Chapter Text
As it turns out, the cause of Lorna’s breathing troubles was nothing more than a blocked airway. Erik and the doctors offer reassurance on that point over and over in the next few weeks, explaining how she’s as healthy as can be expected for a premature baby—in good health, if a little small—and that she’ll likely grow up just fine. Though it’s comforting, Charles keeps her close, holding her nearly continuously for the first week or so, relinquishing her only to Erik on occasion, and then always keeping him within shouting distance.
Eventually, though, life intrudes: though Lorna’s premature birth was, at the time, primarily important on account of her safety, three weeks after the fact it’s also proving to throw all matters of the kingdom into a whirlwind.
On account of the potential for a political fracture, both he and Erik had agreed at the time of the twins’ birth that it was a good idea to call the influential figures of each region forward to swear loyalty a few weeks after each birth. They may send someone in their stead to make their promises, but the reaffirmation of their oath is the key point.
In this case, with Lorna’s birth occurring early, it’s meant quite a lot of scrambling. It’s really down to some excellent planning on the part of Erik’s aides that this was managed in such a timely fashion. So many invitations to send, accommodations to be made and rooms aired out, menus to be set, speeches to be planned… In many ways, though, it could not have come at a better time.
Oaths having already been sworn—four damn hours of varying levels of sincerity wrapped in a guise of unwavering loyalty—Erik is occupied with showing off all three of his children. Pietro clings enthusiastically to his leg, lapping up the attention and taking great pleasure in being told how handsome and kingly he looks in his little doublet. Wanda, while far less enthusiastic, appears to also be taking advantage of the event… to size up every single noble with terrifying solemnity for a toddler. Lorna, for her part, intermittently cries, nuzzles against Erik, and necessitates an intervention by Jean when an unpleasant smell begins to drift from her general direction.
Hmm. Well. Let Erik deal with the less pleasant aspects of child rearing. He’s changed diapers, but it’s always with the hope of someone who knows it’s a rare occurrence. To be fair, it’s difficult to blame him: he’s not exposed to the children often enough to become well-practiced, and he’d certainly endure the dirty diapers for the sake of more time with his children.
For the moment, though, the important thing is that the children are safe and cared for, and Erik is otherwise occupied. It’s taken time, but Erik no longer relentlessly dogs Charles’ footsteps with quite the same fervency as previously: if they’re in the same set of rooms and Erik can sense his presence through the bond, he’s content to leave off physical shepherding. It allows a bit of freedom to mingle at these functions—which is a vital advantage in light of today’s goals.
Goals that Erik, by necessity, knows nothing about.
“Lord Essex.”
As startled as Essex may act, it’s nothing but that: an act. Essex has been subtly trailing him with his gaze the entire evening. It’s a good thing Erik hasn’t noticed, but, luckily, Essex has confined himself mostly to lurking in the background. Erik had known he’d be coming to the ceremony, but Erik has a habit of underestimating the damage that can be done by non-militant individuals. Essex might not be a solider, but as the head of a very powerful house, he’ll have the potential to recruit and arm a large number of followers if it comes to that. Intellectually Erik might know of that danger, but practically—the realization of what it means simply escapes him. He bloody well wouldn’t have tried to conquer the North so quickly if he’d really understood the danger the Southern nobles posed.
But it isn’t only Erik’s kingdom that is threatened. If Erik loses the throne to a rebellion from the South…
It doesn’t bear thinking about.
Upon being greeted, Essex quickly makes a show of composing himself, tucking his hands behind his back and bowing shallowly. He’s a sunken-faced, dark-eyed character of a man, but there’s no mistaking the calculation in each move he makes. This is a man who thinks. It doesn’t help that he’s also obscenely wealthy and not afraid of showing it, as the rather gaudy velvet jacket he’s wearing shows. Expensively made, well cut, but indicating a taste—or a lack of taste—for show over class.
“My Lord,” Essex returns, reverently enough that most people would overlook the shallowness of his bow.
But that’s not how this game is played.
Leave the weapons to Erik; this is a game to be played by those well versed in confrontation solely of the mind.
Just the same, it isn’t remiss to know where Erik is: it wouldn’t do to have him interrupt—but a quick glance confirms that he’s busy speaking with Logan, who has escorted his ward, Anna Marie, to the ceremony. The children seem quite taken with her, and rightly so: she has a lovely mind. “Shall we take a walk?”
