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The first time Charles woke up, he couldn't keep his eyes open. He blinked hard, trying to convince himself to sit up, to speak, to ask for water for his parched throat, but instead he could only stare at the flickering light of the electric lamp next to him in the dark of the tent, fighting sleep with no success, until his eyes closed again.
*
The second time, somebody was breathing hard next to him - not the panting breaths of someone after a hard training session, but the choked heaves of someone after battle, someone fighting to keep down panic. His chest hurt; he couldn't open his right eye, feeling it swollen and stinging; there was a sharp, burning, wide stripe across his right thigh, so bad that the first time he opened his mouth to speak, he had to gasp with pain instead.
"Raven – Charles," said the man next to him, correcting himself, and Charles relaxed when he recognized the voice. Erik took his hand. "McCoy, he's -awake, he's waking," Erik called, and Charles wanted to soothe away whatever was making Erik's voice so tight and pained, agonized, but he couldn't speak, couldn’t even read him. His powers felt so very far away.
"He needs another dose of morphine," Hank said, coming closer, and Charles tried to blink his good eye open.
"So give him one," Erik barked. His fingers threaded through Charles's.
"It's not - to be honest, Commander, I'm worried about the way it'll interact with his system as he comes off the suppressants."
"Look at him," Erik said. "He's in pain - you have to, you have to do something."
"I can't risk it," Hank said, his voice breaking on the last syllable. "He's been flooding his system for months - there's a substantial risk of increasing his fever, of draining him of the resources to fight infection, even of seizure."
Charles hissed as Erik pulled his hand to his cheek, turning his face against Charles's palm. The movement pulled at his chest, and Erik let him go immediately.
"I can give him ibuprofen for the pain. And antibiotics." said Hank, sounding unwilling. "But nothing else, at least for another 36 hours. Until he's through the withdrawal."
"Commander?" said a further voice, as Charles felt himself drifting away again. "You have a video call from General MacTaggert."
Through Charles's last few moments of awareness, Erik heaved a breath. He placed Charles's hand carefully back down next to him, and Charles slipped away again.
*
The next time he woke, he woke for real. It was light again, and Hank was in a chair in the corner, sleeping with one elbow on the desk next to him. It looked like his neck would hurt when he woke up.
There was no one else in the room.
Charles tried to speak and coughed; it was enough to wake Hank up, the arm he was leaning on sliding briefly across the medical journals on the desk. "Charles!" Hank said, and jumped to his feet.
“Hank,” Charles said, suddenly filled with relief to be alive himself, to remember vaguely Erik’s voice next to him, no indication of injury or harm. He struggled to sit upright and Hank pushed him gently down by the shoulder, telling him to stay down, not to harm himself further.
“How long has it been?” Charles said, smiling as he tried to assess the damage before Hank could detail it for him.
When Hank didn’t answer immediately, Charles looked up at him from where he’d been trying to gingerly peek under the bandages on his chest. “Hank?”
Hank put down the stethoscope he’d just picked up and dragged a chair over to the side of Charles’s cot, sitting down heavily.
“Three days, Charles.”
Charles felt the very beginnings of dread creep into him.
“Three days since – since the battle began, or-“
Hank shook his head, staring at his feet. “Since you got hold of Shaw – and afterwards, the explosion –”
Charles pushed himself up onto his elbows, regardless of Hank’s instructions.
“Three days – “
“I tried,” Hank said, his face miserable. “I tried to keep them all out – I swear, Charles, I tried to keep your secret, but Commander Magneto insisted – he wouldn’t be kept outside, Charles, I’m so sorry-“
Charles closed his eyes, bit his lower lip, tried to calm his mind against the roiling tides of panic.
“You were on such a heavy dose of suppressants,” said Hank, still staring at the floor. “I couldn’t dose you, not while you were injured and recovering – he pushed in here, and two of his lieutenants, and then-“
“They sensed me,” Charles said. His fingers tightened in the sheet.
“Yes,” said Hank. “He stayed, a few hours – your pheromones haven’t returned yet to normal levels, probably won’t for another week, week and a half, so he could stay without risk of sensing a bond. But he felt you, and then I had to – Charles, I’m so sorry, I had to tell him –”
“It’s all right,” Charles said, speaking firmly. Hank’s eyes shot up to meet his, and Charles reached out to take his hand. “Hank, you took such risks to help me – giving me suppressants, hiding me all along – you’ve been more than a true friend.”
“I owe you,” Hank said, gripping his hand back. “For saving your sister from this.”
“I don’t think,” Charles tries to huff out a dry laugh, stops himself quickly when he feels the wound on his chest burn. “I don’t think she feels the same way. To be very honest, I’m afraid to go home at the end of the war and face her wrath.” Hank grinned down at him, knowing the truth of Charles’s words. They’d grown up together in Westchester, him and Hank and Raven – when Hank and Raven had been drafted, Charles had been unable to let her go, even knowing that she would hate him for it, for being the controlling older brother one last time. He’d stolen her draft card, forged new papers – enlisted as Raven Xavier, dominant, and left behind his 16 year old sister, who sent him letters raging at him but who couldn’t call him out without exposing him to a court martial. He’d found Hank his first day, already head of the medical division once they’d discovered his qualifications, sworn him to secrecy, and enlisted his help in hiding himself. And they’d succeeded – until now.
“Well, Erik knows now,” said Charles, trying not to guess at his reaction at learning that Charles had been lying to him for months, months of standing over maps together, of chess games and true battles, of winning Erik’s respect, even his friendship. “But at least maybe I can stop it there – if you dose me now, it’ll only take me an hour before I’m suppressed again.”
“Charles-“ Hank said, clearly unwilling to dose him so heavily while still injured, but Charles insisted, and when he felt the needle go in, Charles felt hope again – he would be able to live among the soldiers, and fight as a dominant, and stay by Erik’s side, at least until they’d sorted out the last of Shaw’s stragglers. It was a mistake – a slip-up – but he could not regret saving Erik’s life. And they would see that he had proved his worth – that he should stay, regardless of his orientation.
*
When Erik came in, a few hours later, he was wearing his helmet, even though Frost had been captured and imprisoned in a telepath-proof cell two weeks ago. Charles felt happiness and relief lift inside him and hastily pulled himself up so that he was sitting upright. Feeling gritty still, he wished he’d been able to do more than give himself a quick sponge-bath that morning with Hank’s assistance. Erik’s eyes flicked – only for a second - to the bandages across his chest. Charles smiled up at him.
