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irelise · 6 years ago

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the yew tree 1.3a/?

Erik has worked with Sebastian Shaw, mutant revolutionary, ever since Shaw rescued him from human experimentation when he was a boy. He is reluctantly enlisted to assist in Shaw’s newest scheme: seducing the wealthy and enigmatic Lord Xavier and claiming his vast fortune. With Shaw posing as Xavier’s doctor, Erik goes undercover as Xavier’s personal manservant to convince him to fall in love with Shaw.

But Xavier has secrets of his own, and it isn’t long before Erik starts having second thoughts about the whole thing…

(the handmaiden inspired au - no canon knowledge required

start reading here!)

Warnings for this part: referenced past suicide, referenced antisemitism, canon-typical references to human experimentation Rating: M Word count: 4358

It’s ginger tea today. He inhales deeply, drawing in the sharp scent, trying to will away his burgeoning headache. Nearby, Sebastian bustles around the room as he checks on his stores of sedatives and serums with all the loving care of a deranged artist.

He looks away, wrapping his hands more firmly around the heat of the teacup.

“So,” Sebastian says. “Progress?”

“Nothing of note to report. You?”

“Really?” The carpet muffles the click of Sebastian’s heels as he circles closer. “I hear you’ve been getting quite cozy with our mutual friend. Is that going to be a problem?”

He makes himself smile coldly. “Spying on us, are you?”

“I don’t need to.” Again, Sebastian’s voice drips self-satisfaction. “He reports everything to me. Keep that in mind, will you?”

“No need to threaten me.” His right temple throbs, the headache setting in. Not even the ginger tea helps. “I haven’t forgotten what’s at stake. I’ll play my part.”

***

Very early on, Erik had learnt that getting Xavier out of bed is a test of his patience. Left to his own devices, Xavier will happily fall asleep again, then have the gall to act surprised when Erik wakes him for the second time. Then the third.

What is Xavier going to do if he doesn’t have a manservant at his beck and call? Just sleep the whole day away? Erik scowls as he clambers out of his narrow cot; thanks to a poor night’s sleep and a throbbing headache, he’s in an even less charitable mood than usual. He raps sharply on Xavier’s door – as predicted, there’s no response.

By now, opening Xavier’s door without further invitation is just a matter of routine, so Erik doesn’t think twice about stepping into the room. It’s surprisingly dim inside.

“Rare to see you shut the curtains,” Erik remarks. Drawing Xavier into conversation makes him less likely to go right back to sleep, he’s found.

Today, the Xavier-shaped lump on the bed doesn’t move.

“Sir? Are you all right?”

He’s answered by a muffled: “Terribly sorry, Erik, but I don’t feel well today. Why don’t you take the day off?”

“What’s wrong?”

“…Migraine.”

Oh, for – As if Xavier is the only one here with a headache. Determined to get Xavier up – it’s for his own good – Erik stomps over to the curtains and throws them wide. “Rise and sh-“

“Close the bloody curtains!”

Erik yanks the curtains shut before he even registers himself moving.

“Sorry,” Xavier grits out. The air seems to pulse with his discomfort; Erik gets a distinct sense that Xavier is fighting down nausea to talk. He looks genuinely unwell – although, really, that uncharacteristic shout of command is already a siren announcing there’s something wrong with Xavier. “I’m quite sensitive to light when I’m like this. Noise, too.”

Guilt twinges, but Erik firmly pushes it down. “Should I get Dr. Schmidt?”

“No need, he’s given me medication already.”

Erik has to fight the sudden urge to hunt down that medication and toss the lot of it out. “Anything else I can do for you?”

There’s a small movement as Xavier turns, curling further away. “I’ll be fine with some rest. I was quite serious earlier, Erik – just take the day off. Please. I’d like to be alone.”

You don’t want something to eat? Or some water? Erik opens his mouth – then immediately snaps his jaws shut again, lips thinning. He’s not here to play nursemaid to a pampered noble. If Xavier wants to be alone, then he’ll get his wish.