Essex nods slowly, curling his lips back away from his teeth in a smile that no one would find agreeable. In most cases looks don’t belay personality, but Essex really is as ugly as he is personally detestable. “Are you certain your husband won’t be wanting you?”
Ah. It’s to be one of those conversations then. It’s disappointing to think that Essex has relegated him to the level of puppet at best and reasonably intelligent whore at worst, but he’s hardly the first to do so. And, as insulting as that is, it will make things much easier.
[My husband is well occupied elsewhere. But I appreciate your concern for his needs.] Pity they don’t extend to a concern for Erik’s political needs as well.
Essex jerks at the brush against his mind. Like most of the kingdom, he’s well aware of what talents Westchester’s monarch possesses, but so many people often assume Charles doesn’t use his gifts. A ridiculous assumption: he uses them often and well, and while Erik can feel their use, in a room this busy, Erik is accustomed to sensing him dipping in and out of people’s minds. He won’t give it a second thought. He certainly won’t object to it, as most people assume. It’s pure, stupid fear that has them thinking that—that has them believing Erik bars him from using his gift. Just because so many others fear telepaths doesn’t mean that Erik does likewise.
“In that case,” Essex agrees, nodding magnanimously, [I do believe we’d best continue this discussion elsewhere.]
Interesting. It’s not well-known that Essex harbors mental abilities of his own: while it’s common knowledge that he’s a mutant, he plays rather close to the vest with the extent of what he can do. It took some very careful reconnaissance led by Frost to determine precisely what he was capable of doing.
Casually, Essex falls into step beside him when Charles begins wandering to the side of the room, slipping into another room attached via a doorless opening in the wall. The network of rooms is in the shape of a U, and, set up like a gallery, it allows them to move easily out of Erik’s sight without needing to slip out any doors. That only comes at the very end. However, the final room is filled with refreshments and is thus quite busy: no one recognizes their exit with any greater interest than a few sidelong glances.
It’s chilly out in the corridor: thank the gods for the foresight of selecting heavy clothing—in this case a padded silk robe. The rationale behind it had far more to do with hiding the bit of weight around his midsection that lingers from pregnancy: a stupid, vain worry, but it’s so utterly bizarre, trying to address pregnancy weight. Erik harps on and on about it being perfectly natural, but it doesn’t feel that way. The robe had felt comforting in its heaviness: made of a dark blue silk outer with a thick cloth lining, it doesn’t cling. It’s fitted, though, tailored around the shoulders with a high collar, with silver hooks spaced every few inches along its opening down the front, all the way from his throat down to about knee level. Erik quite likes the garment, if the heat in his eyes when they dressed earlier in the day is any indication.
Pity, but Essex seems to like it too.
The greater pity is unfortunately that, judging by his interest, Essex is going to be pathetically predictable in what he’s expecting. He wouldn’t be running his gaze over his opponent’s body if this were Erik matched toe to toe with him out in a corridor.
Nothing to be had for it, though—and there are always advantages to being underestimated.
“I wouldn’t think His Majesty would approve of your exit,” Essex muses after several seconds of silence. The lack of noise expands to fill the hallway, enlarging the space in the mind’s perception. Things always tend to feel cavernous with a lack of sound.
Watching Essex, he squares his shoulders and wrangles a thin smile onto his face. “I also doubt he’d approve of you stockpiling weapons in preparation to foment rebellion in the South.”
Consider that, then. Niceties need not be added.
Essex startles, but he regains himself quickly, planting his feet perhaps a fraction more carefully than before, though no one would venture to go so far as to call it a battle stance. Wary, but still not the position of a man facing an equal. Give it time: he’ll learn. “You don’t pull punches do you, Xavier?”
Dropping the formal titles, then. Fair enough. “I find that doing so wastes time.” [Better to be blunt—and I’ll do you that courtesy: you will end your attempts to undermine my husband’s rule, or I will see to it that you quickly discover precisely how far you have to fall.]
If Essex had any sense at all, he’d recognize the veracity of that threat. In the past couple of years, even those who would prefer not to see a bearer sit on the throne have at least noted that gender does not necessarily dampen a threat. Essex may have been deep in the South a little too long: distance isn’t the buffer he so obviously thinks it is, and, even if it were, distance won’t atone for his foolishness in overlooking a threat on account of not having yet had to face it.
