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domarzioneThe outline is stuck at 17k words, probably around the halfway mark. This? This is the expansion on the first quarter of the first bullet point. And it's 1500 words. And a little rough, but I just wanted to get some words out.
It's as well that Erik didn't have the energy to do more than tread water before they were dragged aboard the inflatable boat by the rescue swimmers, since the first thing he did when he realized that he was now in the custody of the US Coast Guard was to panic.
Perhaps 'panic' was too strong a word, Charles amended. But even without being in Erik's mind, he could feel the wave of strong emotion, anger and fear entwined, and the metal around them vibrated for a moment before going still as Erik ruthlessly brought himself back under control. It wasn't the rage from earlier that had rang out like a beacon and allowed Charles to find Erik in the first place, but it was more than sufficient to bring Charles's attention back from his own discomfort and what he was going to tell Moira once they got back to the ship.
You're safe, Charles told him telepathically as he pulled at his sodden turtleneck, trying to roll it down so that it less material touched his neck. You're not under arrest. You'll be free to go once we get back to shore if that's what you want.
Erik, still breathing hard as he lay supine between two seamen, nodded once. But his stiff body posture did not ease and he remained coiled tense and silent as they drove back. Charles half-expected Erik to push himself off the side and back into the water to swim away before they tied on to the ladder, but he did not. He did not relax once they climbed up to the deck, either, however, and he stood there silent and dripping and wary as Charles accepted Moira's chastisement.
Before she could change topics from how Charles could have killed himself and there was an entire crew more capable than he of fishing someone out of the Atlantic, he sent her a telepathic request to hold off on the questions about Erik and she gave him a quick nod, finishing her piece and then turning to Anderson and suggesting that they wait in the officers' mess for Charles and "his new friend" to dry off and change. A nearby petty officer took that as a cue to lead Charles and Erik to a stateroom with a shower and left them with the promise to return with towels and some dry clothes.
Charles started talking as soon as the door closed. He explained who he was, what his research was about, and how utterly thrilled he was to meet someone of Erik's strength. Erik froze at the last, pausing in his stripping out of his diving suit so that it stayed at his waist - the easier to slip back into the sleeves and make a break for it.
"Not like that," Charles exhorted, angry at himself for letting his enthusiasm carry him away and for not considering what Erik's memories would mean in this context. Especially as now he could see the physical scars that complemented the mental ones. "Christ, not like that. I've never experimented on anyone - I would never experiment on anyone. My work's been on a different level entirely."
The tableau was broken by a sharp knock on the door and the appearance of a seaman bearing towels and apologizing that they had nothing more than PT gear and work coveralls, but it would be a short cruise back to port.
"What are you doing with the CIA?" Erik asked as soon as they were alone again. "Why are you here?"
He hasn't made a move to either zip his suit back up or reach for one of the towels, standing instead with his arms at his side in a pose that nobody could mistake as casual. So Charles started talking again, this time more carefully, about Shaw and his mutant sidekicks and his plans to escalate the Cold War into a hot one by suborning high-ranking officials.
Erik listened, brow furrowing in deepening anger, until Charles paused.
"What is it?" he asked, fearful that he might have misspoken again.
"You're not here about his war crimes," Erik said flatly. "You don't care what he did to me and the others in the camps."
"War crimes?" Charles repeated, utterly confused. "What war crimes?"
Sebastian Shaw had been a US Army lieutenant during the war, captured and interned by the Nazis and returning home to New York a broken young man. He'd spent the post-war years 'recovering' by drowning himself in debauchery before surprising everyone with his acumen and strength after his father's heart attack and his own election to the Shaw Industries board of directors. Charles's family (the Markos, at least) and the Shaws had known each other forever - his step-brother had gone to school with Shaw and they'd attended each other's childhood birthday parties and then Shaw had come first to Cain's funeral and then to Kurt's. The family connection had been part of Moira's pitch, both to Charles to get him involved and then to her bosses to allow him access to sensitive material. There'd been nothing anywhere in all of the files about Shaw committing war crimes either before or during his internment at Oflag XII-A.
Erik laughed, an ugly sound that had nothing to do with being amused. "You were in my mind, Doctor Xavier," he said sourly, reaching down to pick up the sagging front of his diving suit in preparation to pull it back on. "You rummaged through my memories like a burglar and you ask that?"
"Wait, please," Charles begged, holding up his hands in a placating gesture that had no effect. "I don't understand. There's no way Sebastian Shaw could be the man in your memories. You must be-"
"Mistaken?" Erik bit off angrily, pushing his arms through the sleeves roughly and re-doing the zipper with a vague flick of his wrist. Charles forced himself not to get distracted by the casual use of a mutant ability. "Apparently, since I thought you might understand."
