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X-Men First Class, "On Regrets" (Erik+Raven)
If he had to go back, he would make all of the same choices. But he still feels haunted by the ghost of a friend lost, unable to reach closure, trapped.
Post-movie. Implicit Erik->Charles. Warnings for spoilers of things that everyone knew before the movie came out. Contains angst, repression, and bitterness.
.on regrets.
He paced restlessly, back and forth across the room, the very picture of stress. He hadn't changed out of the suit that Hank made, still crusted with sand and blood from the beach; his eyes and hair were wild but he had not removed his helmet.
He didn't want to remove his helmet.
Part of him was sure that the moment he took it off, Charles's voice would flood back into his mind, exactly as it had been twelve hours before; urgent and pleading and desperate (don't do this Erik be the better man). Even though he knew that it was long over -- that his decisions had been set in stone long before he even met Charles -- a part of him still felt like it was there, then, trapped in that moment before killing Shaw, when he had finally taken the irrevocable step to shut Charles out and set on the path that had taken them away from each other.
He had always known that Shaw's death would not bring him peace, but he could no more have stopped himself from putting the man down than he could go back in time and save his mother's life.
But right now he was that little boy again, his mother's loss and his inability to avenge her making the whole world seem off-kilter, out of sync. Only this time he had lost Charles to an ideological conflict and he was not quite sure why that was making his world reel.
All Erik knew was that he had not felt so miserable in decades.
Misery was a useless emotion. He had long ago learned to channel it into rage.
(it's what's nearly gotten you killed all this time)
Erik lifted his hands, lowered them again. Even with the helmet on, he could still hear Charles.
(my friend, I'm sorry. but we do not)
He knew that it was his own mind providing the words. He knew that if he took the helmet off, there would be no Charles there to reprimand him or beg him to come back. Charles was very far away now, out of reach; sequestered in his mansion; arrested by the CIA.
Or in surgery in the hospital.
"Aren't you going to get changed?"
At some point Erik found that he had stopped pacing. He looked up at Raven, comforted in some way to find her shed of her uniform and wearing only her own skin; a potent reminder that even if he felt haunted by the last day's events, he had also helped her come to terms with who she was, and who she wanted to be. At least she might yet come out of this happy.
But then again, she had lost Charles, too.
"You're still in their uniform." She moved forward, steps minimized in a way that showed that she was not comfortable being without clothing, yet. Erik straightened as she approached him. "It isn't easy for you either, is it?"
More than you could guess, he thought. He closed his eyes and surrendered, for just one heartbeat, letting her reach up to the helmet and ease it up off his head, and telling himself that whatever would happen, would happen.
There was nothing, no change, and he could not say whether he was disappointed or relieved.
He opened his eyes again. "Change is never easy," he said, bitterly. "People are creatures of habit and comfort. That's why they fear and hate what's different."
He would not cling to the past and flinch from the future. He would accept the path he had always known he would walk and he would not look back. Or so he kept telling himself, but this misery lingered, stubbornly.
"But-- there's a difference between fear and regret, isn't there?" she asked, looking up at him, genuinely seeking an answer to this question. Is it wrong to regret leaving Charles? she wanted to know, needed to know.
Erik could not answer that question. He only shook his head and turned away, thin frown twisting his lips.
"--I have an idea," she said.
He glanced back over his shoulder to find Charles standing there in her place, in the same clothes he had been wearing yesterday, before the wonderful and disastrous events in Cuba.
Erik's breath caught, and he said, more harshly than he'd intended, "I didn't want him messing with my head, I certainly don't want you--"
"Call it therapeutic," Charles said, a familiar laid-back smile in his voice.
If anything those words that he might have expected from the real Charles made him angrier. "Therapy is the last thing I want right now. Stop this."
"Why are you fighting me?" He sounded amused. Raven knew him better than anyone, the way he stood, the way he spoke, the way he moved; the illusion was flawless. "I only want to help you. You know that."
"I'm not going to tell you again!"
"Please, Erik." The light faded from his features, and Charles' posture shifted, suddenly vulnerable -- suddenly unhappy. "I need to hear it."
