the king of peace always does his best to please
When Charles reaches across the water for answers, the only thing that meets him is fear.
Prove me wrong. Erik had said.
Erik, who now sends him that familiar look. The one where he wishes it was all true, but knows better, somehow.
Determined, Charles dives further. He almost drowns.
First comes scorn, lashing out at the unknown threat before them. A brewing storm of emotion that sweeps him under the waves into pitch depths. Hundreds of minds, colliding. Fighting him. Collecting dread and sending it right back.
The most terrifying part is that no matter what he tries, he has to accept the truth— he cannot change their minds. He cannot, but he has to try.
Fire, The command reverberates from all sides.
Charles grasps at the order and tears it away with everything he has. Even as their panic crashes through him. Even as he barely hangs on to the thoughts of hundreds of men. He pulls until something snaps.
It doesn’t matter. He is too late.
Missiles scream through the air, but all Charles can hear is deafening silence.
Erik raises a hand until the projectile turns, hypnotically dancing against magnetic fields. They face a target across the water. Aimed with the intent to punish. He turns, one last time, to look at Charles.
This time there is no yelling. No pleas and futile protests, when he knows what he has done. All Charles can do is close his eyes and whisper.
“Don’t.”
Those men were already dead before the missiles reached the shore.
His legs give. He collapses into the sand and— no, this isn’t like him. He has to get up. He can’t. There isn’t time to think about it, not when the missiles fall uselessly into the water. Not when Erik is calling out to him, kneeling over him, holding him with trembling arms.
Holding yet nothing but a shell.
“Helmet,” Charles murmurs weakly. “I can’t sense you.”
Erik doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch. He leans down until the helm is within arms reach and lets Charles discard it.
“What did you do?” Whispers Erik, full of fear and awe and somehow so much trust it tugs at something.
“What I had to,” says Charles. The words barely feel like his own.
He tries to stand, only for a wave of nausea to hit him. A piercing agony burns through his temples. He falls once more.
Erik rushes to keep him steady.
“You’re bleeding,” Erik warns.
“Let go,” says Charles, his voice shaking yet firm. “I can do this.”
Charles pushes himself upright, feet sliding through the sand. Slowly but surely, he turns to the other occupants of the beach. He turns only to face the barrel of a gun.
“Freeze,” Moira shouts, and any ounce of affection she may have had towards Charles has faded into dread. “I saw that. Erik tried to kill those men.”
Erik tenses up, holding out a hand and whisking the gun away.
“I’m sorry, Moira,” Charles cuts in.
The safety clicks.
Moira falls onto the sand, asleep before Erik can shoot her. Out of everyone, Charles can’t believe he assumed she would never see him as a threat. She is a CIA agent first. His friend, second.
Hank moves to pick her up. Sean retreats where Alex steps up to help. Raven shuffles nervously.
What do we do? She’s radiating the thought. She’s quiet.
The members of the Hellfire club are already gone, refusing to linger at the epicenter of a war. It’s just the first class on the beach, surrounded by miles of the dead.
“We need to find a way out of here,” says Charles, staggering towards them. He is their teacher, their leader, first and foremost.
He has to keep them safe. Erik and him, have to keep them safe.
“What are you just standing there for?” Charles hisses.
The students watch, frozen and projecting a combination of numb shock and exhaustion. They don’t know what to say. They hardly even know what to do. And that future he had once imagined, bright and warm and more home than he had ever had, was crumbling.
This is reality. This is what fear can create. And his family, his children, are too young to have experienced this.
He is supposed to protect them. He just murdered hundreds of men in cold blood.
He is utterly alone.
He has to try.
“Please,” he says, a bit louder, a bit harsher than he needs it to be. Someone has to be strong for them. “We have to g—”
“Charles,” a gentle voice interrupts next to him.
Erik, who is still wide-eyed but at the very least helmetless, comes to his side and offers his hand.
Charles stares at him.
“They’re in shock,” continues Erik. “Give then time.”
It really should have been Charles, saying that. The words seem so foreign from the man who once scoffed at peace.
“I need to get us out of here,” Charles says.
Erik shakes his head, keeping his offered hand out.
“You need time, too,” he says.
“But—”
“Charles, we do this together.”
Charles tentatively reaches out, fingers barely brushing against Erik’s palm. He has no idea what he has just done. If a war has begun. If this is the last of mutants, or perhaps the end to his want for peace with a people who want him dead.
“You’re not alone,” says Erik, so sure and so vulnerable.
Not alone. Charles squeezes his eyes shut, forcing back the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. Slowly, now. It is not the time. Not with the children standing there, needing someone steadfast.
“Charles, you’re not alone,” Erik reiterates.
Charles finally meets his gaze. Unwavering. Fiercely sure.
“How can be certain that’s true?” Charles asks.
“Because I am not letting you bear this on your own. Because I want, no, need, to help our kind,” says Erik. And silently, Because I want you by my side. Because I need you with me, whether our people end in peace or flame. Because I love you.
And Charles, with skin wet with tears and sea, with blood-stained clothes, with wild eyes, he remains.
Charles, without hesitating, takes Erik’s hand.