Erik turned to Hank. “Leave us,” he said, and Hank bowed and went.
Charles broke the silence in a moment. “Erik,” Charles started, sighing with relief to see him whole and well. “How’s-“
“Charles Francis Xavier,” Erik interrupted him. His eyes were steadily focused on the wall above Charles’s head; his tone was not one that Charles had heard from him since the first time Charles had attended him in his chambers to advise him on the territory they were about to enter, since their – friendship – had begun.
“Yes,” said Charles, slowly, when Erik made no sign of continuing.
Erik cleared his throat, still refusing to look down. He started over. “Charles Francis Xavier, you have been charged by Her Majesty’s will and under her seal with the crimes of identity theft, falsification of orientation, and illegal and fraudulent entry into Her Majesty’s service.”
Charles felt his spine go straight, the movement jarring his chest and sending pain down his leg, and wished desperately that he could stand and face Erik, that he could force him to look Charles in the eyes.
“In recognition –“ Erik’s voice did not break, but he paused, and Charles saw him swallow. “In recognition of the great service you performed for your commander and Her Majesty three days ago, you have been granted a military pardon for your crimes. You will be neither prosecuted nor given sentence.”
Charles felt hope rise in him. Feeling a surge of energy, he tried to swing his legs out from under the hospital sheet and onto the ground, but before he could muster the courage to put weight on his leg, Erik broke posture and put a hand on his shoulder to stop him, to keep him sitting on the edge of the bed. Charles looked up at him with relief but Erik still refused to meet his eyes, looking over his shoulder.
“Following the victory of Shaw’s defeat, we return to the capital tomorrow,” Erik said, softer, and Charles began to stammer.
“Well, it’ll be a bit tricky to pack like this, but I’m sure Hank will help – what time do we leave?” Charles said, and saw Erik straighten and grind his back teeth.
“Charles Francis Xavier, you are dismissed from Her Majesty’s Service with a dishonorable discharge. As a submissive, your entrance to the service jeopardized yourself, the welfare of your future dominant, and the safety and well-being of every soldier serving with you. Her Majesty commands you to return to your home and remain there until, with time and good behaviour, the damage to your family’s honour may be restored.”
“Erik,” said Charles. It was all he could scrape out. “How can you-“
Erik looked down at him quickly, his face hardening.
“You’re just – throwing me out?” Charles choked out.
Erik stared him in the eyes, his mouth twisting in the way Charles had come to recognize – but not often face – as true anger. “You are unfit to remain here.”
“Unfit-“ Charles yelled. “Unfit – when I have –“ He stopped himself, unwilling to hold saving Erik’s life over him, to use it as a bargaining piece.
“You may be physically capable of this training,” Erik said, pivoting on his heel and pacing a few steps, facing the other way as he spoke. “You may even have been of – of valuable assistance in our strategizing. But – a submissive, among a crowd of riled up, military dominants. ” He cleared his throat again, and Charles felt, more than saw, the thin metal poles of the tent shake around them. “If you had been found out – if you had one mistake, one slip, and gone into heat - you would have been – every soldier in this army would have –“
“I was careful,” Charles said, and Erik spun back around, his shoulders visibly tightening.
“Careful! Raven – Charles,” Erik corrected himself, and Charles felt his stomach drop at the look on Erik’s face, that slipped past his stern mask.
“Erik,” Charles said, softer, his hands twisting in the blanket beneath him.
Erik stared at the entrance to the tent, refusing to meet Charles’s eyes. Hank’s tray of instruments – the instruments themselves – the tent poles – the bed underneath Charles – the dog tags Charles still wore – the jittering rose to a crescendo before Erik took several deep breaths and the vibrating ceased.
“Charles Francis Xavier,” Erik said, finally looking at Charles. “Your deceit towards a superior officer has made it – impossible for you to remain. To remain and be trusted.”
Charles had no breath.
“You will return to Westchester. It is - Her Majesty’s will.” With that, Erik left, closing the tent flap behind him with far more force than necessary. Charles watched it swing behind him. His leg throbbed. He struggled to inhale and exhale again, staring down, until Hank re-entered, pity in his eyes, and helped him pack for home.
*
Charles couldn’t drive, with the injury to his leg; even if he could, he has no car, and couldn’t accept Hank’s offer to loan him one of the medical trucks to take home. The war may be all but over, with Shaw’s death, but there are so many wounded still. Charles couldn’t borrow a truck that would otherwise bear wounded soldiers to the capital, to a hero’s welcome.
He called Raven instead, choked out his story once she’d finished yelling at him. She’d gone quiet, clearly still angry but sad for him too, took down his location and said she’d been there in two days. Hank had brought him the rest of his things, painkillers and bandages to last for a few days; then he’d left, and Charles had set up near one of the extinguished campfires as the army had cleared out. He’d tried not to watch as they went, but there was nothing else to do, no way to avoid the hustle and bustle of the camp, the post-battle exhaustion warring with exhilaration at the victory parade that awaited them in the capital.
The gossip had clearly spread, and though Charles was back on suppressants, most of his fellow soldiers gave him a wide berth as they left. Even his old bunkmates – Alex, Sean, Armando – had avoided him. He’d caught Armando staring at him at one point, but he’d ducked away immediately, and Charles had swallowed down the misery at being left behind.
When everyone had gone, the last truck rumbling away into the distance, Charles built a fire and stretched out his leg, cautiously. It burned – the long swipe where a piece of the truck had slashed his leg open as Erik had destroyed it.
A week ago – already months and months into the long slog of war – Charles might have enjoyed this peace, the silence of the open plain, no hordes of soldiers’ minds buzzing around him at all times. Now, he longed for that noise, shivering as the sun set. He heated a ration packet over the fire – Hank had made sure he had a few days’ supply, plenty even if Raven was delayed – and tried to decide what to do.
He had to heal – Westchester was as good a place as any to do so – but he couldn’t stay there, not in the empty house, trying to avoid the ghosts of his parents and stepfather. He couldn’t live there, reading his journals and waiting for a purpose to come to him. He wanted to serve his country and his queen. He wanted to put his knowledge to good use. He wanted to sit across from Erik in his tent and argue about the best ways to rebuild, to restore the country after the depreciations of war.
