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There are only two things that Charles is grateful for at this moment. One of them is that Jean Grey is not a more skilled telepath.
It’s so quiet. Charles wheels his way through the crowd. Frozen in place, it’s like traffic has never mattered. By now, the only things that are moving across the bridge are himself and the birds chirping away without a care in the world. Erik’s body should be here somewhere, but not a single person on this road has seen it, nor has anyone noticed that he was meant to be there at all.
Jean did a thorough job in altering everyone’s minds.
Of course, it’s not so long until he finds it—pulled by the inexplicable bond he shares with Erik, the psychic link never severed. It is dangerously weak, slipping through his fingers, unless Charles finds him fast. Thankfully, he does.
Like a puppet whose strings were cut, Erik lies on the floor, dressed in full regalia. His helmet rests somewhere on this bridge. His eyes are wide, disconcerted, and he’s breathing— barely so. There’s a trace of him, like a whisper, but he might as well not be there at all. Jean…
“Oh, Erik,” he says quietly, afraid to raise his voice. Erik doesn’t react. Even near him, his telepathy isn’t picking up much— it’s almost as if he’s trying to read a fetus’ mind. There, but unreadable. There’s almost nothing inside. “Erik. How could this happen to you?”
No response. Not even a single twitch. He has to carry Erik back somehow, so this might as well be a good time to warm up those telekinetic skills he tends to neglect. Erik’s body lifts up, as if boneless, and everyone stays frozen still. The Blackbird is only a few feet away. If he gets to work immediately, he could still save him.
He reaches for Erik’s half-dead mind, what remains of it, and embraces it. Holds it gently, tries to not apply pressure, pulls it close to his chest to protect it. He can’t let it fracture further. As long as there was still this, then Erik could still be saved. Charles could still have something to work with. Fierce protectiveness strangles him, overriding the shock and horror of his best student committing such a thing, and getting him to act. Erik needs him.
As the Blackbird closes behind them, Charles unfreezes everyone, and the traffic unpauses like nothing happened. He places Erik on a bed, puts his hand over to close his eyes, and then strokes his hair.
“I’ll get you out of this,” he says, not letting himself break just yet. The disconcerted pupils, the wide eyes, it’s imprinted into Charles’ mind. The image is burned behind his eyelids forevermore. Where did he go wrong? How could he have led Jean to do this? “This, I swear to you.”
No response yet.
The other thing Charles is grateful for is that Jean, despite all her efforts, is not as skilled with her telepathy as he is.
To put it simply, the mind—or at least, the way a telepath perceives the mind— is a network. Connected through links and chains, every link leads to something else. When one part cuts off, shuts down, it affects the entire network sooner or later. To truly mind-wipe someone, you’d have to cut every single link at once, and then remove the links altogether to not let it reconnect. Anyone with knowledge on how to manipulate these could reconnect it as they pleased.
With Cerebro on, the telepathic enhancement allows him to stare at Erik’s mindscape and everything Jean had cut off.
She didn’t erase anything—she cut the links off and had assumed it was the same thing. Like unplugging a PC from its socket rather than turning it off manually, it takes longer for it to start up. It needs time to reboot by itself. A mind could be like that—it only never accounted for telepathic help.
He’s been connecting some things slowly. Too much and he could break Erik. Too little and he could lose him forever. The basics, perhaps—something else other than regulating his breathing. Charles traces a vague line around his sense of identity, the very core of who Erik Lehnsherr is, only to light a spark. He can’t connect everything together—there’s the risk he’d grow dependent on Charles’ powers, that he wouldn’t be able to come to who he was without Charles’ constant needling.
Erik’s been asleep for three weeks.
If he lights this spark, it should get him to wake up.
He grasps Erik’s hand as he connects it.
As if taking his first breath after drowning, Erik jolts up with a gasp, instinct winning over him. If he could, Charles would collapse to the floor in pure joy.
“Where—” Erik asks, voice hoarse, rough from not being used in so long. His eyes, back to how Charles remembered them, lock with Charles’ and recognition dawns on them like he hoped it would. “Charles?”
He squeezes his hand now. Erik hasn’t let go of it yet. Calm washes over both of them.
“You’re in the mansion,” Charles explains. He’s been rehearsing this for three weeks now; everything he’d want to say to Erik as a little checklist. “Do you know who you are?”
