Good Bones

When Charles’s plane touched down in Tel Aviv, Daniel was waiting for him. He’d come to drive Charles to Haifa. The least he could do, according to Daniel, after insisting that Charles simply had to come. The clinic was still its infancy, but Charles knew Daniel was doing the most he could. At Oxford, Daniel was the one friend Charles had who was excited about the “people part” of their future careers. The rest of them were charismatic and sociable, of course, but they cared far more about the research than the patients. Daniel liked the science, but what he truly wanted was to help others. 

It hadn’t come as much of a shock that he created a clinic specifically for European Jewish people who had been in the camps. Charles didn’t need to be a telepath to see that Daniel felt guilty for living a relatively safe, privileged life while his people, and even some members of his extended family, were butchered. It was admirable, turning that guilt into a way of helping those very individuals. 

Neither Charles’s nor Daniel’s life turned out like either of them planned. Daniel was with Clara during their Oxford years, just as Charles was with Moira. The arrangement Clara and Daniel had was that they would get hitched when she got pregnant. Time went on. Their time at Oxford was nearing its natural end point, and Clara was not pregnant. She left Daniel, only to marry a Cambridge man. She and her husband got pregnant very quickly. Daniel said he didn’t know what was the worst part. That maybe this meant he couldn’t have children, that Clara moved on so fast, or that her husband was a Cambridge fella.

“I can’t decide which bit is the worst,” Daniel had said. He was making fun of it, but Charles knew his pain was true. Especially the fear about not being able to have children. Still, sometimes it’s easier to joke about things that hurt. 

“It’s obviously the Cambridge part,” Charles had supplied. 

Daniel had smiled. “Well, clearly.” 

And now here they were. Charles had assumed he and Moira would marry and probably live in London for a minute. Eventually, he had thought they’d go to Westchester. Moira wasn’t crazy about New York, but she’d never seen Graymalkin Lane. The house held many bad memories for Charles, but even he had to admit the building was spectacular. His mother didn’t love being there. She never had. Sharon Xavier preferred London to New York, and she loved Paris especially. If Charles married, Sharon would in all probability insist that he and his bride should live at Graymalkin Lane. She would move permanently to Europe, of course, and never even visit. That was her way. She had always wanted her son settled, safe, minded by somebody else. Marriage was the ultimate step in him becoming another woman’s problem. Never mind that he hadn’t been a problem ever since he was old enough to tie his shoelaces.

 Maybe Moira was right to end things with him. It might very well be that he was too damaged to be in a proper relationship. What business would he have getting married? He couldn’t name a happily married couple to save his life. Charles imagined marriage was easier for people with no money. If all you had in the world was each other, that must make leaving harder.

He hadn’t wanted to give up, but Moira was firm. So now here he was, welcoming the chance to run away from home for a little while longer. Daniel offered to pay for Charles’s hotel, saying it was only right. He was the one who asked Charles to drop everything and come here, Daniel reminded him. Charles told him he would be traveling right now anyway. If he wasn’t here, it might be anywhere in the world. Who knew where? Tibet? New Zealand? There was no telling where fancy may have lured him. The only constant was that he’d be paying for a hotel. Charles did not remind Daniel that money would never be a problem for him. If he never worked a day in his life, Charles would still die a very rich man. Of course he would never let Daniel, who needed every dollar for the clinic, pay for his hotel. 

The hotel Charles ended up checking into was luxurious. Obviously made for tourists with deep pockets. It was a good enough approximation of the old world, and old money, he was so familiar with. Of course, in many ways, this land was much older than the places his American peers deemed “the old country.” But in terms of modern luxury, these hotels and restaurants were playing at being as old and elegant as the grand spots of London and Paris that were frequented by the rich and famous hundreds of years ago. New money always showed. There was nothing anyone could do to make it not so.

This very old country had an ancient soul, and good, old bones. It also just became a nation in its own right. There was a newness to everything he could see. Nothing changed. Nothing was the same as ten years ago. It was like taking an ancient castle and putting in the newest kitchen on the market. You get the best bathrooms, beds, mattresses, and couches money can buy. It’s the same castle. It’s also a brand new home, new as a first-owner car. A way of life that didn’t exist in that place quite like that ever before. Home and a foreign, new land where suddenly everyone’s a stranger because the rules are different. Not that this was the only land where such a rebuilding, a tearing down of things and a building of others, took place. If you were raised in tsarist Russia, never left your hometown, and lived to see the Red Revolution, did you live your whole life in the same country? 