He wanted – and he bit his lip at this, but why pretend otherwise now, when Erik was elsewhere, hating him – he wanted to shove Erik down onto a cot and climb over him, let Erik grab the back of his neck and pull him down, wanted to let Erik claim him so no one else could. He wanted Erik to be his true Dom, hopelessly, pathetically, and wished that if he had been going to be left anyways, he’d stayed off the suppressants for their last conversation, so at least he could have known whether what he felt in his stupid, suppressed heart was true.
Charles lifted his face out of his hands and laughed at the picture he must have made, a sub crying by himself for a possibility so slim it was, in all reality, impossible. And crying for a Dom, even – not for the disgrace he’d caused his family, not for the fact he’d have to go back to failing at being the kind of good sub who stayed at home and waited for orders. He wiped his cheeks, stood carefully, and limped over the pile of sticks he’d collected during the day to stoke the fire.
Then he dropped.
A bullet went overhead, way too close, and Charles – his heart in his throat – reached out with his mind to freeze the man hunting him. There was only one person around, for a solid mile – one of Shaw’s stragglers, and as Charles read his thoughts, he felt panic rise, because this wasn’t a straggler at all. This man was a sentry, sent ahead to clear the way, so that Shaw – Shaw and the last remnants of his army, the strongest, the ones who’d retreated or faked death or been elsewhere – could storm the capital, where they would be unexpected, where the army would be weak, and where there were plenty of civilians to kill and be used as hostages. Where they could put a knife across the queen’s throat and destroy Genosha for good.
Charles closed his eyes against the dirt underneath him, exhaled, and dug through the man’s mind, vigorously and carelessly wiping away anything of the war, of Shaw, of everything since the man had turned 18 and enlisted. It wasn’t just and it wasn’t kind; the man would wake up disoriented and alone. He might die, lost in the wilderness with no knowledge of the nearest town. Charles could not care, because if Charles didn’t get to the capital to warn them, Genosha could fall. Erik could -
Charles put it all out of his mind, released the man and sent him stumbling off toward the nearest town, brought himself to his feet and staggered to the fire. He extinguished it – it was how the man had found him, heading towards the smoke, and Charles cursed his own arrogance at assuming Shaw’s remaining men would simply flee – and packed his things.
The man had come by ATV, leaving it far enough away that Charles wouldn’t hear the rumble of its engine. He’d left the keys in the ignition, thinking there was no one around to steal it. It would be a long walk for Charles on a leg that trembled underneath him. Charles took two of the heavy-duty painkillers Hank had left in case of absolute emergency, emptied his bag of anything but medical supplies, two days’ worth of dry rations, and his canteen, and started walking.
*
He had to stop twice on the way to throw up, nausea from the pain overwhelming, but he rinsed his mouth with water from his canteen, took short breaks and then kept walking. He considered muting the pain in his own mind, turning off those receptors, but discarded it for fear he wouldn’t be able to notice it if he were about to collapse.
When the ATV came into sight, Charles heaved a sigh of relief, got on, and realized there was no way he’d be able to drive with his right leg. He scooted awkwardly over toward the center of the ATV and figured there was no time like the present to learn to drive with his left leg, as uncomfortably as it left him positioned. The capital was two hours north in a real vehicle - in an ATV, it’d be longer. Charles cursed himself for not taking a radio, a phone; the nearest town was hours in the wrong direction. Charles took a deep breath, turned on the engine and headed north.
He couldn’t imagine how Shaw had survived. In the last battle, Charles had been working furiously – one of Shaw’s junior commanders had stupidly come within his range without wearing a telepath-blocking helmet, and Charles had been rummaging through his mind frantically for insight into their plans and forwarding it to the Genoshan commanders at the same time. The tide of battle had been turning in their favour – he’d seen some of Shaw’s men begin to surrender, throwing down their weapons – when Charles had felt the howl of a so-familiar mind and turned to see Erik sprinting toward a truck, just one of many at the back of Shaw’s army, knocking aside any soldier who came at him wearing metal with brutal ease.
Erik wasn’t supposed to be on the front line; to his great frustration, General MacTaggert had ordered him to stay back, too valuable to lose. Over his third glass of scotch two nights ago, Erik had confessed to Charles how useless it made him feel, a man of action forced into a command post, forced to abandon his own soldiers to fight on their own. Charles had bit the inside of his lip, put his hands on his knees and curled them there, had held himself back from reaching out to touch Erik the way he had wanted to. But Erik was sprinting now, and where he went, Charles followed.
But Charles’s path had been slowed, as he had to stop and freeze the soldiers who attacked him on his way – he took a blow to his face, another to his chest – and Erik had a lead.
Erik had torn off the front driver’s side door of the truck and inside – Charles knew that face, and ran faster. Shaw had emerged, his arms spread, and Erik had reached out to punch him, resorting with the kind of mindless violence Charles had always feared would emerge when Erik met again the man who’d captured and tortured him as a child. Shaw had taken the punch, grinning, and then shoved Erik with inhuman force into the ground.
Charles had made it, finally, and thanked God that they had captured Frost, that they’d kept Charles’s abilities a secret from the beginning, even as he’d had to sit out battles where knowledge that Genosha had a telepath might have gotten back to Frost. Erik had risen, stumbling, trying to shake off what was clearly a concussion; Shaw had struck him again, and Charles had heard a horrible crack from Erik’s shoulder.
That was enough; Charles had taken Shaw’s mind.
It had been a disaster. Charles had dropped to one knee, panting, and ignored Erik as somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard Erik yell his name. Shaw had fought, hard – he had clearly been trained, likely by Emma. Charles wished he was stronger, wished he could hold Shaw indefinitely, wished murder didn’t have to be the answer.
“Erik,” he had croaked out, and Erik had done it, risen to his feet, one shoulder dangling dislocated next to him, lifted the truck, wobbling in the air, and then slammed it down , crushing Shaw. Charles had withdrawn, just a second before, afraid to be dragged down with him. He came back to his own mind with just enough time to feel a long piece of shrapnel from the truck strike him in the leg and collapse him to the ground, and then he’d blacked out, the effort of holding Shaw draining him entirely.
