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if-you-fan-a-fire · 1 year ago

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"DEWEY MUSTERS STATE GUARD; 5 DIE IN HARLEM," New York Daily News. August 3, 1943. Page 2. ---- By Edward Dillon and Neal Patterson ---- Gov. Dewey last night mobilized 8,000 State Guardsmen of New York City and surrounding counties and ordered them to stand by in their armories, ready for duty if rioting and bloodshed flare up again in Harlem. ---- Members of the 17th Regiment, New York Guard. receive rifles at their armory, 34th St, and Park Ave., after they were mobilized by Gov. Dewey last night. ---- The order swelled to more than 16,000 the number of troops, policemen and other forces patroling the streets of the riot-torn Negro community or held in reserve for any emergency.

The Governor's move came as the war-time dim-out was lifted in Harlem, liquor sales were barred, and a 10:30 o'clock amusement curfew was clamped on on the community to help heavily-reinforced police patrols maintain order.

Reports late yesterday showed that five men - all Negroes - had been shot to death, 545 had been injured and more than 500 arrested in Sunday night's rioting.

$5,000,000 Damage. Harlem's night of terror - touched off by a false report that a policeman had killed a Negro - and marked by looting, fist fights, stabbings, gunfire and the hurling of missiles from windows and roofs also had cost merchants and property owners an estimated $5,000,000. This is five times the damage suffered in the Harlem riots of 1935.

Gov. Dewey's order, transmitted through Major Gen. William Ottmann, State Guard commander, directed guardsmen of the five New York City counties and of Westchester, Nassau and Suffolk to report immediately to their armories. Negro members in Harlem also were called.

Of the 8,000, 1,300 were at Camp Smith, Peekskill, for training. These, it was indicated, will be brought back to New York today. Reached at the Hotel Roosevelt, Gov. Dewey said no formal request for mobilization had been (Continued on page 15, col. 1)

Picture caption: Resplendent in tail coats and high hats, which they lifted from a Harlem clothing store, three Negro lads (hats of two visible in background) leave W. 123d St. police station after their arrest.

"DEWEY CALLS STATE GUARD; 5 DIE IN HARLEM," New York Daily News. August 3, 1943. Page 15. --- (Continued from page 2) ---- ....made by city authorities. It was learned, however, that he had been in touch with Mayer LaGuardia and Commissioner Valentine.

The city officials, while confident of their ability to control matters, reportedly agreed it would be a good idea to have the Guard standing by.

Although a few persons were arrested for drunkenness or looting early last night, the community was quiet and Mazer LaGuardia, in a radio report to the people of Harlem at 9:45 P. M. his fourth radio speech since the rioting started said the situation was "under complete control."

The 10:30 P. M. curfew, announced by the Mayer after a conference with Army Army and police officers, shuttered every store and amusement place from 110th St. te 170th St. and from river to river.

Movies Stop in Middle. Movies stopped on the dot, right in the middle of their pictures, and restaurants turned out lights and sent their patrons home.

Few persons were on the streets after 10:00, although the curfew order permitted pedestrians to remain outside if they were orderly and did not gather in groups of more than four. Quiet groups sat on their front stoops er peered from their windows.

End Dimout, Ban Liquor. Return of the area to prewar lighting was ordered shortly afterward by Police Commissioner Valentine. The dimout was ended, commencing last night, for the section bounded by 110th and 155th Sts. and Fifth to Eighth Aves.

Harlem's streets were almost as dark as ever last night, however, since most store lights had been broken and few of the blackened bulbs in street lights had been replaced with bright ones.

As a further damper on mob violence, the State Liquor Authority banned the sale of liquor from 100th to 170th Sts., and from river to riser. Grocers and delicatessens were forbidden even to sell beer.

The Mayor's order closing Harlem to vehicles of all kinds, except police-escorted food and milk trucks, remained in effect.

Negro pastors and civic leaders toured the streets in sound trucks, urging residents to remain indoors, Mayor LaGuardia late yesterday established his headquarters in the W. 123d St. police station, saying, "I'm going to stay right here until it's over." But apparently he reached the conclusion that it was over at 1:15 this morning, when he left his temporary headquarters and went home.

Orders from Police Commissioner Valentine moved 3,700 police into Harlem, recalled ranking police officers from their vacations and canceled all pending vacations.

1,500 Volunteers on Duty Reinforcing the police were 1,500 volunteer auxiliary policemen, many of them Negroes led by Maj. Sam Battle, Negro City Patrol Corps officer and former police lieutenant; 2,000 air raid wardens, and 300 extra firemen on reserve at their stations.

Also touring Harlem were squads of M. P.s who had been busy, since the outbreak of the disorders, removing soldiers from the trouble zone.

