Logs:The Fifth Cup

The Fifth Cup
Dramatis Personae Charles, Erik
In Absentia Polaris, Malthus, Cerebro, Jax	2022-04-10 "Fuck you, Erik." // "You bastard."
Location <XS> Xavier's Bedroom - Third Floor
Charles Xavier's apartment has remained more or less unchanged through the decades of renovation that transformed his family's huge ancestral manse into a school. It is modest by the standards of the wealthy, but then it had only been meant to house him in his youth. The receiving room just inside the door is sumptuous with old world aristocratic splendor from the intricate Persian rug underfoot and the furniture in purple and gold to the gold-framed paintings on the walls. Double doors in each of the walls lead to a large bedroom, a moderately sized dining room with its own kitchen and pantry, and a small study. Tall windows and skillful placement of its burnished antique furniture make this bright corner room look more capacious than it actually is. Granted, it is by no means small. Much of the wall space is taken up by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the rest painted in blue with gold molding that frame a ceiling painted as a fanciful star map. The large canopy bed is hung with sapphire curtains to match the drapery on the windows. There's a cozy reading nook in one corner beside a bay window seat and on one of the interior walls are doors to the bathroom and a walk-in closet. Before the stone fireplace is a small table flanked with armchairs, and on the mantle above it beautiful blue and white Chinese vases flank a fine reproduction of Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss by Antonio Canova. Double glass doors open onto a balcony with a stunning view of the glittering lake nestled in the woods of the mansion's extensive grounds. On said balcony, now, in the dead of night, there is a man clambering over the railing, joints creaking in deference to his advanced age and in spite of his surprising strength and agility. He's dressed in black – black trousers, black boots, black turtleneck that is a bit too loose on his frame, and a metal helmet with twin spikes on the front. Dirt cakes the bottoms of his shoes and under his nails, a bit of mud on his brow where he wiped away sweat. Somewhere on a back corner of the grounds, just on the edge of the woods, his shovel lies abandoned next to a sizeable hole. Is anyone supervising this outing to Westchester? Unclear – there's a car abandoned just outside the grounds, quiet and out of Charles' usual range.Maybe it's the withdrawal from the power suppressants, or the sudden intoxication of freedom after so long, or perhaps just a reversion to his impulsive nature. Erik knocks and knocks and knocks until the door opens. Here is his greeting, angry and only slightly unhinged: "You dug up my gold." When Charles turns up to open the door, he wears a blue dressing gown and a flatly unimpressed scowl. "Fuck you, Erik." There's no heat in these words, just deep weariness. "A student dug up your gold, years ago. It's under the groundskeeper's tool shed. Now..." His cushy powered chair turns around and wheels back into the room. "Either get out of here or get away from the blasted windows." There's still a bit of tea in the glass mug on the little table by the fire. An abandoned lap desk there holds a manuscript entitled "Population Dynamics and the X-Gene" with comments scrawled in red along the margins, a blank MAD registration form, and a fountain pen heat tempered like the iridescent sheen of an oil slick on still, glassy water. He cruises past all of these to the sideboard, where he's pouring himself a brandy with shaking hands. "I suppose it's too much to hope you've grown some common sense and decided to go somewhere without an extradition treaty with the U.S.?" “Hello to you too, Charles.” Though he is not cursing, there is clear agitation in Erik’s voice. “And you just moved it?” asks Erik, still affronted by this betrayal but perhaps a touch mollified that the gold is not entirely gone. “Was that too much trouble to mention before now?” When Charles rolls away, he casts a look behind him, scanning the grounds briefly, brows furrowed. A beat later and he’s slipping into the apartment anyway, glass doors shutting quietly behind him. “I have run enough for one lifetime. My bones couldn’t take it.” Erik’s gaze stutters on the lap desk, on the manuscript and the form resting above it. “It might be time for others to begin to run. Scotland is nice, if not for their own descent into fascism." "That's rich, coming from you right about now." Charles drains his glass without putting down the decanter, then refills it. "It would've only distressed you, and didn't seem like to be relevant anytime soon." There is a faint conciliatory note in this, but pointedly no apology. "Besides, you relinquished your unannounced visiting privileges in somewhat dramatic fashion seven years ago. I didn't set a cup aside, but would you care for a drink, all the same?" He slants a sidelong glare at his visitor. "I'm sure Moira would hide me in her attic if it came to that, but I'll not abandon my students. Though..." His frown deepens the shadows under his eyes. "I suppose they might be better off without me soon enough." “From me?” Now Erik sounds affronted and a touch confused. “What on earth could I have forgotten to share? There was very little news on my end of things.” He shakes his head at the offer, crossing to the abandoned lap desk instead. “No need to drown yourself on my account.” Erik frowns down at the papers, pushing aside the manuscript with his fingertips to look at the registration form instead. “What, from this? You can’t possibly be considering giving them the truth, are you?” Looks up, brow furrowing and jaw suddenly tighter. “Are you?” It's not fast enough to be a proper whirl, but Charles pivots his chair so quickly he almost