Hank had told him that they’d left the truck there, embedded in the ground. Only Erik could have moved it at all, and Erik was out of commission for hours afterward, and then he’d gone to Charles’s bedside. They’d left it, and Shaw under it. Charles put his foot to the gas, wincing at the pain even that tiny shift had caused to shoot up his leg. No human could have survived that; Shaw was not human; they should have guessed. They had left the truck, though, Erik distracted by Charles’s betrayal, and Shaw had emerged like a cockroach, gathered his remaining followers and was heading for the capital.
The ATV ran out of gas a half hour’s drive from the capital. It was nearing dawn. There was more fuel in a container in the back, but Charles wasted time finding it, and his leg had buckled under him when he’d gotten out to search for it. He took another painkiller – he couldn’t let himself pass out from the drugs, but he couldn’t let himself black out from the pain either.
He flashed his dogtags to gain entry to the city; the guards at the gate barely looked at them, halfway to drunk celebrating the Genoshan victory already. When Charles demanded to see Erik, General MacTaggert, Her Majesty, even, they laughed him off and shoved him in the mud, his knee collapsing under him. Charles gritted his teeth, stood up, and limped toward the palace, where he could hear the cheering of the crowds.
It took him a long time to get there and shove his way through the crowd to the front, ignoring the affronted hollering of those he elbowed aside. Charles tried not to think about his leg as he waited for someone he recognized; the parade was long, the soldiers helmeted and far too numerous for Charles to identify until – finally – Erik, at the back in an open-top jeep, looking exhausted and no longer bothering to muster a smile or a wave for the crowds.
There wasn’t anything else he could do. Charles threw himself in front of Erik’s truck, lucky that it was moving so slowly in the bustle of the crowd. It screeched as it came to a halt anyways, Erik slamming out his hand to stop its movement.
“Erik,” Charles called. He felt misery sink into him at the sight of the anger on Erik’s face, but it was tempered with the relief of having found him, of being able to relay what he’d seen to someone who’d believe him.
“That’s Commander Magneto to you,” Angel, Erik’s second-in-command, snapped at him, her mouth twisted in fury. Charles only glanced at her for a second before turning his attention back to Erik.
“Erik – I have to talk to you, it’s – damn it,” he said, as another soldier jostled him and he had to catch himself on the hood of the jeep with both hands.
“Get out of the way,” Angel said, heavy on each word, revving the engine. The crowd behind him began to boo, unhappy at the interruption of the celebration, not understanding why the truck had stopped just as they were about to get a glimpse of the queen’s only son.
“No, fuck,” Charles said, “Erik, please, it’s important – it’s Shaw, I saw him – a sentry, I saw his mind-“
“That’s it,” Angel yelled, and got out of the truck, her boots thumping into the dust.
“He’s coming here,” Charles yelled. “Shaw is coming here, Erik,” and that was all he got out before Angel stomped over and shoved him by the shoulders, toppling him into the dirt, out of the way of the truck’s path.
“Stop it,” Erik barked at Angel, who retreated sullenly. He’d stood inside the jeep, and he watched Charles now.
“I killed him myself, Charles,” Erik said. “I don’t know what – I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but I killed him. I saw it.”
“Erik,” Charles said. “I wouldn’t – Shaw’s coming now, I swear to you-”
Erik stared at him, then stumbled as Angel jerked the truck moving again. He sat, looking away, and Charles felt his heart sink as the truck rumbled by.
He stayed for a moment on his ass where Angel had shoved him into the dirt, trying to compose himself, to plan. If Erik wouldn’t believe him – and god, Charles tried to breathe through the knowledge that he’d lost Erik’s trust entirely, that there was nothing left between them at all – then he’d have to go to Her Majesty herself. She’d lifted some of the harshest restrictions on submissives; there was a chance, the barest, slimmest hope, that she’d listen to him, even if he wasn’t a dominant, and if not, at least he could be there to defend her when Shaw arrived.
He started when a strong arm wrapped under his from behind him, yanking him to his feet and shoving him out of the crowd, pushing him to the relative isolation of a narrow storefront stoop. Charles propped himself up against the door and turned to look at his attacker, trying to prepare himself to fight, despite the fact Charles was fairly sure he had nothing left in him.
“Is it true?” Armando said, looking down at Charles, his face unreadable. Alex and Sean appeared behind him, dirty from travel and the dust kicked up by the crowds. “Is Shaw coming?”
“Yes,” said Charles.
Armando crossed his arms, as Alex and Sean shifted uneasily behind him at the news. “So what do we do?”
---
The parade was still ongoing when they made it to the palace, but it was nearing dusk and they’d started hearing the occasional thump and crackle of homemade fireworks. It had been faster going than getting to the city, what with the three others taking turns providing him a shoulder to lean on as he stumbled. But there was tension there still, unavoidable. It was clear in the way Alex and Sean, even Armando, still had trouble looking him in the face when he’d had to stop and rest, notwithstanding their help.
He had shared a tent with them, ate with them, joked with them, heard their dreams for their future subs, but he’d been lying to them about one of the most fundamental aspects of himself. That wouldn’t go away. But it did have to be put aside for later.
Unfortunately – or, Charles supposed, fortunately in every situation but this one – Her Majesty’s palace guards were of a much higher caliber than the ones at the city gates.
“No one passes through without an invitation from a member of court,” said the one on the left, with the blue scabbard.
“It’s urgent,” Armando hissed, and Charles tried just to stand upright and look presentable. “We’re soldiers of Her Majesty. We’ve just come straight from the battlefront.”
The one with the blue scabbard broke, rolling his eyes. “Everyone thinks it’s urgent,” he said. “And Her Majesty has thousands of soldiers, and no urgent need to meet with some dirty footsoldiers. You’re going to need a better excuse than that.”
“Shaw is on his way here, right now,” Sean yelped, shoving in front of Armando. “Are you going to be the one who decides not to warn Her Majesty?”
He wavered visibly, but the other guard snorted. “What are you talking about?”
“He’s alive!” said Sean.
The other guard grabbed Sean by his collar, lifting until only Sean’s toes touched the ground. “Her Majesty’s son killed Shaw himself, everyone knows that. Are you calling Commander Magneto a liar? Because we don’t take too kindly –“
“Enough,” said the one with the blue scabbard, putting a calming hand on his companion’s arm. “Enough. Let him down – and you four, get out of here. Sober up, before you get yourselves in real trouble.”
“You’re an idiot,” Sean said, as Alex pulled him away. They regrouped in an alcove further down the alley. “Fuck, you guys. How are we going to fend off Shaw if we can’t even get inside the palace?”