It’s disheartening how Essex lips widen, bearing his teeth as he plasters on an indulgent smile. It’s a disgusting smile, molded out of thick, full lips, with tiny flecks of crusted spittle caught at the corners. Though his teeth are remarkably white for a middle-aged man, it isn’t enough to soften the rest of the picture.
[Of everyone in this world, Xavier, I thought you’d have the best reason to see your husband overthrown.]
“Then you don’t understand politics.”
[I understand that if your husband were dead, you’d be free to do as you like.]
Not that Essex is giving that much consideration. For him it’s merely an abstract concept, this idea of free agency. Nothing could be clearer: if he were willing to view a bearer as someone with a mind, he wouldn’t be slinking in close now as though it’s his right.
If this is the game he wants to play, so be it.
In spite of the repulsive nature of Essex’s presence, letting him close is a matter of self-control. There’s an endgame to this, and, as distasteful as it is, it’s necessary: Essex moves in, crowding him back toward the wall. Let him come, a little closer….
Let Essex see what he wants to see: it will blind him to everything else until the most opportune moment.
“I’d let you have Westchester for your own,” Essex half-croons, settling a hand on Charles’ waist and flexing his gnarled fingers with a slight pinch. There’s a bit of excess post-pregnancy weight there, but Essex’s grin only widens when he feels it. Biological response? Perhaps. Guardians like to see evidence of fertility in bearers. “All yours, without any of the restrictions your husband puts on you.”
It’s a lie. The evidence proving that hovers in his mind: Essex may be a bit of a telepath himself, but he’s sloppy with it, used to being the only telepathic mind in a room, and that’s showing now, with how he’s bleeding over. Might be that he simply doesn’t care: many people believe that Erik’s presence through the bond checks the use of any telepathy. Stupid of them to assume that: if they thought it through, they’d understand that Erik actively encourages its use as a means to detect the sort of plot Essex believes he can successfully foster.
Tipping his head back and laying the back of his skull against the wall, he allows Essex to root around against his throat like a pig seeking a meal. Does he think this is seductive? Gods, his wife is to be pitied if that’s the case. Erik may not be perfect, but at least he’s a talented lover who’s learned to be considerate in recent years. Not like Essex, who is fumbling about, clumsy in his eagerness. It’s worse, too, when Essex moves to brace his hands on the wall on either side of Charles’ body. Being boxed in is never pleasant, but this is all to make a point, and that’s worth it.
“I—would you?” he asks, careful to keep his voice half-skeptical, but decidedly interested. “Give me my kingdom?”
Essex smiles into his skin, widening that expression when Charles tentatively brushes at the front of his trousers. Hard already. Gods almighty. Eager, isn’t he? Disgusting. Stupid too, if he doesn’t realize that even if Erik were utterly horrible, he’s stunningly attractive: there would be no sense in trading young and handsome for aging and disagreeable when Essex is hardly a good man.
“Of course I would.”
Right. Not in this world. And, on that note, Essex has gone far enough.
Closing his fingers down over the front placket of Essex’s trousers, he clenches his fist and ices up his expression, holding firm when Essex emits a startled—and decidedly agonized—gasp.
Apparently, the price of getting in close is not to Essex’s liking.
Good.
“You might think I’m weak,” he hisses, speaking up near Essex’s ear. “That is your prerogative. But I don’t have to behave like what you think I am. So, believe what you want, but know this: when you interfere in my husband’s affairs, you interfere in my affairs. I have a vested interest in ensuring that Erik stays in power. And your attempts to interfere with that…” He sighs. “You aren’t untouchable. In the last few weeks, I’ve taken the opportunity given to me by my extended period of rest to trace back the money in your accounts to its source.” He tightens his grip; Essex’s face purples. It probably isn’t the only part of him that’s purpling. “Your partners have paid you to supply them with guns. A rare commodity, and, as it turns out, rarer than I originally thought. Plastic guns, hmmm? Clever. Or it would have been if you weren’t purposely leaving a paper trail that could be used to incriminate your allies, were anyone to look too closely. In one sense I suppose that’s smart: if matters are arrested before the point at which you hoped to set your plot into motion, someone else would take the fall. Unfortunately for you, it also means that all it would take is a few hints to the right people in your inner circle, get them to start looking in the right places and find out what you’ve been doing to incriminate them… They’d kill you far before Erik ever had the chance.”