(Xavier has never turned down his company before. If anything, he’s always been too gregarious.)

“Have a good rest, sir,” Erik says evenly. This is none of his business.

***

Banished from Xavier’s room, Erik is left at loose ends. As soon as he catches himself dithering, Erik growls.

Damn. He’s grown soft from all that time spent playing servant. He finally has some time to himself – he should have jumped straight to investigating the connection between Xavier’s uncle and Bolivar Trask. Shaw had said he’d been carrying out his own investigations, but Erik thinks, very sourly, that Shaw has been too busy fooling around with Xavier to do much of anything.

With his frustration at this whole situation driving his powers, Erik prowls along the servant corridors, reaching out with his metal-sense in search of anything suspicious. It’s long, tedious work: the mansion is labyrinthine in its enormity, and there is metal absolutely everywhere. Forget looking for a needle in a haystack; Erik feels like he’s hunting for one specific needle in a room filled with needles. It doesn’t help that he’s not sure what he’s looking for. Hell, he doesn’t even know if there’s anything to be found.

Around noon, he takes a break for lunch and a quick check-in with Shaw, who predictably has nothing useful to say. “Just let him sleep it off, you know how fragile humans are,” had been his input.

Completely useless.

After lunch, Erik switches tracks, confining his search to Kurt Marko’s wing of the manor. The whole thing is inaccessible: locks he has no problems with, but there are plenty of servants working in the wing, not to mention Marko himself. Erik isn’t willing to take the risk of being caught when he’s still largely fumbling about in the dark at this stage. It’s not worth it.

Finding the nearest room to Marko’s wing, Erik slips inside and locks the door. He settles himself cross-legged on the plush rug, closing his eyes. To search Marko’s whole wing with his powers… He doesn’t know if he’s strong enough. He’ll need to tap into the deepest recesses of his anger for this.

Erik exhales, hating the shaky edge to his breathing as he forces himself to reach for his childhood memories. The lab in the underground bunker, alternatively lit in stark white lights that hid nothing or plunged into absolute darkness. The dead metal of the examination table. The leather straps, rubbing his wrists raw.

Anger and hate and fear – that’s the source of his power. Erik can feel it come to life, a thing of deadly edges that sends all the metal in the room shivering, and he smiles grimly to himself.

Never again. Shaw had taught him how to harness his power; he’ll never have to be afraid again.

On instinct, he sends his power diving down, down, far below the ground, where men believe they and their secrets are safely hidden away from the light of the sun.

And there – a bunker, lined with reinforced steel. Erik drags up more memories: the scientists, their cultured calm, the way they chat about their weekend plans while Erik writhes on the examination table in between rounds of testing.

The steel begins to warp from the force of his anger. Erik bares his teeth. Focus. Reconnaissance, not destruction.

Not yet.

With the distance, it’s near impossible to make out anything – he specializes in blunt force and raw power, not finesse. But he thinks – or maybe it’s his memories muddling his perception – that there are machines down there. Metal filing cabinets, many of them. He tries to search for surgical tools, but his anger is beginning to burn itself out, replaced by a nauseating churn in the pit of his stomach.

Breathing heavily, Erik lets go, flopping down to lie on the rug. Above him hangs a chandelier done in delicate metal tracery. It feels dead. All the metal in the room feels dead. Erik closes his eyes, keeping them closed until the burnt-out spark of his power slowly come back to life, and the feeling of vulnerability fades.

He’s found out all he needed to know for today. Erik glances out of the window – the sun is just beginning to set, dappling the grounds in rosy golden hues. Usually, he’d be bringing dinner to Xavier around now, and then they’ll be settling down together in the study.

He lies there, indecisive, then gets to his feet.

Half an hour later, he knocks (very, very gently) on Xavier’s door, a tray balanced on his other hand. “Are you awake, sir?”