spills his drink. "You could have bloody well told me they'd be coming while I was visiting." His words come quiet and clipped, and though Erik can't feel his fury, it's written plainly on his face. "More fool I for giving you the opportunity, but you used me. And if it were just me -- my stars, if it were just me I'd have done it myself years ago, damn the consequences from you or the government." He tosses back the second glass of brandy and slams it down on the sideboard. "But it's not just me, is it? I recognized much too late how irrevocably the school is tied to my destiny. They're investigating me now, and if they find me out --" His jaw sets hard and he looks down at the registration form. "I'm merely weighing whether it might be better to pre-empt them and deflect attention from the innocent." He looks away, eyes fixing on the fire. "Victory at any cost, yes?" Erik’s jaw tightens, nostrils flaring during Charles’ accusations. “Do you really think that —“ His voice is beginning to rise in volume before Erik cuts himself off with a sharp exhale. Quieter, much quieter, comes his reply after a few moments of silence — “I am sorry, old friend.” Now he does join Charles at the sideboard, almost tentatively, and goes to fill the just-slammed glass again. “They were growing suspicious already — a few days before, the head of that prison was asking who you were to me. Investigating anyone I had any connection to ever, it seemed. It was only a matter of time before they came sniffing at your door.” Erik glances at Charles, mouth pressed thin. “That does not mean you give them the bullet to shoot you with.” Charles presses a hand to his forehead, rubbing his temples in slow circles. "I am glad that you are free. I really am. But you're damned lucky Cerebro didn't tip off Ororo, or Hank, or -- heaven forbid -- Jean before you could get to me." He lowers his hand slowly, though the lines of his face still look pained. "Jackson's arrest drew attention, too, and even before that...there always was some risk visiting you at all." He's quiet for a moment, looking calm now if still a touch crestfallen. "I will probably not out myself as some kind of grand gesture to save my school." His shoulders sag, almost imperceptibly. "If only it were so simple." And then he goes still, looking back up at Erik. "Anyone you had any connection to, ever," he echoes. "I -- that day, I'd meant to tell you something important. Maybe it's best I didn't get an opportunity then, but...I must warn you, it is almost certain to be upsetting." “He liked me more than he ever liked Hank,” Erik says of Cerebro. His face darkens at the mention of the other students, tipping the whiskey bottle to fill the glass Charles has abandoned. “Mr. Holland was mentioned during that interrogation as well. They are dangerously close — but they still believe you human. Thought you were my pet,” Erik tacks on, mostly to himself, his tone suddenly laced with irritation. “The nerve of that man.” He picks up the glass and goes to sip, pausing only a moment from his lips to look down at Charles, white eyebrows rising. “Upsetting? After all I have lived through, what possible surprise could you have that I have not endured before?” "He did." Charles does not elaborate beyond that. "Perhaps I ought to be reassured, but if they were dangerously close before..." His expression tightens briefly, but then resolves into indignity. "Your pet? Ridiculous. Though it is gratifying to consider that all his poring over footage of us playing chess and talking about books led him to such a comically incorrect conclusion." He waits for his visitor to lower the glass again, and then a beat after for good measure. "I beg you not to do anything rash, but you..." Another unwonted hesitation, his eyes searching what he can see of Erik's face. Something like frustration flickers over his own face, there and gone. "I must assume you never knew, but you -- you have a child." Having managed to get that much out, Charles adds -- gently, cautiously, "She has Suzanna's eyes." “It was quite comical.” Erik sounds a bit distant. “Unsettling, but amusing.” He sips the whiskey, lowers the glass just a fraction to meet Charles’ searching gaze in the pause before the news. The glass slips out of his grip, crashing to the floor and splashing whiskey onto his shoes. He stares at Charles, wide eyed and frozen. His breathing quickens, his now empty hand clenching into a fist. “How long have you known?” Charles flinches at the crash of breaking glass. "...and she has your temper." He keeps his voice calm and level, but again he vacillates before replying, "I only suspected at first, and wanted to be absolutely certain..." His eyes flick down to the shards on the floor, then back up to Erik's stricken face. He straightens subtly. "Late January. Suzanna confirmed it, and I've met the young lady since. She...also inherited your powers, and is quite a force to be reckoned with." Another hesitation. "Her name is Polaris." “January,” Erik repeats, slow and disbelieving. “But — in February, you never said —“ The curled fist opens, falls to Erik’s side — — before he changes his mind and reaches down with both hands to yank Charles out of his chair by the front of the dressing gown. “You bastard,” he hisses between clenched teeth, “you sat on the other side of that damned chessboard and kept this from me?” << I could kill you (should kill you) >> This close, Erik’s knuckles curl against Charles’ skin, allowing the telepath the shortest glimpse into his rage, all-consuming and would be room shaking if his powers were available. << should kill Suzanna that lying collaborationist b— >> As suddenly as he hoisted him up, Erik is easing Charles back down into the wheelchair, breaking the skin contact. “You had no right.” Charles winces when he's dragged out of his chair. His hands grasp somewhat reflexively at