Abruptly, he releases his grip and ducks to the side. The wall rasps against the silk of the robe, but it doesn’t catch, and moments later he’s free and in the middle of the hallway. Essex remains facing the all, hands propped against the stone, but there’s a decided shivering in his shoulders, and his sides expand and fall as he gasps for breath.
“And I forgot to mention: the factory from which your source obtains the plastic—it’s been taken to task for failing to properly pay its taxes. A government audit team took a closer look, and it turns out the company also can’t account for where a good five percent of its product is going. You and I both know it’s going to your supplier… but I’d say, oh, early this morning, that government team also found where it was going. Your supplier is in a right spot of trouble—and I bet he’ll talk.”
Essex’s shoulders have been growing more and more tense with each successive word, but at the final threat, he lurches around, eyes half mad with rage—and more than a little desperation. “You godsdamn little bitch—“
How disappointing: he doesn’t move as quickly as he might have if he weren’t sore between the legs, and when he tries to hurl himself forward to deliver a blow, it’s appallingly easy to duck, dodge the blow, and then give him a good shove from behind and send him sprawling to the floor.
Though, watching him heave himself over proves to be pitiful enough to engender a small measure of pity.
“If I’d known you were so eager to be your husband’s puppet for the rest of your days—“
Perhaps not so much pity. Damn it, why is it always about Erik? “My husband is very clever.” One step brings him within kicking distance of Essex—though Essex isn’t worth the further effort. Apparently Essex sees he possibility, though, and he digs his nails down into the floor, though he’s otherwise motionless. “But he’s better on a battlefield than he is at statecraft. He’d rather simply have you executed, or perhaps assassinated. But glad I don’t parrot his desires. Or perhaps you might wish that I did. Because while he might kill you? If you keep this up, I will take you apart. I will tear apart every bit of your wealth and your life, if that is what it takes to keep the regions stable. I won’t see another civil war.”
Essex grimaces, and the sallow skin of his face contorts around the bones. “If you killed him—“
“I don’t want to kill him. I love my husband, and we’ve reached a workable accord.” Not a perfect one by any means, but if he couldn’t bring himself to kill Erik at the height of their disagreement, he sure as hell isn’t going to do so now. “Though, I quite understand why you hope I’ll snap and change my mind: if he finds out what you tried to do a few minutes ago, he’d gut you alive.”
“You love him?” That is evidently something Essex doesn’t believe: he laughs openly and bitterly, clambering slightly more upright until he’s on his knees. It’s an uneven movement, but he eventually gains a measure of stability.
But Essex is not owed an explanation. He is not owed political reasoning, nor an account of his rulers’ relationship. All he needs to know is the consequences of his own actions. “Erik once gave me a rather unique gift, you know,” he begins, effecting thoughtfulness. Damn the depth of the pockets of these robes, but—oh, there it is. Wouldn’t matter if he lost it anyway: Erik could always find it again for him. “This.”
Essex’s eyes zero in on the chess piece when it’s displayed in front of him, tall and proud in the palm of Charles’ hand. It’s as splendid as the day Erik made it for him: a perfect queen piece of gleaming and detailed metal.
“The most visible piece on the board is not always the most powerful, Essex. You’d do well to remember that.”
And then, closing his fist around the chess piece, he backs up. Though it takes a moment, Essex gets the hint and, with a grunt and obvious wounded dignity, he heaves himself to his feet, brushing off his trousers as he goes.
“You may discount my rule because of what I am, but that does not make me any less prepared to do what is necessary to see the good of my kingdom maintained. I’ve struck a beneficial deal with my husband, and I will see it protected. Do not attempt to interfere with that. This will be your only warning.”
By this point Essex ought to be cowering, but it is often the case with proud men that they don’t realize when they’re thoroughly beaten. Erik is the same way, even if he’s more polished and refined in his manners. Though, it’s a credit to him that he doesn’t look half insane when challenged.
Or perhaps that’s less of a credit to Erik and more of an insult to Essex.
“I’ll tell him,” Essex snarls. “You’re downright unnatural, trying to pull the strings of regions behind your guardian’s back—“
That’s really rather a poor last attempt at an argument. Essex may underestimate him on account of his status as a bearer, but he would hardly have cared about the unnatural nature of making such a deal if the deal had benefited him.