Major Gen. Thomas A. Terry, chief of the Second Service Command, who conferred during the afternoon with LaGuardia, police officials and Negro leaders, said upon emerging:

"The Military Police will remain here, but only as protection for soldiers and not for other duties."

A number of Negro soldiers were arrested, or were reported as aiding the rioters. On the other hand Negro soldiers in several instances rescued white men from threatened attack by other Negroes.

Zoot Suited Boys Held. Also among the prisoners were a number of teen-age Negro girls and youths in zoot suits - the same age group that figured in the Los Angeles clashes between sailors and zoot-suiters.

The dead were listed by police as:

Vincent Randolph, 35, of Savannah, Ga, shot at A. M. by Patrolman Benjamin Wallace, Negro, as he ran from a grocery at Seventh Ave. and 136th St.

Frank Stoner, 40, no address, shot by a patrolman as he emerged from a looted luggage store at 130 W. 127th St. Stoner dropped suitcase, tried to draw a six-inch pocketknife, according to police.

Michael Young, 43, of 271 W. 113th St. found dead of gunshot that end of gunshot wounds in the chest in the doorway of a pawnshop at 2117 Eighth Avn. Police had fired several shots in ejecting about 50 looters.

Stanley Stokes, 20, Savannah, found dying at Seventh Ave, and 1224 St. at 2:00 A. M., with a let wound in his thigh.

Neil Lucas, no address, shut and fatally injured at 4:19 A. M. after be and another Negro allegedly kicked kicked in the windows of the Morningside Bar and Grill, 2118 Eighth Ave. The bartender, Justice Thornsberry of 211 W. 11th St, was arrested on charges of homicide and Sullivan Law violation.

Confusion in records led police to list a sixth fatality, an unidentified man, but he proved to have been Lucas.

Started With Woman's Arrest. The Harlem powder keg, which Mayor LaGuardia had taken the utmost precautions to shield from matches since the recent racial clashes in Detroit, was exploded by a Negro soldier's attempt to rescue a Negro woman from a patrolman who had arrested her in the Hotel Braddock, W. 120th St., at 7:30 o'clock Sunday night for using loud and boisterous language.

The patrolman, James Collins of the W. 135th St. station, was at the Braddock en a raided premises assignment. Police have been maintaining a 24-hour watch there fol lowing a complaint from military officials early this year that 20 soldiers and sailors had become ill with venereal disease after being exposed to the danger at the Braddock.

As Patrolman Collins sought to arrest Margaret Polite, 35, of 368 W. 127th St., Pvt. Robert Bandy, a Negro M. P. of the 730th Regiment, stationed in Jersey City, allegedly, moved out of a crowd, grabbed the officer's nightstick and whacked Collins over the head.

Bandy then fled - but Collins drew his revolver and fired, striking the soldier in the back. Collins placed Bandy under arrest for assault and sent him to Sydenham Hospital, Manhattan Ave. and 123d St.

Wild rumors spread quickly through Harlem. About 3,000 Negroes gathered around the ham, many of of them screaming and yelling. Police dispersed the crowd. Throngs massed elsewhere in Harlem. Trouble makers cried that a cot had "murdered" a Negro soldier.

The crowds began to move, yelling, smashing windows, snatching objects from windows and stores. Soon a major part of its energy was diverted to robbery and looting.

Thousands poured from Harlem's crowded tenements - some to take part, many merely to watch. Being an onlooker was almost as perilous as being a looter. Pots, old bricks, kettles and garbage cans rained down from windows and rooftops upon rioters and spectators alike. Police estimated that a large number of the injured fell under this indiscriminate shower of missiles.

Outnumbered, the police broke up looting wherever they could. Revolvers popped all over the area. For the most part, police fired warning shots into the air. Here and there, bullets of police or rioters dropped men in the street, to die or to lie, groaning, until hard-pressed ambulances could pick them up. Mob Boos Mayor Window after window was shattered, and stores of all kinds were pillaged. Liquor stores suffered most, many were completely emptied of whisky stocks. But food. furniture, big rolls of linoleum, furs, clothing and dozens of other items also were lugged away.

Police reserves, meanwhile were rushed to Harlem from all over the city and sent out, in helmets, to aid the precinct men. Police Chart No. 2, putting the entire Police Department on a tour of eight hours of duty, eight hours of reserve, eight hours more of duty and then 16 hours off, went into effect at 3:30 A. M.

Mayor LaGuardia hurried to the W. 1234 St. station, which was surrounded by a threatening mob and guarded by Negro infantrymen.