Charles closed his eyes and tried to block out the agitated whispers of his fellow soldiers, the mental murmur of the civilians in the surrounding streets, the discomfort still emanating from the palace guards. He took a deep breath and scanned further, checking the minds of everyone he could reach inside the palace.
“Raven –“ Sean hissed, startling his eyes open again, and Alex elbowed him to correct him. “Charles. Whoever you are. What’s the plan?”
Charles took a moment before he spoke, unbearably grateful that even though his friends now knew he was a submissive, even though they still felt uncomfortable around him, they trusted his judgment. He tried to think of any other way in besides the entry point he’d picked up, and then shrugged and began to grin.
“You’re probably not going to like this,” he said, and laughed as nervousness dawned on all their faces.
*
They had to break into a shop on a deserted side street, everyone off celebrating near the parade route. Charles winced as Alex smashed in the front window, clearing out the rest of the broken glass around the edges with the side of his service weapon. He made a special note of the store’s name before he climbed in after Alex, Armando and Sean; if they lived through tonight, and Genosha’s commercial economy survived, then Charles would come back and pay for the damage and the theft. And if not, well, he figured the proprietor would have some bigger things to worry about.
His friends had halted barely inside the window, glancing around with the same look of helplessness at the racks of sub attire, and Charles hid a smirk. He took a deep breath, trying to remember the sub lessons he’d hated as a child, then picked a long green sub formal suit from the nearest shelf, holding it up to Alex’s back to assess the size.
“No,” said Alex, spinning around and glancing at it in horror, and Charles raised an eyebrow as Alex stifled the reflex, got hold of himself and yanked it from Charles’s hand, stomping off to a corner to change. Sean watched with interest as Armando manned up and, with great stoicism, picked out an outfit – Charles nodded his approval at Armando’s choice, which would still allow him close to a full range of movement for battle.
“This?” said Sean hopefully, holding out a very traditional blue sub gown, and Charles grinned at him and shook his head, picking out a pair of trousers and a thick, blue cashmere sub sweater. As they changed, Charles broke into the front counter, grabbing a bottle of pheromone enhancement spray and liberally dousing his own wrists and neck.
“This alright?” Armando said, presenting himself for Charles’s approval, and Charles looked up and nodded. Sean, who’d changed quickly, was already busy admiring the fancy embroidery on his trousers in the mirror.
“Not bad, eh?” he said, spinning a little back and forth, as Alex laughed at him, loosening up. Sean looked at himself thoughtfully. “I think I’d mate me if I were a sub,” he concluded, nodding in satisfaction.
“All right, hold still,” Charles said, coming around from behind the counter. He rubbed his wrists together again, then went up to Armando, who held his breath as Charles came up close and – moving slowly – wiped his wrists against the low, vulnerable points on Armando’s neck. It was oddly intimate, and Charles backed away quickly once the job was done. He spritzed his wrists again with the pheromone enhancement spray, rubbing them together, as Alex and Sean silently presented themselves for the same treatment. Charles did them too, looking elsewhere, and then backed away, feeling a tightness in his throat.
“It’s a good plan,” Armando said, breaking the silence, and Charles smiled at him tremulously.
“We’ll see,” he said, and they all climbed back out through the broken window to the street.
*
Charles put two fingers to his forehead when they reached the hidden sub entrance to the palace. He knocked at the door, two quick, two long, one quick again, and bowed when it opened after long seconds. When he stood up again, hoping the others had followed his lead, the sub who’d opened it was plastered against the doorframe, grinning broadly.
“Come in!” she said, beaming and slurring her words just a little bit. “Her Majesty sent down crates – crates – of champagne when she heard her son was returning victorious.”
“Victory!” yelled someone behind her. “Victory for the –“ a pause, as the speaker hiccupped – “the beautiful Commander Magneto, sexy beast that he is!”
Charles blushed, and entered.
“You four look a right disaster,” said the sub at the door, leading them in. Charles thanked a young man who appeared immediately holding four glasses for them, sloshing champagne all over the carpet. “Have you been off following the troops?
“Make a decent wage?” someone behind her choked out, and the subs around him giggled.
Sean made an affronted noise before Armando trod pointedly on his foot.
“Yes,” said Charles, calm. “But my cousin promised us positions here – she’s head of laundry services. Could we speak to her?”
The sub who’d let them in laughed and shoved at Charles’s shoulder. “Tomorrow, friend! Tonight is for celebrating the return of half the city’s lovely doms!” The palace subs around her cheered, and Charles tried not to look at the faces of his friends who were – he turned – toasting just as vehemently. He rolled his eyes and grabbed Sean’s champagne before he could take a sip, putting two fingers to his forehead and sending them a quick reminder that they were there to save the queen and Genosha.
The closest exit to the main palace is on the west side of the sub residences, Charles sent. Stay close to me – there’s no way the sub scent will last on you much longer.
They headed out, and as Charles closed the door with a soft click, leaving behind the joyous ruckus of the palace sub party, the silence of the abandoned main palace settled over them.
“Where to?” Alex said, and Charles closed his eyes and scanned the area.
He opened his eyes again and swore. “He’s here already – and most of his soldiers have blocked me, they must have picked up helmets. I can only see them from the minds of the palace wounded, or imprisoned-“ and Charles bit his lip, recalling one memory he’d gotten from a palace attendant: the guard they’d met with the blue scabbard, run through and bleeding out, hidden just inside the palace gates from the carefree, celebrating public.
“Shaw must be heading for the queen,” said Armando.
“Yes,” said Charles. “I saw him - there’s a balcony overlooking the front grounds where the queen was watching the parade. A couple of under-attendants saw Shaw heading there.”
“Shit,” said Sean.
“Look, Charles,” Alex said, leaning in closer. “We’ve made it in here, but you and Commander Magneto took down Shaw yourselves. We all saw him go down, but he’s still not dead. So what are we going to do?”
Charles kept his face very still. “He’s wearing a blocking helmet,” he said, and paused, swallowed. “We need to get it off him.”
“So what?” Alex hissed. “We don’t know any way to kill him!”
“I do,” Charles said.
Alex flushed.
Charles gritted his teeth. “Get the helmet off. I have to take his mind, and hold it long enough to – to shut him down.”
Sean nodded, but Armando gripped his shoulder. “Charles, I saw you, last time,” he said. “You didn’t have the power then – you were losing him within seconds, he was already regaining control when Commander Magneto hit him.”