“By all means, do tell Erik what happened here,” he says, cutting Essex off. Tucking his arms into a fold, he picks at the cuff of his robe and rolls his eyes. Pietro is the master of that gesture, and perhaps it’s catching. “Do you think you’ll survive past telling him that you tried to feel me up?”
If Essex could pale he probably would, but the sallowness of his skin isn’t conducive. He swallows instead, glaring, and never quite recovers: he’s essentially tripping over himself to answer when he again begins to speak, and it shows in the sloppiness of his reply: “You play at being a king, but you’ll go crying to your guardian when it suits you.”
Only if it’s a valid tactical response. In this case, it is: Essex is apparently rattled enough that he hasn’t yet figured it out, but the main reason for allowing him to make any sort of sexual advance was grounded in extortion. Let him try that, and if all else fails, it’ll be worth persuading him with his fear of what would happen should the King of Genosha understand precisely what was attempted.
It’s always wise to have options.
All the same… “I don’t need my husband to protect me. I could turn your mind inside out with a frankly disturbing minimum of effort. I simply want you to understand that you have no recourse in Erik. Either you do as I say, or you’re ruined. Make your choice.”
Ah, and that is what it finally takes to sink the point in successfully. Essex doesn’t acknowledge his surrender verbally, but he recoils back, glaring, and he drops his eyes. He’s breathing like a bellows over a fire, but the effort of it appears mostly for nothing.
“I hope I haven’t cause to hear your name again, Lord Essex.”
The highest insult that can be offered is to turn his back to Essex, and it’s precisely what he does. Keeping close tabs on Essex’s mind, lest he try to attack from behind, negates the gumption of the motion, but to Essex’s disturbed nerves, he likely won’t realize that. Even if he did, leaving him alone and furious in a hallway is sufficient insult—and it’s also a relief: his fuming chokes up the space so completely that a non-telepath could detect it.
Slipping into the room beyond isn’t exactly an escape from emotion, but it’s preferable to Essex’s concentrated hatred. It’s helpful that the room is every bit as crowded as it was earlier: a few people nearest the door notice his entrance, but a quick smile draws out their worry and dissipates it. Just gave birth one of them thinks. Bound to need to excuse himself, recovering as he is. A completely inaccurate explanation, but a functional one. Let them think he’s weak and delicate: as was the case with Essex, it makes it all the easier to maintain a degree of control when competence is so unexpected.
As easy was it was to slip into the room without any significant detection, it’s even simpler with Erik. Having moved back across the multiple to rooms to where Erik is still engaged talking to Logan, he allows himself a quick grin at the sight of Erik’s mounting tension: Erik evidently doesn’t find it easy to keep up a conversation while wrangling three children. His shoulders seem to be rising higher and higher by the moment, growing tenser with every movement the children make.
“Sorry, Love,” he murmurs, slipping in at Erik’s side and reaching out to take Lorna. “Needed to use the restroom.”
As soon as Erik catches sight of him, his face washes over with obvious relief and he hands Lorna over eagerly. She’s grown fussy, whimpering and twisting against the cloth wrapped about her. As it is, she’s young to be out in public, and the constant noise and activity must be trying for her. It’s no wonder she’s fussy.
She settles when he takes her. Nothing too unfixable, then: poor girl only wanted her bearer. “There now,” he soothes, swaying back and forth and cradling Lorna against his chest as her fussing tapers off and she takes instead to curling her tiny, uncoordinated fingers against his robe. “Nothing so dire as you thought, hmm, Little Love?” If only all problems were as uncomplicated as those experienced by an infant.
“Daddy!”
Ah. Well, it was only a matter of time. Frankly, it’s a wonder Pietro has remained relatively still for this long—and that’s being kind. Pietro is never what anyone would call unobtrusive, and when he remains in one place, it’s really just a matter of having concentrated his hyperactivity into one spot: clearly, Erik’s frayed nerves are justified. And Logan, damn him, probably had something to do with it—he’s horrid about encouraging Pietro—if his pleased smirk is anything to go by.
“Logan wants to gimme a sword,” he declares proudly, tumbling forward and smacking into Charles’ legs, where he enthusiastically tugs at the robes.
It may be time to give Logan a lengthy deployment. [I wasn’t gone that long] he pushes in Erik’s direction, sighing as Pietro babbles on about weaponry. [And in that time you’ve allowed your general to promise our child a dangerous weapon. Care to explain?]
Erik grimaces as he slips an arm around Charles’ waist. “Logan was actually just leaving.”