He started walking toward the door and Charles reached out to grab at his arm. Before he could, Erik caught his wrist in a powerful grip and turned it sharply. Charles gasped in surprise and pain, stepping forward to alleviate the stress on his arm, and Erik let go abruptly, as if he hadn't realized he'd taken hold in the first place.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, then looked Charles in the eyes. "But I cannot stay here."
"Please wait a moment," Charles asked - begged. "Please. I'm not denying your experiences - God, how could I after seeing what I saw? - and I'm not saying that they don't matter. They do. I'm just… they don't line up with my experiences. And I'm confused. Please stay, at least until we get back to Miami, and help me understand."
Charles wasn't reading Erik's mind in any real way, but the temptation was very strong to do so here and now, to just be able to find whatever he needed to say to get Erik to not run up on deck and jump overboard and disappear forever. Beyond the matter of Shaw's identity, even beyond what Shaw was doing with a telepath and a mutant who could control wind, there was Erik and his mission and his pain that bled through even when Charles was consciously trying not to listen. Shaw - or whoever Erik thought he was - was gone, at least for now. He would remain Moira's problem and probably his own as well. But Erik was still here and Charles knew he could help him (with something, somehow) if he'd just stop running long enough to accept it.
Erik hadn't moved, was standing there looking at the floor, and Charles took a deep breath and hoped it was a good sign. "Please, Erik. You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. I wasn't lying before - you can leave us when we get back to port. But I don't want you to think I'm such a threat that you have to dive back into the ocean to get away from me."
Erik took a slow and measured deep breath. "I don't want anything to do with the CIA," he said finally, still looking at the floor, then he looked up again at Charles. "I don't care about your government and its games. I don't trust them."
I don't trust you is what he meant, but Charles nodded anyway.
"I'm not CIA," he said instead. "I'm consulting with them on Shaw, but I'm not an agent. I'm here because of the mutant angle, not any other. I'm an academic and I don't care about the government's games, either."
He let Erik search his face for whatever he wanted to look for, hoping that he found it.
"I'm also really uncomfortable in these sodden clothing - you're the only one who put any foresight into appropriate costuming for a nighttime swim," he continued when Erik looked away again. "I'd really like to go shower and change. Will you still be here and not back in the Atlantic when I return?"
A curt nod from Erik, who was still not looking at him.
Charles smiled at him anyway. "Thank you."
It's as well that Erik didn't have the energy to do more than tread water before they were dragged aboard the inflatable boat by the rescue swimmers, since the first thing he did when he realized that he was now in the custody of the US Coast Guard was to panic.
Perhaps 'panic' was too strong a word, Charles amended. But even without being in Erik's mind, he could feel the wave of strong emotion, anger and fear entwined, and the metal around them vibrated for a moment before going still as Erik ruthlessly brought himself back under control. It wasn't the rage from earlier that had rang out like a beacon and allowed Charles to find Erik in the first place, but it was more than sufficient to bring Charles's attention back from his own discomfort and what he was going to tell Moira once they got back to the ship.
You're safe, Charles told him telepathically as he pulled at his sodden turtleneck, trying to roll it down so that it less material touched his neck. You're not under arrest. You'll be free to go once we get back to shore if that's what you want.
Erik, still breathing hard as he lay supine between two seamen, nodded once. But his stiff body posture did not ease and he remained coiled tense and silent as they drove back. Charles half-expected Erik to push himself off the side and back into the water to swim away before they tied on to the ladder, but he did not. He did not relax once they climbed up to the deck, either, however, and he stood there silent and dripping and wary as Charles accepted Moira's chastisement.
Before she could change topics from how Charles could have killed himself and there was an entire crew more capable than he of fishing someone out of the Atlantic, he sent her a telepathic request to hold off on the questions about Erik and she gave him a quick nod, finishing her piece and then turning to Anderson and suggesting that they wait in the officers' mess for Charles and "his new friend" to dry off and change. A nearby petty officer took that as a cue to lead Charles and Erik to a stateroom with a shower and left them with the promise to return with towels and some dry clothes.
Charles started talking as soon as the door closed. He explained who he was, what his research was about, and how utterly thrilled he was to meet someone of Erik's strength. Erik froze at the last, pausing in his stripping out of his diving suit so that it stayed at his waist - the easier to slip back into the sleeves and make a break for it.
"Not like that," Charles exhorted, angry at himself for letting his enthusiasm carry him away and for not considering what Erik's memories would mean in this context. Especially as now he could see the physical scars that complemented the mental ones. "Christ, not like that. I've never experimented on anyone - I would never experiment on anyone. My work's been on a different level entirely."