“I know,” Charles snapped at him, then winced. “I know. But I have to. There’s no other way to stop him. So I will.”
Armando’s chest heaved, and Charles looked around at his friends. Three sets of eyes met his, straight on and full of faith, and Charles felt his heart throb once, painfully, in relief.
“This way,” Charles said, and set off.
*
Hidden behind a pillar and waiting for Armando’s signal, Charles took a steadying breath. He exhaled, felt the calmness that always arose before battle sink into his body, only to suddenly have his wrist gripped tightly from behind. He spun, his adrenaline pumping again, and –
Erik put a hand over his mouth, covering up Charles’s gasp. Charles stared at Erik, taking in the lines around his eyes, the serious set of his mouth, the high sharp line of his cheekbones. Erik’s hand felt hot and strong clamped over his mouth, and Charles tried to extinguish his immediate, sharpened focus on all the places where his lips were pressed against Erik’s palm. He felt his eyes flick downwards involuntarily, and Erik withdraw his hand quickly, looking away.
“You came,” Charles whispered, barely conscious of Shaw’s men around the corner.
Erik’s mouth trembled as he looked back up. “I knew – you wouldn’t lie about this.”
“Erik,” Charles said, and his voice broke, even in a whisper. “I never wanted to hide what I am from you.”
He tamped down on the overwhelming urge to grab Erik’s hand and grip it tight, as Erik watched him desperately. “I just wanted to… to earn a place by you –” said Charles, but he was interrupted by the slow footsteps of one of Shaw’s men striding down the corridor.
They breathed together, the warmth of Erik’s body pressed in tight, listening.
When the footsteps faded, Charles shifted his weight, just a little, and furrowed his brow when Erik jerked backward abruptly, eyes widening.
“Charles – you’re,” he said too loudly, surprise clear in his voice, pressing back in almost immediately. He put one hand to Charles’s cheek and his face to Charles’s neck, breathing his scent in great gasps and holding him still at the same time, and Charles started – barely, only the faintest tremor – to hope, but just then Armando waved the pink scrap that meant there were only two guards remaining in the main hall, and Charles pushed Erik away by the shoulders and hissed, “Now – we have to go now.”
“No,” Erik said, stepping back in, pressing a hand into the short hair at the nape of Charles’s neck, looming down. He was breathing hard; Charles felt the buttons on his shirt, the buckle of his belt, the links of his watch quiver against his body. “Charles,” he breathed, his mouth so close – his breath hot on Charles’s cheek, and Charles closed his eyes against the sensation, the rightness of it.
Charles took a sharp inhale and opened his eyes again. “Your mother,” he said, and it was like a shock of cold water to Erik’s expression. Erik shook his head, dropped his caress, and Charles felt all the metal on his body settle.
“This way,” Charles said, slipping out from between Erik and the pillar, and when they turned the corner Armando, Sean and Alex were already taking down Shaw’s men guarding the balcony doors, all of Erik’s diligent training in evidence in the way they moved, smoothly and always in control.
“Now!” yelled Armando as Alex let his plasma blast go to collapse a section of the roof on one of Shaw’s men.
Charles and Erik ran past, Charles ignoring the jarring pain in his leg, trusting the others to handle the guards. They stopped when they reached the doors, where Erik put one hand on the wooden handle and then paused. He turned, put one hand to Charles’s cheek again, and stroked a thumb over the lines by his eye, once, twice, then stopped.
“Let’s go,” Charles said, and Erik nodded and opened the door.
---
By the firm grip Shaw had on the blade to the queen’s throat, Charles figured the noise from inside had alerted him to the fact they were coming. Edie Lensherr looked unruffled, her posture tall and strong, but Charles had to shut down his mind to the agony coming off Erik at the sight of her, and focus on adapting to the situation.
“Erik, my boy,” said Shaw, smiling unpleasantly at him. “I will have to ask you to stay back, or your mother’s subjects will watch her choke on her own blood.”
Charles tried not to wince as he watched Erik’s grip slip on the self-control for which he prided himself. It was cold out on the balcony; the sun had set fully by now, and the wind that whipped Shaw’s cloak and ruffled Erik’s hair was biting. Still, Shaw’s bare hand on the knife didn’t shake.
“Let her go,” Erik said. He made no threat; it wasn’t a bargain or a plea, but a statement.
Charles tried to be calm, to assess his options, to think two moves ahead.
Edie Lensherr met his eyes, and Charles raised two fingers to his temple.
“Tell your telepath he can stop trying to get through to me,” Shaw said to Erik. “Did you really bring a submissive to this fight? Is that what you’ve resorted to, Commander Magneto? Subs and empty gestures?”
Erik’s hands curled into fists.
“Ah ah,” Shaw tsked, pushing the knife into the queen’s throat, just enough for a drop of blood to emerge and start to drip down her throat. “I expected more from you, Erik. But one sign that you’re using those powers I trained you in so beautifully, and you’ll be digging your mother’s grave at dawn.”
“You’ll never rule Genosha,” Erik said. “The people will never submit to you.”
Shaw laughed, though he kept his eyes on Erik. “No, I won’t rule Genosha,” he said, careless. “I’ll burn it to the ground, my dear boy. By the time I’m done, Genosha will be a desert from border to border, and in ten years no one will remember it existed at all.”
Charles took a deep breath.
Now, your Majesty, he sent, and Edie Lensherr brought up one arm just quick enough to knock Shaw’s helmet off his head. Before it was halfway to the ground, Charles had seized Shaw’s mind.
Shaw was ferocious, fought him hard and dirty. Charles felt Shaw’s fury and knew one slip – even for a moment – and that knife would be buried deep and vicious in the queen’s neck, and Erik would have to watch his mother die. It couldn’t be.
He scrambled for control, felt his body inhale and exhale from a long distance away. He contained Shaw within the boundaries of his mind, ignoring the screaming, the cursing, the promises that Shaw would take pleasure in his revenge, and searched. It was impossible, juggling the two tasks – he couldn’t keep Shaw contained and search effectively at the same time, a task too unwieldy for any one mind.