“I’ll bet.” With the damage already done? No doubt Logan is leaving: when it comes to the twins, he’s far too fond of lighting a fire and stepping back while a creative bout of parenting becomes necessary to douse the madness.
Neither Pietro nor Wanda picks up on the intricacies of what is happening, although Pietro frowns crossly at not receiving confirmation of the promise as he was obviously hoping. “Daddy—“
Logan chuckles. “Might as well start him up soon: Azazel’s already got Kurt working on his skills, and it’d be pretty embarrassing if that kid turned out better with a sword than the next king.”
Nothing ever changes; he never wants to throttle Logan any less. And Erik, bless him, knows it: he tightens his hand, squeezing lightly.
“Kurt is an infant,” he informs Logan crossly, allowing Erik his hold. It’s actually rather nice to have support. “I don’t believe Kurt is capable of learning combat skills this early.”
Logan shrugs. “Never too early to learn. And Kurt is working on his teleportation.”
Gods know he probably is. Raven wouldn’t care, so long as she doesn’t have to be bothered. It would be Azazel’s prerogative—and, weaponry aside, he’s an unexpectedly good parent: very involved, and, disconcerted by his bearer’s determination to spend as little time nurturing her child as possible, he’s worked to compensate.
Raven. Yes. That’s… never an easy thought. It’s always a topic of great friction: Erik had hardly blinked when he’d passed judgment and declared the bond between Azazel and Raven valid. Raven had been married off, had received a mark, and had discovered precisely what it was like to have her guardian control her gift. As it turns out, Azazel was able to shut down her ability to shift for the nine months it took to carry Kurt.
It hadn’t been voluntary. Most of the court knows she’d never wanted to carry Kurt to term.
It’s sad, but… at least Raven doesn’t seem to want to hate her child. A lack of understanding and acceptance as regards his life would be more accurate: the way she looks at him, as though she is still perpetually surprised by his existence—it’s not intentional. And there’s every reason to believe that she truly thought herself a guardian. For her, Kurt is a living reminder of her disconcertment with her own body. He’s something that should have been impossible. That does not excuse the way she’s turned from her son, but it does go a long way toward explaining why she’s hardly ever present in public, or why Kurt is raised largely by his father and by nannies.
“Well,” Logan begins again, clapping Erik heartily on the back, at which several nearby guests openly gawk, “I ought to go find Marie. Think she’s off by the drink table. If that boy Remy is there again….”
“We’ll speak later,” Erik agrees dismissively, attention already shifting—mainly, down onto Wanda, who, though she allows him to hold her hand, is starting blankly off into the crowd. She’s a picture in her little green dress, done up in silks and lace, with the color popping against the red of her hair, but her obvious disinterest in the proceedings is clear. Oddly, it serves to enhance her natural regal air: that serious little stare of hers gives the impression that she’s surveying the entire room and judging its occupants. Bored but serious, and always dignified.
“We ought to have a word with Howard Stark,” Erik mutters, using the grip he has on Charles’ waist to steer him off and away toward the side of the room. “He has some excellent ideas for weaponry. We spoke earlier, and he offered to have us at his estate for a few days, let me have a look at his production. I’m never opposed to a chance to tinker with metal, but I wasn’t sure whether you’d want to leave the capital so soon with a newborn. Do you think she’ll take the journey well enough?”
It would be a good opportunity. If Essex should refuse to back down, a degree of conflict might be necessary: having Erik intimately familiarized with the best weapons would be a distinct advantage, as would simply having those weapons—and between Stark and Erik, they would almost definitely create something worth having.
“I’m not opposed. Lorna is bound to cry no matter what: it may as well be on a train as here in Genosha. Anyway, it would also be a chance to make a show of military strength without ever using the weapons at all. And Stark has a son Wanda and Pietro’s age: it would give them a playmate.”
Erik taps his fingers over the patch of cloth covered by his hand, belaying his own impatience. In return, Charles presses his own hand up, snagging it on a bit of Erik’s coat. As is so often the case, Erik’s body is warm and inviting, solid when tested: Erik’s own clothes are warmed by body heat and are pleasant to rest a hand against, directly over Erik’s heart where the steady beat provides reassurance. “Good point. Wouldn’t hurt Westchester either, showing its military potential.”