Erik's arms, but he cannot get enough leverage to free himself. << I was trying to bring her around -- she's not best pleased with you. >> His mental voice is tightly controlled, but Erik can sense the fire behind it -- and the pain. If there is any fear, though, he is keeping it locked away tight, blue-gray eyes steady and piercing. << It'd have been torture if you knew she was out there and refused to visit. >> It takes him a moment to recover his breath after Erik puts him down. "I'm sorry," sounds reluctant, though perhaps it's just the strain of speaking aloud. "Blame me for whatever you like, but if you go after Suzanna, your daughter will hate you." “You hid her to spare my feelings?” Erik’s voice is tight, strained as he continues not with their spoken conversation but the telepathic one. “H.A.M.M.E.R knew. They dangled her safety over me to get to you and I didn’t even know who she was. What of my feelings then, Charles? If I had to pick between her safety or your secrets? Would you had have me kill my child unknowingly to protect you? Tell me after she’d been exterminated like her sister?” Erik breaths out, slow, stepping back away from Charles. “I will let Suzanna be,” he says, somewhat reluctantly. “They probably have set a trap for me with her, anyway.” His jaw tightens, thinking. “You are in contact with her? This — Polaris?” Charles narrows his eyes up at Erik. "What on earth could you have done to protect her in there? Do you suppose your poker face would have held if you knew?" He backs up another couple of feet -- perhaps to get out of Erik's immediate reach or perhaps to alleviate the angle of his craning. "You've evidently built some kind of Rube Goldberg trolley problem around this, but you know perfectly well I wouldn't have you kill anyone. It was you who taught me not to try reasoning with the likes of that man." He pulls another lowball glass from the cabinet beneath the sideboard and pours a generous measure of Scotch. "Yes, but I cannot see that it is safe or wise for you to contact her electronically. She works at Evolve Café in the Lower East Side, but spends a lot of time in the Riverdale mutant autonomous zone and Chimaera Art Space in DUMBO. Failing all that, she's well-known in the local mutant community and has bright green hair." He holds the glass out to Erik, perhaps just a little tentative. "But remember, the government may be investigating me, but they are hunting you. Pray be careful with yourself and patient with her. She's been through a lot." “Don’t patronize me.” For all the rage that was just in his voice, suddenly Erik sounds tired, exhausted from the news. “That lesson was a long time ago. I could have changed my mind since then.” He takes the offered glass, downing the whole measure at once. “Worry about your children, Professor. Leave me be to sort out mine.” When he hands back the glass, Erik’s fingertips brush Charles’ skin, sharing the deep ache of heartbreak across the fleeting connection. He draws back his hand, brows furrowed in thought. “But — will you do me one favour, old friend?” Charles heaves a long-suffering sigh. "I guess exercising your right to remain silent may seem a fruitless exercise when you've been denied all the rest of the Miranda spiel." His lips compress as he reaches out to take the empty glass. "Of course my students must be my priority..." It's hard to say whether he expected the brief skin contact, but when it happens he deftly projects a memory of Polaris across the ephemeral connection. She's sitting next to the chess table in Charles's study, sunlight streaming through her leaf green tresses, her hazel eyes wide with wonder, a half-smile playing on her lips as she studies the black knight she holds suspended in the air. "...but that doesn't mean I care for the rest of our people any less than you do. And if this favor is in my power to grant, I will do my utmost." Erik’s breath catches the same moment he pulls his hand away. Whatever he might think of the projected image, he is not sharing out loud. “Not only is it in your power, it is on your land.” Erik’s smile does not reach his eyes. “The chest you moved — that gold is her inheritance.” Erik’s jaw tightens. “Get it to her, when you can.” He looks as if he will add more but his lips just press together. He twists towards the glass doors, beginning to follow the trail of mud he’s tracked into the suite as he makes his exit. “I will not bother you further.” Charles stares at Erik, his eyes unreadable and barely even blinking. "There is a lot more to that inheritance than gold, my friend." His jaw works for a moment, tense and unsure. "While I am honored you think me worthy, it would be far better for you to tell her. Then, if the young lady wishes, she may come and claim it from me." He pushes his chair forward as Erik turns, catching him him by the hand. The warmth of his presence wells up with no images this time, no words, only a quiet sense of belonging. "I appreciate this is difficult for you, but she could really use a parent right about now." Erik freezes at the touch. Without thinking he squeezes his hand tight, muscle memory reacting to the warmth of Charles’ telepathy and how right it feels to have their hands so entwined. << a parent >> echoes in his thoughts and winds its way around the memories of his own parents, around the frantic screams of a little girl for her father (for him), around the bright proud joy in a younger Charles’ eyes when a gangly teenage boy shows off his latest discovery, around another scared little girl atop the Statue of Liberty. Erik tugs his hand free and goes to open the balcony doors, his pained expression reflected back at Charles in the glass surface. “Perhaps, but certainly she does not need me. If only you were her father instead. Goodbye, Charles.” With that, Erik swings himself over the railing, back into the quiet night.