There – it was – he felt something, just a thread, and seized it, but Shaw had figured out another tactic and suddenly Charles was blasted with a memory: a young boy strapped to a table with thick leather cuffs at his wrists and elbows and ankles and neck, his body arching and twisting against the straps as the boy struggled to gasp for air, mindless with agony; Shaw watched the boy lose all sense of dignity and possession and start to cry, the sobs of a much younger child. Erik, Charles cried out and felt his control of Shaw’s mind almost slip, the thread yanked away.
And then, from very far away, Charles felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned with sightless eyes and oh, it was Erik’s strong fingers on him, propping him up, Erik safe and sound, if Charles could do this. Charles calmed himself, pushed away the last fragments of the memory and began his search anew. It was easier this time, now that he knew what he was looking for, and he called up that thread again, gripped it tight and began to reel it in.
Shaw howled and Charles felt sparks of pain in his own temples, but that was so distant. He came to the end of it, and Shaw screamed and battered at him, and Charles paused- praying, wishing in the most futile of ways – that there was another way, that he could have the control to keep Shaw only frozen forever, or at least for long enough to find a way, a prison that could hold him. But he could feel his hold slipping even now, and so Charles reached out and snapped the thread.
His mind went silent – too silent, and Charles felt his body drop underneath him. As he passed out, the last thing he saw was Shaw, thudding to the floor. Charles blinked, and the knife fell out of Shaw’s limp hand; Charles heard Erik call his name, his true name, but it was muffled, and Charles watched the eerie stillness of Shaw’s chest as the world went black.
*
When Charles woke, the first thing he saw was Hank. He had a journal open in his lap, but he clearly wasn’t reading it, his chin resting on his hand, his eyes staring at nothing.
Charles cleared his throat, and mustered a smile for Hank when he shot up and the journal hit the ground. “I’m sick of-“ he started to joke, and then stopped and put a hand to his head. That was a migraine that wouldn’t be going anywhere any time soon, Charles could tell.
“Headache?” said Hank, low, and Charles made the tiniest nod he could, trying not to move his head. Hank shut the thick maroon curtains, leaving only the slightest sliver of daylight peeking through, and then brought him some water and some pills.
What happened? Charles sent, wincing at the tender feel of using his telepathy, but it was easier than speaking.
“The queen’s fine,” Hank assured him, tone low and quiet. “Alex has a dislocated shoulder and Armando got burned badly on one side, but they’ll be okay.”
Charles sent an acknowledgement to Hank. He paused – then, sent two other questions.
“Shaw’s dead,” Hank said. “We don’t know – nobody knows how you did it, but Armando was saying that you said you could – turn him off. Something like that.”
Charles felt his throat tighten, closed his eyes against the wave of self-disgust.
“And, um, Commander Magneto is fine too, not a scratch on him,” Hank said, babbling. “He brought you here, actually – we’re in his chambers now.” Charles’s eyes shot back open. He propped himself up in – oh god, in Erik’s bed – and took in the opulent but restrained setting, the rich thickness of the duvet over him, the few furnishings done in dark mahogany. Then he tried to imagine Erik bringing him here and wanted to wince at the thought of it, the embarrassment of blacking out and being carried here in Erik’s arms, to his own rooms.
“He’s with the queen, now,” Hank continued. “He stayed for a minute but then he had to go-“ Charles tried to diligently ignore the mental image that Hank was stuck on: Erik sitting on the edge of his bed, hesitating with one hand over Charles’s chest as it rose and fell, slow and steady. Hank had tried not to watch as Erik had given in, tucked away a piece of Charles’s hair that had fallen across his forehead in one quick moment, before he rose and left.
“Charles!” said Sean, popping his head in, and his three friends entered. Charles thanked god the pills had begun to kick in for his migraine. “You’re awake! And we did it!”
“Yes, we did,” said Charles, and the four of them grinned at each other for a long, carefree moment.
“So, I guess, what would you like to do now?” asked Hank, and Charles looked around at Erik’s rooms.
And suddenly Charles was too tired to be brave anymore. His head hurt too much, and his leg still ached, and he was too ashamed to face Erik again, to try desperately to interpret his signals. He was too afraid that outside of the heat of battle, Erik wouldn’t – wouldn’t want to put his hand on Charles’s face anymore, to stroke a thumb over the lines next to his eyes. He was too sore to watch Erik’s face as he remembered how Charles had lied to him, betrayed him. Erik was his true Dom; there was no avoiding that knowledge, not after what had happened in the corridor. But there was no guarantee that mere biology would trump their painful history. They were compatible, but they weren’t mated, and there were so many reasons for Erik to turn him away.
“I think I’d like to go home,” he said to Hank finally, low and not looking up, until he felt Armando’s hand land on his shoulder.
“We’ll take you,” Armando said, and Sean took a bag of meds from Hank while Alex put a shoulder under Charles’s arm, helped him stand on his re-bandaged leg, and took him out.
---
On his second lap around the house in Westchester, Charles barely had to lean on his cane at all. He had been at his desk all afternoon, ostensibly trying to read through the journals that had piled up while he’d been gone, but mostly just sitting there with his head propped on one hand, bored stiff. He missed the bustle of the camp, the constant hum of his fellows’ minds, the driving sense of purpose. The ability to find Erik in his tent, bring out the next day’s maps and the chess pieces that had served as their tactical markers, and sit and drink scotch over them with Erik through the night, while the lamps flickered warm and constant next to them.
When he had shaken off his melancholy and stood to go find Raven for supper, his leg had been tight and stiff from the lack of movement. A walk around the house seemed just right, he’d thought.
Though spring had begun to settle over Westchester in the week he’d been back, the first buds just starting to appear on the trees, it was crisp out, and Charles began to wish he’d brought a cardigan. Still, he paused as he walked down the patio, stopped and leaned on the balustrade and looked out at the grounds.
He had known at the time that it wasn’t brave to sneak out of the palace and go home. He had known that and accepted it as the price of retreat, but now that he was home, he found himself restless, prone to both physical and mental wandering. Raven hadn’t yet forgiven him, though she’d cried at first to see him in the condition he’d come home in. The migraine had taken two days to cease entirely, and in quiet moments Charles still sometimes felt what seemed like an echo of the shock, the emotional afterimage of Shaw’s death.
He wondered what they’d done with the body.
Raven had run into his bedroom his first night home – Charles didn’t know what noises he’d been making, but her face was flushed, colour drained, when she’d shaken him awake. She’d curled up next to him and said all the right things – that he’d done it to save the queen and Genosha, and that Shaw was a monster and a murderer, and that it had been his only option.