“Some… somewhat,” he says, hesitantly. The muscles in his face have forgotten how to shape the words, slowly coming alive. No doubt that Wernicke and Bronca’s areas are working overtime, trying to handle the influx of languages Erik knows, fighting to become the dominant one. “Erik Lehnsherr. I—”
Another pause, he licks his lips. Charles has kept him fed and hydrated through an IV, but it doesn’t take away that those muscles also needed to exercise. His voice sounds more accentuated than it used to. Despite it coming alive for barely a few minutes, the electromagnetism of Erik’s mind is already trying to fight off Charles’ telepathic calm.
“I am missing a lot,” he concludes. Charles guards the awe he feels at how Erik is… so like this—probably the only person in the universe who could defy mind-wiping, or an attempt of it. “What happened?”
Charles inhales. “A very powerful telepath attacked your mind, in an attempt to erase it to stop you once and for all. They failed, as they lacked the expertise to carry it out properly, but—pretty good job, nonetheless.” Erik takes this in without any comments, probably still getting used to actually functioning again. “I can help put your mind back together, but it’s going to take a while, and I need your cooperation.”
“Of course,” Erik says. “Where’s your—” his fingers twitch. His mind is rapidly trying to come up with the right concept. “Your X-Men?”
He gives Erik a rueful grin. “It’s none of your concern, darling. Right now, we’ll focus on getting your mind back together. I managed to link the very basics, but as you know, you are missing a lot. I’m afraid of what would happen if I made you experience it all at once. Might damage your mind permanently.”
“Of course,” Erik repeats. Hesitantly, he lets go of Charles’ hands, flexing his fingers as if in awe. He attempts to move, but freezes. “Charles—”
Panic tinges his voice. Charles wheels closer, fighting down his own panic. “What is it, Erik?”
Disconcerted, fearful like Charles never saw him before, he says: “I can’t feel my legs.”
He loses consciousness right after.
With a bit of telekinetic help, he manages to get Erik to another one of his wheelchairs. Erik looks down at his legs, not believing they’re actually there. He pinches them, winces, but he can’t get them to work.
“They’re not broken,” Erik points out.
“Yes, and you do not have any spinal lesions,” Charles looks at all the X-rays he’s been hoarding for the past three weeks. “From what I can see—and this is only an educated guess—the telepathic attack might have caused some injuries to your brain—I’m guessing the cerebellum? Again, nothing is permanently damaged, and with treatment we can probably improve this, but as of now… It might be messing with your motor skills as a whole.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Erik barks out, but he’s not able to stand up, despite how badly Charles can feel him wanting to. “Charles, I was able to do all of this naturally. What do you mean we can probably improve it?”
Despite their current, urgent situation, Charles takes a moment to note how pleasant it is to make eye contact with Erik without having to look up at him. He takes his hands into his own, wishing to have anything to say that could take the confusion away, to make everything digestible.
“Erik. This is a lot at once, I understand. Of course we will do everything to ensure a smooth recovery period. But to guarantee anything is to set ourselves up for a downfall. We have to be careful at this stage, even if I believe wholeheartedly that you will make a full recovery.”
Erik squeezes his hands back. He doesn’t like the crestfallen look in his face, the absolute defeat. That’s not who Erik is. Erik’s always carried by his unrelenting passion for what he believes in. Heart squeezing, it’s a no-brainer: he will do everything in his power to make this right.
“I’m missing so much,” Erik confesses, quietly. “I can feel it inside my head, those… gaping holes in my memories. Every word hurts to say. Every muscle is stiff. I don’t… know how I’m going to do this.”
“There is nothing you can’t do, Erik,” Charles tells him. He wants to bring him in and kiss his head, hold him against his chest until it passes, until everything settles in as nicely as possible. The true reality of it is that they will have to put work in it, and Charles knows first-hand how difficult these things can be. But for a moment, he wants to believe in that kinder world. He gives into the urge to kiss his forehead. “If anyone can come back from this, it’s you.”
When Charles breaks apart, Erik looks at him, eyes round and filled with sadness he wishes he could sweep away.
“I’ll continue to mend your mind. Everything you lost will come back. I promise. But first,” he turns his chair around, “perhaps we should do easy things, like having a meal together.”
Due to the spine injury he has, Charles is familiar with passive training. He had been embarrassed, at first, the times Amelia had started to move his limbs to show him how it’s done. He had felt so deeply small, so trapped in that bed, and without a single aim in his life after his encounter with Lucifer. But for Erik, he finds there’s nothing more important than doing this. How could Charles have ever felt embarrassed of this? There’s nothing but pride swelling in his chest.