He knew, consciously, that it was not Charles at all. That it was Raven saying it, that she was the one who needed this. That in fact she was probably not even trying too hard to mimic Charles's mannerisms, and it was only the aching surface similarity that made it seem so realistically like him.
But even knowing all that he could not bear to see that sheltered, naive, idealistic little fool be hurt any further.
It took a long beat, wrestling with the words, before he managed to rasp out, "I'm sorry, Charles," tearing his gaze away.
He was apologizing for any number of things. For somehow managing to disappoint him even though he had never been less than honest with his intentions or beliefs; for blocking him out, for forcing him to feel Shaw's death, for even thinking in some tiny portion of his mind that maybe if he did it would help Charles shed some of that naivete and see things Erik's way; for that bullet which had never, ever been meant for him, and for leaving him like that when it became painfully clear that they would not see eye to eye.
Charles took a few steps closer, his pale blue eyes soft and understanding. "I want to apologize, too."
Raven, he reminded himself. Raven wants to apologize to Charles. He wasn't going to be able to breathe if Charles came any closer. That face of his seemed to steal the very air from all around him, as if telepathy alone weren't power enough.
"But doesn't it feel a bit better now? Like -- closure. To say the things you didn't get to say," Charles continued.
Erik laughed, a short and unpleasant laugh.
The things he hadn't gotten to say? But he had said everything, there on that beach, everything to try and make Charles come with him. He had all but begged. I need you by my side, he'd said. Erik Lehnsherr, a man who had never needed -- or wanted -- anyone.
He had said everything he had been able to put into words, twelve hours ago. Everything except the things he hadn't even realized.
But even if he hadn't realized them himself -- Charles must have known.
Charles had turned his back on Erik, not the other way around. He had given Erik no other option than to leave.
Erik steeled himself, reaching out to take the helmet (he had fought so fiercely to try and take this helmet away, hadn't he) from Charles's limp grasp. He said, slowly, "Yes... I think I feel a bit better now."
And it felt hollow as he started to strip out of his suit, finally having found a way to cease caring about the shape that Raven was wearing. But he had always known that being at peace was not an option.
Post-movie. Implicit Erik->Charles. Warnings for spoilers of things that everyone knew before the movie came out. Contains angst, repression, and bitterness.
.on regrets.
He paced restlessly, back and forth across the room, the very picture of stress. He hadn't changed out of the suit that Hank made, still crusted with sand and blood from the beach; his eyes and hair were wild but he had not removed his helmet.
He didn't want to remove his helmet.
Part of him was sure that the moment he took it off, Charles's voice would flood back into his mind, exactly as it had been twelve hours before; urgent and pleading and desperate (don't do this Erik be the better man). Even though he knew that it was long over -- that his decisions had been set in stone long before he even met Charles -- a part of him still felt like it was there, then, trapped in that moment before killing Shaw, when he had finally taken the irrevocable step to shut Charles out and set on the path that had taken them away from each other.
He had always known that Shaw's death would not bring him peace, but he could no more have stopped himself from putting the man down than he could go back in time and save his mother's life.
But right now he was that little boy again, his mother's loss and his inability to avenge her making the whole world seem off-kilter, out of sync. Only this time he had lost Charles to an ideological conflict and he was not quite sure why that was making his world reel.
All Erik knew was that he had not felt so miserable in decades.
Misery was a useless emotion. He had long ago learned to channel it into rage.
(it's what's nearly gotten you killed all this time)
Erik lifted his hands, lowered them again. Even with the helmet on, he could still hear Charles.
(my friend, I'm sorry. but we do not)
He knew that it was his own mind providing the words. He knew that if he took the helmet off, there would be no Charles there to reprimand him or beg him to come back. Charles was very far away now, out of reach; sequestered in his mansion; arrested by the CIA.
Or in surgery in the hospital.
"Aren't you going to get changed?"
At some point Erik found that he had stopped pacing. He looked up at Raven, comforted in some way to find her shed of her uniform and wearing only her own skin; a potent reminder that even if he felt haunted by the last day's events, he had also helped her come to terms with who she was, and who she wanted to be. At least she might yet come out of this happy.