He thinks he hears Xavier saying “come in”. Good enough. Erik opens the door just a crack, trying to avoid letting too much light into the room.

“Erik, hello.” Xavier is gingerly pulling himself up to a sitting position, his usual grace absent. It’s too dark to see much of anything in the room, but Erik is pretty sure Xavier looks like shit.

He steps closer to the bed. “I brought you some food,” he says gruffly. “Crackers, yoghurt, some nuts.”

Xavier can only manage a wan smile, but Erik can feel the gratitude coming off him in waves. “Thank you. It’s very thoughtful of you, my friend.”

“Just doing my job.” Feeling unaccountably awkward, Erik sets down the tray. “Do you want me to draw you a bath?”

“It sounds lovely, but I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Xavier says, even though up close Erik can see that his curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat. Erik opens his mouth, about to argue, but then he remembers Shaw’s implication that Xavier had been dealing with these migraines all his life and closes his mouth again. He’ll trust that Xavier knows how to deal with his own condition by now.

“Anything else I can do for you?” He asks instead. “How are you feeling?”

“Still rather poorly, I’m afraid, but I expect I’ll be mostly recovered by tomorrow.” Xavier closes his eyes. “Did you want to use the study? You’re welcome to it.”

Indignation flares – how typical for a noble to assume he had ulterior motives for something as simple as bringing food.

Xavier grimaces, rubbing his head. “I’m sorry, Erik, did I upset you somehow?” He sounds so exhausted that the fight leaves Erik in a rush.

“No,” he says curtly. “You should eat. Have you been keeping hydrated? I’ll bring you more water.” Xavier keeps a pitcher of water by his side. It’s near empty, so Erik goes to top it up, fetching a towel and an extra basin of cool water while he’s at it. Xavier stirs but doesn’t protest as Erik wets the towel and begins to wipe gently at his forehead.

After a while, Xavier sighs quietly. “I am sorry. I had hoped to spend a more enjoyable evening with you, but…”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It’s poor recompense, but the least I can do is offer you the use of my study. I don’t know if I’ve made it clear enough before, but it’s open to you at any time, Erik.”

He can practically feel Xavier’s distress and shame beating down on him. “Charles.” Impulsively, Erik leans closer, gently smoothing the towel against Charles’ forehead one more time. “Just relax, all right?”

Charles tilts his face back, giving Erik easier access. It would be so, so easy to lean down and brush a kiss against his forehead. “All right.”

***

Xavier is worryingly subdued the next morning, but at least he’s no longer flinching away from light and noise. Still, Erik tries to be gentle as he helps Xavier through his morning routine, privately disturbed at the lifeless look in his eyes.

Seeming to catch his unease, Xavier forces a smile. “I’ll be fine, Erik. It always takes me another day or two to recover.”

Erik looks up from where he’s kneeling on the ground, helping Xavier put on his long white stockings. The cloth whispers against Xavier’s fair skin as he draws it up, stretching it taut. “I’m surprised your uncle is still making you read when you’re like this.”

Xavier’s gaze flicks to the window. “He gets terribly displeased if I fall behind on practice.”

And here’s an opportunity to ask about Kurt’s wing of the mansion – Erik seizes his chance without hesitation. “I think I’d like to listen to you read someday. Does he ever show you off?”

“Oh, yes, but they’re rather exclusive affairs.” Erik has the keen mind of a hunter: he immediately narrows in on the way Xavier’s clasp together – a nervous gesture? “I can always read to you in private, heaven knows I do plenty of that already.”

Erik smooths the stocking against Xavier’s skin, then cradles his foot, his thumb brushing against the shapely ankle as he slides the smart buckled shoe onto Xavier’s foot. “From memory? I don’t see a single poetry book in that study of yours,” he says, half-teasing. “That uncle of yours must have quite the collection to make up for your deficit.”

“I didn’t know you had such an interest in poetry, Erik.”