“Tell me what you remembered from today,” Charles asks. He lifts up one of Erik’s legs, slowly, feeling the smallest of responses from it. He bends it and brings the knee close to his chest, trying to get the motor skills to come back on its own once more. “We connected a few things.”
The makeshift Newton’s pendulum ticks away above him, still stimulating his mind with his mutation, because it would not be Erik if he didn’t go the extra mile.
“One of the Brotherhood bases,” Erik begins, focusing. His accent is slowly shaping back to what Charles is accustomed to associating with him. “We have one Brotherhood base in Florida.”
“Interesting,” Charles stretches out the leg again, bends it, until it settles in a comfortable rhythm. The muscles in his knees crack a little. “Anything remarkable about it?”
A chuckle makes its way out of Erik. Charles’ mood immediately improves.
“Quicksilver hates it over there,” he says, amused, and lost in his own thoughts. “It’s too humid for him. Scarlet Witch doesn’t ever complain, but I could always see her—she kept trying to do something with her hair, or fix her costume.”
“Ah, poor Wanda,” Charles says. “Curly hair tends to suffer the most in humidity.”
“Truly the hardest of trials,” Erik says back, and his cutting humor makes Charles smile once more. He puts his leg down, picks up the other one, and repeats the motions. “I—remember about the Brotherhood.”
“Do you wish to share?”
“It’s not… pleasant,” Erik’s lips go on a thin line. “They’re not good memories.”
He’s… regretful? Charles had always thought Erik was one of those people who never felt any regret. He runs his fingers across his calf, down to his ankles, with enough pressure as if he would will Erik’s blood to circulate by this alone. Whether he feels the comfort Charles is trying to convey or not, Charles doesn’t dare to peek.
“I’m glad to remember,” Erik sounds pained as he says it. Charles moves a little, changing the angle of the leg stretches as he continues the therapy. “This regret means it happened.”
“I didn’t… know,” Charles begins carefully, “that you’d regret your treatment of the Brotherhood. You always seem so sure of yourself. I thought it was a conscious choice.”
“It is a choice,” Erik agrees. “Haven’t you ever immersed yourself in a role you play, so much so that you forgot yourself?”
He tucks away the confession: Magneto is a role, and not himself.
He’s always suspected so.
“Perhaps,” Charles concedes. Truly, ever since the X-Men have been… away… Charles had begun to realize he hasn’t been himself—at least, not since he took them in. He had forgotten what it’s like to not be a mentor, a teacher. “Not in the way you have, but I know where you are coming from.”
Charles puts down his legs, moves to his arms. He has better motor skills in his arms, obviously, but this is a little indulgent. His fingertips run from Erik’s pulse point to his shoulder, the muscle a little soft, not as hard as it used to be. Erik turns his head to him, and when his hand goes back up, he takes the opportunity to link them together.
Charles smiles down at him. “Hello.”
Erik’s eyes twinkle a little.
“I also remember how we met,” Erik says, bringing Charles’ hand close to his chest. “Although I am beginning to believe I will never forget it.”
“I’ll admit, when piecing your mind back together, I did make you remember everything about us,” Charles tells him. “But only because when you woke up, you’d first see me. You needed to be calm.”
“Charles…” Erik begins. He squeezes his hand. “I could never know if you’re messing with my head while telling me you are fixing it.”
The blood runs out of his face immediately. The room drops a few degrees. Erik’s expression doesn’t change, doesn’t look mad—melancholic, almost. As if he’s remembering a good time. He tries to remove his hand, but decides against it.
“I would never—” Charles inhales, trying to keep calm. “Erik, I would never, never in a million years, even begin to think about altering anything about you. No matter our disagreements. I would never do this. If you want me to stop—”
“Stop,” Erik smiles. There is absolutely nothing funny about this situation. For the first time in almost six weeks, Charles believes he could burst out crying. “It’s a possibility. It’s as true as it could be, isn’t it? And we could go on and on about it, as well. I know you wouldn’t. I trust you wouldn’t, which is the most important part.”
“I could leave, if you wanted,” Charles hurries to add. “I know more—I could find other telepaths to do this for you. I could hire other nurses—I had simply thought you’d be more comfortable if—”
Erik raises a finger, points it at him. “That’s why I know you wouldn’t do it. I trust you, Charles. And I need you to trust me, too.”
“I’m glad—I, Erik—”
“I need you to trust me enough to give me the bad memories, Charles,” he says. “You’re holding them back. Why? Are you scared I’ll change abruptly? Stop being so nice and kind, like the man you remember me as?”