The tableau was broken by a sharp knock on the door and the appearance of a seaman bearing towels and apologizing that they had nothing more than PT gear and work coveralls, but it would be a short cruise back to port.
"What are you doing with the CIA?" Erik asked as soon as they were alone again. "Why are you here?"
He hasn't made a move to either zip his suit back up or reach for one of the towels, standing instead with his arms at his side in a pose that nobody could mistake as casual. So Charles started talking again, this time more carefully, about Shaw and his mutant sidekicks and his plans to escalate the Cold War into a hot one by suborning high-ranking officials.
Erik listened, brow furrowing in deepening anger, until Charles paused.
"What is it?" he asked, fearful that he might have misspoken again.
"You're not here about his war crimes," Erik said flatly. "You don't care what he did to me and the others in the camps."
"War crimes?" Charles repeated, utterly confused. "What war crimes?"
Sebastian Shaw had been a US Army lieutenant during the war, captured and interned by the Nazis and returning home to New York a broken young man. He'd spent the post-war years 'recovering' by drowning himself in debauchery before surprising everyone with his acumen and strength after his father's heart attack and his own election to the Shaw Industries board of directors. Charles's family (the Markos, at least) and the Shaws had known each other forever - his step-brother had gone to school with Shaw and they'd attended each other's childhood birthday parties and then Shaw had come first to Cain's funeral and then to Kurt's. The family connection had been part of Moira's pitch, both to Charles to get him involved and then to her bosses to allow him access to sensitive material. There'd been nothing anywhere in all of the files about Shaw committing war crimes either before or during his internment at Oflag XII-A.
Erik laughed, an ugly sound that had nothing to do with being amused. "You were in my mind, Doctor Xavier," he said sourly, reaching down to pick up the sagging front of his diving suit in preparation to pull it back on. "You rummaged through my memories like a burglar and you ask that?"
"Wait, please," Charles begged, holding up his hands in a placating gesture that had no effect. "I don't understand. There's no way Sebastian Shaw could be the man in your memories. You must be-"
"Mistaken?" Erik bit off angrily, pushing his arms through the sleeves roughly and re-doing the zipper with a vague flick of his wrist. Charles forced himself not to get distracted by the casual use of a mutant ability. "Apparently, since I thought you might understand."
He started walking toward the door and Charles reached out to grab at his arm. Before he could, Erik caught his wrist in a powerful grip and turned it sharply. Charles gasped in surprise and pain, stepping forward to alleviate the stress on his arm, and Erik let go abruptly, as if he hadn't realized he'd taken hold in the first place.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, then looked Charles in the eyes. "But I cannot stay here."
"Please wait a moment," Charles asked - begged. "Please. I'm not denying your experiences - God, how could I after seeing what I saw? - and I'm not saying that they don't matter. They do. I'm just… they don't line up with my experiences. And I'm confused. Please stay, at least until we get back to Miami, and help me understand."
Charles wasn't reading Erik's mind in any real way, but the temptation was very strong to do so here and now, to just be able to find whatever he needed to say to get Erik to not run up on deck and jump overboard and disappear forever. Beyond the matter of Shaw's identity, even beyond what Shaw was doing with a telepath and a mutant who could control wind, there was Erik and his mission and his pain that bled through even when Charles was consciously trying not to listen. Shaw - or whoever Erik thought he was - was gone, at least for now. He would remain Moira's problem and probably his own as well. But Erik was still here and Charles knew he could help him (with something, somehow) if he'd just stop running long enough to accept it.
Erik hadn't moved, was standing there looking at the floor, and Charles took a deep breath and hoped it was a good sign. "Please, Erik. You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. I wasn't lying before - you can leave us when we get back to port. But I don't want you to think I'm such a threat that you have to dive back into the ocean to get away from me."
Erik took a slow and measured deep breath. "I don't want anything to do with the CIA," he said finally, still looking at the floor, then he looked up again at Charles. "I don't care about your government and its games. I don't trust them."
I don't trust you is what he meant, but Charles nodded anyway.
"I'm not CIA," he said instead. "I'm consulting with them on Shaw, but I'm not an agent. I'm here because of the mutant angle, not any other. I'm an academic and I don't care about the government's games, either."
He let Erik search his face for whatever he wanted to look for, hoping that he found it.
"I'm also really uncomfortable in these sodden clothing - you're the only one who put any foresight into appropriate costuming for a nighttime swim," he continued when Erik looked away again. "I'd really like to go shower and change. Will you still be here and not back in the Atlantic when I return?"
A curt nod from Erik, who was still not looking at him.
Charles smiled at him anyway. "Thank you."