“More like a curiosity. I’ve never seen a collection of poetry before, and your uncle guards his so jealously.”

Xavier’s hands twist in his lap. “You aren’t missing much.”

“So what’s it like?” Erik finishes putting on the other shoe and Xavier stands, allowing Erik easy access to get everything straightened up one last time.

“Like any other room full of books. It’s not terribly interesting.” Xavier exhales slowly, rubbing at his temples. “I’m sorry, could you please go see if Dr. Schmidt is around? I can feel another headache setting in.”

“What are you hiding, Charles?” Erik murmurs, but Xavier only blinks at him in wordless question, still rubbing slowly at his temples. Erik can tell when it’s fruitless to press a point. With a grunt, Erik pulls himself to his feet, heading off to find Shaw, who dismisses him for the rest of the day.

Erik spends another few hours wrestling with his powers, trying not to think about what Shaw could be doing in Xavier’s bedroom. His rage sparks and flares, but try as he might, the finesse he needs for investigating Marko’s bunker simply refuses to come to him.

He’s exhausted when he trudges back to Xavier’s room later that evening, a touch earlier than he normally would. Even before he rounds the corner, he can hear the murmur of excited voices, Xavier’s soft laugh drifting into the hallway.

Erik’s heart stutters. He takes the last few steps almost at a run, knocking sharply on the door and flinging it open.

Shaw and Xavier both look up. They’re seated together at the small reading table, bodies angled together, a stack of books open in front of them. Shaw’s hand is resting on top of Xavier’s. The light of the setting sun falls gently over Xavier, dusting his cheeks with a rosy glow of health.

And – Xavier is smiling, bright and warm, full of uncomplicated happiness. Again, Erik’s heart constricts in his chest. Charles had never smiled at him like that before.

“Erik! Is it time for Dr. Schmidt to leave already?” Charles gets to his feet, his hand slipping away from Shaw’s.

Erik nods tightly. Shaw is staring at him. He’s smiling, but his eyes are cold, and Erik can hear clear as day: Remember the mission. “I’ve just come to see him out.” He bows to Shaw. “Whenever you’re ready, doctor.”

“Nice show,” Shaw mutters to him once they’re alone, striding along the mansion’s richly-carpeted hallways. The gas lamps throw flickering, ominous shadows onto Shaw’s face. How could Xavier trust him so easily?

“See you tomorrow, doctor,” Erik growls, showing him the door.

Xavier is still at his desk when Erik returns, nibbling at his bottom lip as he leafs through one of Shaw’s books. The smile had left his face, but he looks peaceful sitting there, the very portrait of a young scholar, studious and thoughtful.

The mission, Erik reminds himself. “You were enjoying yourself.” A statement, not a question.

Xavier hums. “Come join me, Erik.”

Frowning, Erik settles himself into the chair that Shaw had just vacated. “Is Dr. Schmidt really so charming?”

Xavier arches an eyebrow, but at least he has the good grace to give Erik a proper answer: “He’s intelligent, a good conversationalist, and he doesn’t look down on me for my illness. It’s not so easy to find someone like that.”

Erik grits his teeth. “Is that all it takes to win your heart?”

“…Whatever are you talking about, Erik?”

“When you’re with him, you look –” No. He can’t do this. Shaw was a fool for thinking he could play matchmaker. “Never mind.” Erik stands abruptly. “I’ll go draw you a bath.”

***

Xavier’s health dips up and down over the next week, but even on his worst days he still invites Erik to spend evenings in his study. They’ve taken to reclining on the couch together, Erik listening with his eyes half-closed as Xavier’s cultured voice speaks of mutation and evolution, extinction and cohabitation.

(“Peace is a dream, Charles,” Erik had argued once. “Homo sapiens would never accept the idea of a more evolved species of human. Look at the world now – look at how humans war against each other!”