A fair assessment: Westchester may have pushed out Erik’s troops, but there are always factions of disgruntled mutants who need near-constant reminding that they live in a nation where equality is prized. As irritating as it is to need to constantly demonstrate military capability, the reality remains: if they so dislike humans or bearers, there are armed troops who are all too happy to escort them to the borders. The problem is that maintaining those troops comes at a price.
“Papa!”
If they force Pietro to stay in one place for much longer, it’ll be a wonder if he doesn’t spontaneously combust. Wanda too is at the end of her patience, and is showing it by scuffing a foot impatiently across the floor. They’ve been so good for the last few hours: it might be time to retire for the day.
Leaning over into Erik’s side, he nudges his cheek into Erik’s jaw, roving his gaze over the room in the process. Someone is always watching, and the only way to combat the public’s perception is to be aware of what they’re seeing. “I think it might be time to make an exit.”
“Long past due, I think,” Erik agrees, though there’s a pleased rumble in his voice—he’s always pleased at public displays of fondness—and he sinks into the affection, dropping a kiss to Charles’ forehead. He lingers, lips moving against Charles’ brow with a tender regard that’s become ingrained in most of his habits. “This might officially be a ceremony for Lorna, but as far as I can tell, it’s actually a pit of vipers.
Too true. “Politics, I’m afraid.”
“I prefer an actual battlefield.”
Yes, and no one would fail to notice that: Erik maneuvers as though he’s facing an army, the way he’s terrifying people out of his path with no more than cutting glance after cutting glance. He is dressed in his military best, but it would be nice to think that just for one evening Erik could leave the battlefield behind him. Though, he’d have more luck at that if there weren’t people circulating about the room who genuinely do want to kill Erik.
Poor bastards have no idea what they’re dealing with.
“I haven’t seen Essex recently,” Erik muses once they reach the edge of the room. Erik tucks him under his arm, creating a barrier against the crowd with his body. Tucked like this, warm and snug, with Erik’s arm lying solidly over his shoulders, he drifts further away from the irritation of earlier. Let Essex try what he will. He won’t succeed.
“Are you asking me to find him?”
Whatever Erik is asking is lost when Lorna spits out a tiny squall, effectively derailing the conversation. How a creature so tiny can emit such a bone-shaking noise—it’s one of nature’s less detestable mysteries.
Sibling synchronicity—that’s another, less fortunate conundrum. Lorna is crying, so Pietro must fuss too. Whining is a detestable, ridiculous practice, and Pietro knows better, but a combination of tiredness and a habit of indulgence appear to have combined to convince him that it’s currently acceptable. This had better not be a practice in which he persists: this habit of complaining more on Genoshan soil, where Erik can hear him, will not be an attractive trait in a king.
To Erik’s credit, he doesn’t buckle under the force of Pietro’s tantrums. More like he does his best to avoid them in the first place, which is understandable, considering the limited time he’s permitted with his children.
Reaching down, Erik scoops Pietro up and perches him on his hip, smoothing out his son’s hair before reaching down and again grasping Wanda’s hand, keeping a tight hold on her. “I’d rather you not get anywhere near Essex’s mind.”
“I suppose that’s one order I’m more than happy to heed.” At this particular moment, anyway. Erik need not know what came to pass earlier in the evening.
The strange look that Erik fixes him with is a mixture of bemusement and melancholy, with a touch of bitterness thrown in. Pietro, unable to easily identify the mood, tosses his tiny arms around his father’s neck and burrows in against his shoulder. Most times, that would sufficiently distract Erik, and he’d take to cuddling his son.
Not this time.
Today, he tilts his head back, rolling the joint of his jaw and blinking steadily, staring over the rather short space between them. Erik has long since become a well-known quantity, but it’s been some time since he’s been this removed, and it’s hard to read his intentions like this without resorting to telepathy—and reading Erik’s mind seems an invitation for Erik to likewise pry. The preferable, though difficult, option is to try to normally puzzle out what he’s feeling. Not so easily done. Erik isn’t distant, exactly, but his face has lost its comfortable familiarity and replaced it with uncertainty.
[Do you hate me, Charles?]
The words are pushed firmly across the link between them without hesitance, though tainted by a preemptive resignation that feels bone deep. Whatever this is that’s surfacing, Erik has had it rolling around inside of him for some time, albeit buried deeply.
That’s far worse than a spur-of-the-moment impulse. Between knowing that and being hit by the trailing end of emotion connected to the thought, it’s little wonder that he flinches back from Erik. This level of unanticipated emotion is horribly disconcerting. Erik—is that really what Erik still thinks?