Charles almost wished he’d have seen this land before its transformation, just to be able to spot the subtler differences himself. Not having visited before, all he really had to go off of was how Daniel described his childhood when they would all talk about the places they came from. Charles spoke of London and New York. Moira spoke of Scotland. Daniel spoke of Jordan. Clara of Ireland. To state the obvious, Daniel’s, or anyone’s, experience was hardly universal to their entire homeland. Daniel grew up relatively wealthy. Nothing dazzling, but he was always financially stable and comfortable. Money was never a problem. It wasn’t this endless wishing well like Charles’s money that made almost anything possible, but it was safety. Money has its own, very real, kind of freedom, even when it’s limited. Daniel also had been intelligent and hard-working enough to get into Oxford. Hardly a measuring stick for any nation. There was always a sense of unity to academics at Oxford, Charles had found. Even when they were from places that were nothing alike. At least when he was there, everyone was an Oxford man or woman first and a citizen of their country second. He wondered if such things would change. Would people in the future bring more of their heritages to old-fashioned institutions like Oxford? They probably would, Charles thought. Might make such places more interesting. Might give fascinating nuances to the work they do, too. The place he stood was evidence enough of how fast things could change. Not always fast enough, but nothing stayed the same forever. One simply had to adapt to survive. 

The next day, adapting to his new surroundings, Charles went looking for houses. He thought he would probably entertain a lot, getting to know his colleagues and Daniel’s friends. It was ever so nice to have a house all your own where people could gather. You could have great talks, dinners, dancing, parties, and game nights with people you chose. Wasn’t that the whole point of a house? To be a refuge from the world? Where you could even keep your friends, your loved ones, safe. Growing up, Charles’s incredible house hadn’t been a refuge. A house of horrors, more like. That did not mean no house could ever be. 

The clinic was as lovely as Daniel had said. It really looked like one of those luxury resorts. The patients were mostly quite a bit older than Charles. His mother’s age, most likely. He shuddered to think why that was the case. Why there were no children or many who were elderly. What was that saying? It’s harder to be the one left behind. They had found each other here, at least. Daniel had done that. The company of people who went through the same hell too was probably as helpful as any doctor or medicine. 

Daniel was busy nearly all day every day, especially during regular work hours, and Charles’s first day was no different. He warned Charles he'd have to pass him off to someone else for the full tour of the premises. Charles made himself fight the jet lag and get up early to start the job right. By the time he made it there from his hotel, he already needed another cup of coffee. Or tea, at the bare minimum. Daniel had scheduled him to meet with some of the doctors first. The tour would be after an early lunch. Lunch was in a big mess hall with wide windows. The food looked like quality stuff. He felt like soothing the jet lag with something homey, comfortable. So he reached for a scone. 

“I wouldn’t pick those if I were you,” said a male voice from next to him.

“Beg your pardon?” 

Charles looked to his left. The man standing there was tall and lean. He had the chiseled features that one could only describe as fitting for a Greek god. The piercing blue eyes on top of all that were simply unfair, really. He wore the crisp white shirt and trousers all the employees of the clinic wore. 

“The scones,” he said.       

Charles couldn’t stop looking. That face, the unblemished pink skin kissed by the Middle Eastern sun. And his ears liked what they were hearing too. The stranger’s voice was deep and melodic, with that perfect Mid-Atlantic Hollywood accent actors work hard to learn.  

“They cook well here,” the stranger explained. Then his voice grew quieter and he gave Charles a conspirational look. “Just not European dishes. You’re better off eating the local fare.”

Charles, grateful for the advice, did not take the scone and opted for some figs and dates instead. 

“Thank you for that,” Charles said. “Would you like to join me?” he asked, gesturing to an empty table nearby. 

“I would, but a new doctor is arriving today and Daniel asked me to give him the tour of this place.” 

Charles smiled. This was fun. “Is that right?” 

“Yes. So instead of helping people, I have an American idiot to babysit.”  

This really was too fun. “How unfortunate for you,” Charles said, in his poshest British accent he could muster. Sadly one not that different from his real speaking voice. He should probably work on that. The stranger was about to say something, but that was the moment Daniel came over. 

“Charles, Erik. Looks like you found each other. Wonderful! Erik, this is my friend from Oxford I was telling you about. Charles, this is Erik, one of our newer volunteers. I thought with the two of you being brand new here and all–” 

Erik cut him off. “We’re not toddlers, Daniel. We don’t need to be paired up by the teacher because we’re new to the school.”  

Charles decidedly did not laugh or even snicker. Daniel was his friend. It would have been rude. Even if the handsome stranger might have approved of such a reaction. 

“Charles Xavier. Pleased to meet you,” Charles said, holding his hand out. Erik shook it. As expected his shaske was firm and steady. This was not a man who lacked self-esteem. And looking like that, how could he? If he introduced himself as Dorian Gray or James Bond, no one would say he was a disappointment to the name. 

“Erik Lehnsherr,” the handsome stranger said.