she said, and when he waved her into the room, she asked, “Where's Erik?”
Charles looked up from his papers in surprise. “He's training with some of the children.” At this point, Charles could locate Erik on school grounds as easily as he could locate the hand on the end of his arm. “Why? Does this concern him?”
“Yes,” she said, and shut Charles' office door. That really caught Charles' attention: his door was almost never closed.
Penny perched herself on a chair in front of Charles' desk. “Of course you know that next month will be the tenth anniversary of Erik's pardon and release from prison.”
“Ten years? Really?” Charles sighed. “Seems like yesterday. Just last week I called and asked them to take him back.”
“I'm telling him you said that,” she teased.
Charles shook his head to hide his smile. “Nothing I haven't told him myself.”
“Anyway,” Penny continued, “Time Magazine is planning to mark the anniversary with a retrospective and – I don't know how – but they got their hands on some of the letters Erik wrote to you while he was locked up. And they want to publish them.”
“What?” Charles burst. “But... How?”
“I don't know. I never even knew they existed, so I have no idea where they got them. Do you?”
Charles was too stunned to think about it, so he only shrugged. He pointed at the manilla envelope in her hands. “Is that it?” he asked.
“Yeah, they sent over the article with the layout and everything. It's really beautiful, Charles.”
“Let me see it.”
Penny handed him the envelope.
She was right. It was beautiful. They'd used one of Charles' favorite photos of Erik for their planned cover: a now-iconic image of him grinning like a loon as he walked out of the federal penitentiary. Though not pictured, Charles knew the grin was directed at him.
The article itself was an eight-page retrospective of the nearly eighteen months Erik spent in federal custody. The text was peppered with more photos from the time: Erik standing tall and proud in a courtroom; Erik weeping into Charles' lap when his sentence was read; Jean, Ororo, and several other students protesting his incarceration in front of the White House; Charles meeting with the president; Erik waving from the back of the car as they drove home.
And, in Erik's own hand, the letters:
*
October 17, 1975
My Dearest Charles,
It has been nearly three months and still I ache to open my eyes in the morning and not find you next to me. I don’t think I will ever get used to it, nor do I plan to try.
I will also never get used to the alarming lack of metal in this room. The warden has gone to cartoonish lengths to ensure that my cell is made entirely of wood and plastic. Just this morning I noticed that the guards in this wing have started wearing drawstring pants. Either they fear death by zipper or they’ve gotten wind of our relationship and are overcome by gay panic. Either way, I cannot find it in me to be intimidated by men walking around in tailored pajama bottoms.
The irony is that they’ve caused me to reach out farther and farther to feel for metal, thereby giving me ample opportunity to hone my powers. There is the infrastructure in the building, of course – they haven’t put me in a log cabin in the woods yet, though it would hardly surprise me – but I’m now also able to sense the cars passing on the highway beyond. I follow them as far as I can, and that distance is getting farther every day. Sometimes in the evening I try to reach out to our bedside lamp, hoping to find it on and know you’re in bed reading, pretending you don’t need your glasses, scratching at your stubbled chin like Sherlock Holmes. I’m not quite there yet, but know that I’m trying.
The weather is turning colder and the days are getting shorter, and I cannot decide whether this is a sad reminder of how long I’ve been here or a pleasant sign that the calendar is turning and someday I will be home again. Please remember that you promised to visit again soon. I know that you’re probably in the midst of midterms, but I don’t care. I miss you.
Yours ever,
Erik
*
January 16, 1976
Schatz,
Just a brief note to let you know that two young men are being released today and I have instructed them to go to New York and find you. Both are mutants, and I believe they may have some helpful information regarding some of our least favorite people. They may also have a few things to say about a certain Wolverine. Charles, they have no place else to go. Please make them feel welcome.
Love always.
P.S. When your headmaster starts to prefer prison food to school food, it’s probably time to hire a new cook. Honestly.
*
April 4, 1976
Dear Charles,
I looked in the mirror today and discovered that my temples have gone completely gray. Had I been alone, I might have wept. Not for my hair, of course, but for the fact that I am getting old, and I am getting old here, instead of at home with you.
I found your book in the prison library. It was shelved as “Inspirational” or “Self-Help.” That made me chuckle. I wonder where mine would be shelved: “True Crime?” Anyway, I've started reading it again, and I must tell you that you're a better writer than people give you credit for. I can hear your voice so clearly, it is almost an acceptable substitute to having you here with me in person. I confess, though, that I had to skip over the part about Cuba. I couldn't bear to read it again.
Rumor has it that we have a new tenant here in the mutant wing, and they say he has power over organic materials. Meanwhile, because of me, they've replaced every piece of metal they could find with wood. One would think that they would put him in the general population where he would be held with good old-fashioned iron bars, but that would be far too logical. I don't expect the people running this place to be Rhodes Scholars, but I at least hope they've read the story of the Three Little Pigs.
All my love,
E.
*
Charles put the papers down in a huff. “Absolutely not. Tell them no. They are not publishing those.”
“But they're so lovely,” Penny pleaded with him.
“This is an obscene invasion of our privacy!” he shouted. "Those letters will not be published!" He had never raised his voice to Penny before, not in the nearly twenty years they'd known each other, but this was too much.
To her credit, she only nodded and said, “I'll see what I can do,” and left the room.
*
Erik was in the middle of training – with some of the youngest students he'd ever had with some of the most dangerous mutations he'd ever seen - when he felt a wave of affection flush over him that was so powerful he nearly forgot where he was.
What was that for? He asked.
Nothing, Charles sent back. I'm just glad you're here.