[Well?]
“We aren’t perfect, Erik.” That’s a start. Not an explanation, but that’s better done by pressing in closer to Erik, scrunching his fingers into the fabric over Erik’s chest, above his heart, and resting his head down on Erik’s shoulder. There are people watching this, hardly taking care to conceal their rubbernecking from the center of the room, but they count for almost nothing at the moment.
Perhaps Erik’s question shouldn’t be this weighty. But Erik hasn’t voiced that worry in years, and it may be that he’s never been quite so open to the answer. Once, Erik would have brushed aside any hate as a passing bout of temper that would die down in future years once nature took control. “Gods know I am not perfect, and you aren’t either, but…” The space behind his eyes stings like little pinpricks against the skin, even as something resembling peace settles up under his ribs. “We’ve found a way to work.”
In a room full of people, Erik still doesn’t hesitate to drop his head to the side, to press their heads together, cheek to hair. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Always tenacious, his Erik. [Sometimes I hate you.] Lying now would shatter the tentative balance they’ve reached. “But I love you rather fiercely.”
From down against Erik’s leg, Wanda purses her lips and puffs out a sigh of impatience. Cradled against Erik’s chest, he’s in the position to stare downward at her. She isn’t looking up, but is still surveying the ballroom, one tiny hand clasped in Erik’s larger palm, while the other fiddles with her skirt. In some bizarre way, that’s comforting: he and Erik may toss about weighty issues above her head, but she remains untouched by their problems. How long will that last? But… they’re doing the best they can. She’ll turn out fine. She will.
Erik exhales heavily. “We do work. And I love you. I—” He bites off the word, jaw bunching up and then loosening. “You cannot possibly imagine how much I love you.”
No. But Erik never did try to leave his affection to the imagination. That was never their problem.
“I’ll always hate some of things you’ve done, Erik. But we—“ One look at Wanda, then at Pietro, and down at Lorna, cradled to his chest. “Together, we have the capability to be very good. To do great things.”
Though Erik doesn’t physically pull away, his confusion tightens his muscles and chases out the languidness. “Haven’t we?” He tilts his head toward the children.
A fair point, and in the midst of Erik’s scent and presence and care, Charles smiles, dropping his eyes closed and clutching Lorna a bit closer. “Children aside, none so great as what we will do, I hope.”
“Hmm?” Pietro squirms, kicking, but Erik tightens his hold and Pietro stops. There’s little need for much more: Erik has likely realized by now that in situations like these, the children tend not to stir. Call it an innate sense for when their parents need to speak, or, more likely, attribute it to an instinctual low-level telepathic influence.
“Someday, our children will take over our kingdoms. Those things we couldn’t fix—I have faith that eventually things might be different.”
“Charles—“ A hint of reproach.
But this isn’t a conviction on which to be deterred: “I have faith in our children, Erik. I have faith in what we’ve created.”
And maybe, just possibly, there’s still a little faith left over for Erik himself. Not for his policies or his convictions, but for the part of him that knows right from wrong, and that loves his children and wants the best for them. For the part of Erik that is a husband—a loving, committed man who cares for his family—despite the wrongs he’s done that cannot be overlooked. They never will be overlooked, but letting the consequences rule absolutely would be allowing Erik’s worst nature to ruin anything good.
“I—“ But Erik stops and swallows down his words, shifting his weight to his opposite hip. “You, Charles, have an endless capacity for hope.”
A good job that’s true, or he’d have given up on Erik long ago. “Do you think we can make something good together?” he murmurs against Erik’s skin when the silence begins to stretch on too long.
This close, the large breath that Erik takes in moves Charles’ body too, lifting and dropping him, and synchronizing their movements. “I do.”
Maybe not like Erik thinks it’ll happen. But they will.
They will.
As broken as they are, they can get better. The world can get better. Shaw is gone, Westchester remains, and Erik has finally begun to accept that mutual cooperation is the best he’ll get. Erik doesn’t need to like that reality, as long as he respects it. And he does. He’s learned to respect it, and with that they can make this work: perfect is not necessary for progress, and someday, that progress might yield a substantial change.
All it takes is a little hope—hope in the fact that today is better than yesterday, and, likewise, tomorrow may be better than today.
There is always that hope.
--End--