But Charles knew it that while all those things had been true, none of them had been the reason that swayed his hand. He had killed Shaw because to do otherwise would be to lose Erik. He had acted out of profoundly selfish reasons, and therefore would never rest easy with Shaw’s death; it was a price he had been willing to pay.
Charles swallowed it down and breathed in the fresh spring air, the last moments of daylight.
When Charles heard someone clear his throat awkwardly behind him, he didn’t jump, didn’t spin in fear, but closed his eyes and bit his lip and smiled with a hasty rush of joy before composing himself and turning.
“Erik,” Charles said, and Erik stepped closer. His hands were clasped behind his back, straight and tall, but Charles could see the nervousness in him. “Or General Magneto, I suppose – I hear you received a promotion, my friend.” Charles stopped himself. “If I may – still call you that.”
Erik, looking like he couldn’t stop himself, took another step forward. “Of course. My friend.”
“My congratulations, then.”
Erik’s mouth tightened. “It was not earned. If anyone should have-“
Charles waved it aside.
“I come as an emissary,” Erik said, suddenly remembering to bow. “Her Majesty wished to thank you for your service, though she understands a soldier’s longing for home.”
“I’m a soldier, then,” Charles picked out, “A soldier still. Or again.”
Erik nodded, then continued. “She asks you to return, at your convenience, to serve upon her council as a member of Her Majesty’s service, and to advise her on the matter of full sub enfranchisement. And she sends you this crest - ” Erik’s hands came from behind his back, removing a pendant from around his neck, “so that your family will know what you have done for her.”
He pressed it into Charles’s hands.
“And the helmet of Sebastian Shaw,” Erik continued quickly, retrieving it off the ground behind him. “So that the world will know what you have done for Genosha.”
He stopped babbling, and Charles held the helmet and the crest and looked at them. “Thank you,” he said. “Or – I send my thanks to Her Majesty,” he corrected. He looked at them for a moment longer, then set them both down on the balustrade and looked back up at Erik.
Erik, following his movements, met Charles’s eyes and visibly straightened.
“Thank you for coming,” Charles said.
Erik exhaled through his nose. “To tell you the truth,” he said, and stopped. “I – I wanted to see you.”
Charles nodded.
“You left so quickly,” Erik said. “Without – you didn’t say goodbye, and I didn’t know if you, uh.”
Charles stayed silent, and Erik broke. “You must have felt it,” he said. “You must know that you – that I – that they say only a true bond feels like that.”
“I did,” Charles said, and Erik’s shoulders relaxed. “But Erik,” he said, and sighed, sitting down on the balustrade to support his tiring leg. “That doesn’t have to mean anything, if we don’t want it to. This isn’t a century ago; true pairs can, and do, live apart if they wish to.”
Erik’s mouth hung open. It would have been unattractive, if Charles hadn’t been so stupidly sick in love. “Do you –“ Erik started, and got no further.
“You were so angry,” Charles said, trying to speak dispassionately and without showing his pain. “You sent me home – it was like you’d wiped your mind of every minute – every second that we’d spent-“
“But I forgave you,” Erik said. “Charles – immediately, once I could believe that nothing else between us had been a lie.”
“And - thank you for that,” Charles said. “I never wanted to lie to you – and every minute I spent with you was real, Erik. But I need to know that you understand that that lie was not my choice.”
Erik listened, and nodded. “You were – maybe the worst of all of them, that first week of training,” he said, and Charles smiled up at him, remembering. “But you earned your spot, like any Dom, and – and surpassed them all. A sub, to protect your sister.”
Charles winced and stood. “To be honest with you, in return… Not just to protect my sister. I went because I wanted it, Erik, I wanted the chance to be there, to leave behind the quiet, boring, miserable decorative life that people thought was all a sub was good for. And now – Erik, I don’t think I could be a good sub to you,” Charles said, feeling a certain kind of peace despite the tightness in his chest.
Erik’s mouth twitched up at one side, his eyes serious, and stepped forward until he stood next to Charles, leaning with one hip against the cold balustrade.
“Well, Charles,” Erik said, turning to look out at the grounds and planting his hands on the balustrade. “I’m not sure I could be a very good Dom for you, either.”
“What?” said Charles, surprised into laughter.
“A Dom of honour protects his sub,” Erik recited, looking out aimlessly. “A Dom of honour commands her family and acts with strength, wisdom and conviction towards all others.” Charles nodded along, having heard Raven repeat it every morning of their childhood.
Erik turned back to him. “An honourable Dom doesn’t let his sub rush into battle alongside him,” he said, taking Charles’s hands in his, warm and gentle. “Doesn’t long for his sub to challenge him, argue with him, fight next to him and with him.”
“It sounds like we were both – very poor at our lessons,” Charles said, feeling himself swaying forward, and Erik quirked a smile but didn’t laugh, stepping closer, so that Charles could feel them touch at knees and chests and stomachs, when they inhaled together, and finally, at long last, lips.
The first seconds were gentle – only the barest touch, as they breathed against each other’s mouths, and then Erik’s posture crumpled, and Charles started to laugh around their kisses as Erik wrapped arms around him, yanking him in and up with a kind of joyous carelessness. Erik stroked one hand restlessly up Charles’s back, clasped the back of his neck, tilted his head just right and dove in, kissing like he’d rather suffocate than surface for air, and Charles stroked Erik’s gorgeous, ridiculous face and didn’t even hear the soft thumps of the crest and helmet, knocked off the balustrade, as they fell to the ground below.
Charles drew just barely back when he realized that if he waited to stop until he was satisfied with kissing Erik, they’d be standing out there until the end of time. “Come in,” he said, and hooked a hand in behind Erik’s belt buckle.
Erik’s eyes widened, as he clearly realized that learning to act with coyness and decorum had been one of Charles’s least successful lessons. He stumbled forward as Charles yanked at him gently, grinning. Charles kissed him again.
“Come in, Commander Magneto,” he said. “I’ve waited for you long enough.”
“Erik,” corrected his Dom, and Charles yanked him in for a kiss.
“I’ll call you what I want, my friend,” Charles said, releasing him, and Erik laughed and pressed him back against the balustrade, the cold chill of the stone behind him a momentary shock, as Erik dropped to his knees on the patio and began to open Charles’s trousers.
“Stay there, my sub,” Erik said, and Charles, for once, happily, obeyed.