Erik is a mutant. He is a Jew. Peaceful protest, doing things through the proper channels – they are quaint weaknesses he doesn’t have the luxury to afford, not when the potential cost is so high. The deck had been stacked against them from the very start.

Humans only understand fear and power. He will speak to them in the only language they comprehend.

Charles had looked at him, searching, and Erik had braced himself for a reprimand, but Charles had only nodded. “I understand. I don’t even disagree entirely. But if there is even the slimmest possibility for peace…”

“I don’t believe in wishing for the impossible.” He had said, looking directly at Charles. The words had tasted bitter.)

It’s bleak and cold when Erik wakes that morning, and he can hear the soft roar of rain cascading down on the mansion – the perfect sort of weather to spend sleeping in. He grimaces as he goes through his morning routine, ready for a grueling exercise in getting Xavier out of bed.

To his surprise, Xavier is already up when he enters the room. He’s sitting by the window, his eyes fixed in the distance – looking the yew tree again, Erik bets.

Something about the scene sends a shiver crawling up Erik’s spine.

“I didn’t expect to see you out of bed already,” he remarks, joining Xavier at the window. He can’t shake the sense of wrongness. “…Did you see her again? Your aunt?”

Pale, Xavier bites his lip and nods.

Erik makes a decision. “Come on. Back to bed.” When he reaches to place a hand on Xavier’s shoulder to shepherd him there, he almost snatches his hand back – Xavier is freezing cold beneath his thin nightshirt. “How long have you been sitting here? You’ll catch a cold.”

“It might be too late for that, my friend,” Xavier murmurs, but he allows Erik to guide him back into the warmth of his blankets. Erik bustles around the room, heating up some water for tea. A quick glance at Xavier confirms he’s still staring out the window; Erik carefully flexes his power, just a little, encouraging the metal of the kettle to heat up more quickly. Soon, the comforting smell of chamomile fills the air. Erik makes two cups, going to sit with Xavier on the edge of his bed once he’s done.

Some colour returns to Xavier’s waxen skin after he takes the first sip. He smiles at Erik, tired but grateful, and Erik feels a strange warmth bloom in his chest.

“Want me to tell your uncle you’re sick today?” He offers. Xavier’s intelligence is wasted on florid poetry anyway; Erik thinks both of them would much prefer a morning of studying together.

“Very tempting.” Xavier smiles again, and Erik relaxes slightly, seeing a bit of spark return to Xavier’s eyes.

“Then let me tempt you.”

He knows right away that Xavier will refuse and he’s right; Xavier shakes his head with a look of regret. “I must keep up with my responsibilities,” he says, but makes no move to get out of bed.

Impulsively, Erik reaches out to hold Xavier’s hands. It fits perfectly into his. “You sure you’re fine?”

He’s lost his fair share. He knows all about ghosts.

Xavier’s fingers curl against his, and he holds on with surprising strength. “No. I’m not.” He says with an honesty Erik can never match. “My parents died when I was young, too young to remember them properly, and my uncle and I always had a…somewhat strained relationship. My aunt is the only real family I can remember.”

“You two were close?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Certainly, I felt a kinship with her, because….” Xavier exhales sharply, looking at the yew tree, a dark shape in the distance shrouded by mist and rain. “I don’t know. I can’t be sure, but, I think – I think… It was my fault. I drove her to it. It was all my fault.” His voice hitches.

I was nine when my aunt hung herself there. Erik grips his hand more tightly. “Charles –”

“I’m sorry.” Charles’ voice is very soft. He’s still looking at the yew tree, but he doesn’t shake Erik’s hand off. “I don’t think… I’m not quite ready to talk about this yet.”

“All right.”

Charles look absurdly grateful at being given even that small bit of allowance. Erik frowns to himself. “More tea?”

“No, I’m…” Charles bites his lower lip, squeezing Erik’s hand. “I’d like it if you could just stay with me. Just for a while.”

“All right,” Erik repeats, and Charles manages a small smile.