But then again, she had lost Charles, too.
"You're still in their uniform." She moved forward, steps minimized in a way that showed that she was not comfortable being without clothing, yet. Erik straightened as she approached him. "It isn't easy for you either, is it?"
More than you could guess, he thought. He closed his eyes and surrendered, for just one heartbeat, letting her reach up to the helmet and ease it up off his head, and telling himself that whatever would happen, would happen.
There was nothing, no change, and he could not say whether he was disappointed or relieved.
He opened his eyes again. "Change is never easy," he said, bitterly. "People are creatures of habit and comfort. That's why they fear and hate what's different."
He would not cling to the past and flinch from the future. He would accept the path he had always known he would walk and he would not look back. Or so he kept telling himself, but this misery lingered, stubbornly.
"But-- there's a difference between fear and regret, isn't there?" she asked, looking up at him, genuinely seeking an answer to this question. Is it wrong to regret leaving Charles? she wanted to know, needed to know.
Erik could not answer that question. He only shook his head and turned away, thin frown twisting his lips.
"--I have an idea," she said.
He glanced back over his shoulder to find Charles standing there in her place, in the same clothes he had been wearing yesterday, before the wonderful and disastrous events in Cuba.
Erik's breath caught, and he said, more harshly than he'd intended, "I didn't want him messing with my head, I certainly don't want you--"
"Call it therapeutic," Charles said, a familiar laid-back smile in his voice.
If anything those words that he might have expected from the real Charles made him angrier. "Therapy is the last thing I want right now. Stop this."
"Why are you fighting me?" He sounded amused. Raven knew him better than anyone, the way he stood, the way he spoke, the way he moved; the illusion was flawless. "I only want to help you. You know that."
"I'm not going to tell you again!"
"Please, Erik." The light faded from his features, and Charles' posture shifted, suddenly vulnerable -- suddenly unhappy. "I need to hear it."
He knew, consciously, that it was not Charles at all. That it was Raven saying it, that she was the one who needed this. That in fact she was probably not even trying too hard to mimic Charles's mannerisms, and it was only the aching surface similarity that made it seem so realistically like him.
But even knowing all that he could not bear to see that sheltered, naive, idealistic little fool be hurt any further.
It took a long beat, wrestling with the words, before he managed to rasp out, "I'm sorry, Charles," tearing his gaze away.
He was apologizing for any number of things. For somehow managing to disappoint him even though he had never been less than honest with his intentions or beliefs; for blocking him out, for forcing him to feel Shaw's death, for even thinking in some tiny portion of his mind that maybe if he did it would help Charles shed some of that naivete and see things Erik's way; for that bullet which had never, ever been meant for him, and for leaving him like that when it became painfully clear that they would not see eye to eye.
Charles took a few steps closer, his pale blue eyes soft and understanding. "I want to apologize, too."
Raven, he reminded himself. Raven wants to apologize to Charles. He wasn't going to be able to breathe if Charles came any closer. That face of his seemed to steal the very air from all around him, as if telepathy alone weren't power enough.
"But doesn't it feel a bit better now? Like -- closure. To say the things you didn't get to say," Charles continued.
Erik laughed, a short and unpleasant laugh.
The things he hadn't gotten to say? But he had said everything, there on that beach, everything to try and make Charles come with him. He had all but begged. I need you by my side, he'd said. Erik Lehnsherr, a man who had never needed -- or wanted -- anyone.
He had said everything he had been able to put into words, twelve hours ago. Everything except the things he hadn't even realized.
But even if he hadn't realized them himself -- Charles must have known.
Charles had turned his back on Erik, not the other way around. He had given Erik no other option than to leave.
Erik steeled himself, reaching out to take the helmet (he had fought so fiercely to try and take this helmet away, hadn't he) from Charles's limp grasp. He said, slowly, "Yes... I think I feel a bit better now."
And it felt hollow as he started to strip out of his suit, finally having found a way to cease caring about the shape that Raven was wearing. But he had always known that being at peace was not an option.