“No,” but perhaps so. No, it isn’t—that’s unfair—it’s not— “Erik, they’re so painful. I…”
He’s been holding those memories in his mind, too. All he needs to do is to link the memories together, to kickstart them, but they’re so painful for him to bear. And if they’re painful to him, then how could he put Erik through it all again?
“I want to feel it, then. I need to feel it. You know this. You can’t take away this from me, Charles.”
“I don’t want to use my powers to cause you pain,” he confesses. “I know I have to. I will. I… don’t want to hurt you.”
“You can’t hurt me. Haven’t I gone through enough for a lifetime?” Erik grins ruefully. “If I handled it once, I can handle it again.”
“I’m sorry,” Charles says.
“What for?” Erik asks back. “You weren’t the one to hurt me.”
It’s not easy to see Erik cry.
Logically, he knew it’d be coming. Erik wanted all of the memories to link up, despite the warning that perhaps they should ease into it. Erik had asked, then, how long would Charles deem the spacing between these memories ‘enough time’? When Charles had failed to come up with a reasonable answer, he knew he’d have to get it all done tonight.
His heart had broken when he had enabled the memories to run their course, when he had connected them back together. And it’s finishing breaking again, holding Erik against his chest, trying to come up with anything to say. I’m sorry is such a pathetic, small phrase to encapsulate a grief as big as this.
There are no words.
He reaches out with his mind, at the core of Erik’s grief, and opens up his own to let it seep through him, too. Although his lungs begin to never have enough oxygen and his eyes hurt with unfallen tears, he says, You don’t have to do it alone this time. We can share this grief together.
Even if it meant nightmares. Even if it meant waking up in the middle of the night, needing reassurance that it was all in the past. Even if Erik had quiet moments, moments that could stretch to non-verbal days. Even if it meant snapping his fingers in front of him to ground him to the reality they were in again. Nothing could be too much, nothing would be a bother.
If Erik cries harder, that’s between them only.
“So, it was Jean Grey who did this,” Erik muses over a cup of coffee, as if he’s not talking about how Charles’ prized student almost lobotomized him. “I never thought you’d raise a student capable of doing this.”
“I didn’t,” Charles answers. His tea is still warm. “I did not raise my students like that. It is a complete violation of everything I stand for. It’s why the X-Men are no longer in this mansion.”
Erik stops, as if the absence of the X-Men finally registers in his mind. “You disowned your X-Men?”
“For lack of better terms, yes,” Charles rubs his temple. It gives him a headache just thinking about it. He misses them, terribly so, but he trusts they’ll be back—perhaps when they come around and step out of that rebellious teenage phase. “They needed to know it’s unacceptable. Not just what they’ve done, but the fact it was you. Some lines are not meant to be crossed.”
Leaning back on his chair, Erik stares at him. “What do you think drove Jean to act like this?”
“Honestly, I’ve got no clue. I’ve analyzed her behavior so much. I believe she might be fancying herself Icarus.”
Erik chuckles, “Reminds me of someone I know.”
“Very funny.”
“She is misguided, Charles. She has potential, but she’s going about it the wrong way.” He takes a sip, soaking it in. “We could have avoided this, had we not been so… self-centered.”
“Could we?” Charles looks at the door behind him. A part of him still wishes they would walk in through it, like nothing changed, and greet him with a big smile. “And yet it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? All we can do now is to recover, to heal. We will deal with the X-Men, if the moment ever comes.”
Erik clinks his cup with his. “If the moment ever comes.”
For the first time in a year, Erik manages to walk fifteen steps—from where he started to where Charles waits for him in his chair.
It’s the biggest fruit of their labor—Erik’s been consistently trying his best with physical therapy, and perhaps he’ll never walk longer than this anymore. The wheelchair is a fixed thing for both of them, but he’s grown to fall in love more again—to wake up every day and to have someone else doing the same routines as you has been something Charles never knew he would come around to love.
It’s been lovely in different ways, too. To recover other motor skills in his hands, Erik’s been filling the mansion with paintings. He’s been getting used to the wheelchair, too: his mutation did allow him to maneuver it better than Charles ever would. It’s hard, sometimes, getting tired easily and needing more breaks — but he never tires when they play chess, like the old times, and sometimes he remembers more between each brain exercise, sometimes he doesn’t.
But right now, Erik leans down to kiss him triumphantly: it’s as though the hardships melt away for a little while. Perhaps things can be better like this, starting over, in a life that is both the same as their old one and something entirely new.