They sit in silence, drinking their tea. After a while, Charles quietly asks: “Would you mind telling me a bit about your family?”

My parents are dead. Erik bites back the reflexive answer, thinking about Charles’ request. “…What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Were you close?”

One of Erik’s most cherished memories – faded and rusted by now, but still cherished – is of the day his mutation had awoken, an uncontrollable mini-storm of coins and magnets and paperclips hovering around him as he shrieked with delight and his mother laughed and laughed. “Come see,” she had exclaimed to his father the moment he had returned from work. “Look at what our Erik can do!”

She had loved him so much. She had been so proud, even as she cautioned him to be careful, because the world is not as kind as it should be.

He can’t share this memory with Charles.

He tries to search for another memory, but it had been so very long since he had allowed himself to think of his parents that everything feels shrouded, forgotten, overshadowed by their untimely deaths. Erik feels sick to his stomach when he realizes in a moment of clarity that he had not thought of them for years except in connection to vengeance.

Charles is still watching him, a soft look in his eyes. “It’s all right if you don’t remember.”

“I should,” Erik says harshly. “I owe it to them.”

“Beating yourself up over it won’t help, yes?” Charles’ thumb strokes along his knuckles. “If you’re trying to recall happy memories, then falling back on your anger won’t help you, Erik.”

Erik blinks. “She said something similar once. My mother.” The memory comes back to him in bits and pieces, snatches of half-remembered events. “That I was too angry all the time.”

“You have a vision for the world. You value justice. And when the world falls short of the mark, I think your disappointment turns to anger.”

For someone who’s been locked up in the mansion all his life, Charles’ can be uncannily perceptive.

“Even when I was a kid?” Erik smiles wryly. “You know what, I don’t think you’re wrong. I was always angry about our circumstances.”

“Circumstances?”

Erik takes a deep breath and takes the plunge. “We were Jewish.” He looks at Xavier, daring him to show some sort of prejudice, but Charles only looks at him with honest curiosity. “I’ve always known that we had to be careful. That people hate, and you can’t reason with them because they want to hate. The world isn’t fair.”

Charles nods, but Erik doesn’t think he understands completely. Nobody can, unless they’ve lived it themselves.

“I can’t imagine your parents were happy that you had to be so angry so young.”

Erik grasps at the delicate, moth-eaten threads of his memories, tarnished like old silver. It frustrates him that he can’t quite recall specific words, specific conversations, but the gist of it gradually returns to him. It helps that Charles is giving him specifics to work with. “No,” he says slowly, “I think they were glad that I wanted to improve the world, to repair it. But they also wished I could live in the present more. Appreciate what was around me.”

“It sounds like quite the balancing act.” Charles looks thoughtful, tongue darting out to run against his upper lip. “But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Taking the time to remember what you’re fighting for, I suppose that would make you fight harder…”

“Why, Charles, I thought you hated fighting.”

Erik grins when that gets a short laugh out of Charles. “It’s only a figure of speech!” Charles protests, still smiling. “I’m not talking about violence, of course; there are different ways of fighting. Or repairing, as you so eloquently put it.”

“Maybe.” They sit in silence for awhile longer, but Erik’s thoughts are humming: it’s as if his mind had grown fogged over the years without his realizing it. Now, he’s carefully stripping away the layers of dust, trying to unearth his childhood memories for the first time in years.

Helping his mother around the house with chores, the smell of matzah ball soup filling the kitchen. His room and his favourite maroon blanket. Being read to, from storybooks, from the Torah, being patiently encouraged to question and reflect – something Shaw had later beaten from him. The holidays: food, singing, storytelling. The careful motions of his mother’s work-worn hands as she lit the Shabbat candles, ushering the Sabbath.

(Later, when he returns to his investigation of Marko’s lab, his power comes easier to him than it ever had before.

Thank you, Charles.)

(next part)

#cherik #xmfc #my writing

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