He ordered Harlem's saloon's to close at 2 A. M., and barred all traffic from the area bounded by Fifth and Eighth Aves. W. 125th St. Stoner dropped a area. For the most part, police traffic from the area bounded by Fifth and Eight Aves. and 119th and 155th Sts.

From the steps of the police station he pleaded with the crowd to disperse, but the throng only booed.

Both LaGuardia and Commissioner Valentine stressed the fact that the disturbance was not a race riot and that there was little fighting between white persons and Negros.

(Other pictures an pages 1, 22, 23 and back page)

Harlem to Get Meat Today Meat shops in Harlem will be open today and will have on hand comparatively plentiful supplies of meat, Albert Weslel, president of the New York State Association Retail Meat Dealers, said yesterday. Markets Commissioner Woolley told him there would be meat in the wholesale market and that he had subsequently notified his members to open up their shops regardless of damage done Sun-day night or yesterday.

Top picture: Under arrest, Charles Geard carries case of gin from Manhattan police headquarters. Legal residence of the gin is being sought. Another prisoner, pulling his hat down over his face. follows him.

"HARLEM HURRICANE: A Mortal Storm, Causing Death, Wounds and Destruction," New York Daily News. August 3, 1943. Page 22. --- Top left: AFTERMATH. Damaged merchandise litters sidewalk in front of a Harlem pawnshop at 145th St. and Eighth Ave, following rioting. One jewelry store reported many thousands of dollars worth of valuables missing.

Bottom left: ARRESTED. Covered with blood a man is being taken to the West 123d St. precinct station. He was arrested in bar and grill at 124th St. and Seventh Avenue. Station houses were crowded with arrested looters.

Bottom right: DAMAGED DUMMIES are strewn outside this wrecked store in West 125th St. Broken plate glass windows helped to run property damage figures inte the millions. A 10:30 curfew was enforced last night. Dimout was suspended in that area.

Top right and next page: NEW SHIFT Lined up in West 123d St. is new force of police to take over from those who had been on duty all night. At one time during Harlem disorders there were 6,000 cops an duty in that area.

"ILLEGAL SELF-SERVICE: Looters at Work During Height of Harlem Disorders," New York Daily News. August 3, 1943. Page 23. ---- Top right: LOOTING. An actual fotograph taken at height of rioting, shows youths merrily cleaning out a Harlem store of its provisions. One looter hands dowa goods from shelves to eager hands. Another, his bag filled, makes for home. He was probably intercepted by cops

Bottom left: VOLUNTEERS. Residents of Harlem were quick to volunteer their services to help restore order to district. Major Samuel J. Battle (in uniform) and Edward S. Lewis, executive secretary of the N. Y. Urban League, pin auxiliary arm hands on the volunteers, who will patrol the streets. Mayor LaGuardia emphasized that disturbance was not a race riot.

Bottom right RIOT VICTIM. Michael Young, fatally injured in the Harlem disturbances, is being carried to a waiting ambulance by policemen. Mayor said last night: "We have the situation under complete control"

"Woman Who Started Riots Held in $10,000," New York Daily News. August 3, 1943. Page B12. ---- By VINCENT ADAMS The woman whose loud and boisterous behavior in a hotel lobby Sunday night precipitated Harlem's wave of riots and pillage played a silent and sullen role yesterday as more than 500 prisoners were arraigned in four Manhattan courts.

Held in $10,000 bail on an assault charge in Felony Court, which was operating in shifts to take care of the swarm of prison ers, Margaret (Margie) Polite, 35, of 368 W. 127th St., pouted and glared when asked if she "felt sorry."

Like the Polite woman, all of the prisoners appeared to be Negroes. This fact was cited by various officials as an evidence that there was no element of a "race riot" in the mob scenes which spread through Harlem like wildfire Sunday night and early yesterday.

More than 400 persons had been arraigned in Felony Court alone when that court adjourned at 7:30 P. M. until 10 this morning. In Harlem Magistrates Court 78 persons were arraigned and in Washington Heights Magistrates Court 10.

Twelve persons were arraigned in Night Court before Magistrate Alfred M. Lindau, on disorderly conduct charges. Seven were paroled for further hearing in Washington Heights Court on Aug. 10; three drew suspended sentences; one was fined, and the 12th was held was in $100 bail.

Four magistrates sat in Felony Court. Magistrates Thomas A. Aurelio and Thomas H. Cullen Jr. were replaced shortly after 4 P. M. by Magistrate Charles E. Ramsgate, who was relieved at 6 P. M. by Magistrate Raphael P. Koenig. As each magistrate was relieved a fresh Assistant District Attorney and court staff of clerks and stenographers appeared on the scene so that the procession of prisoners could go on until all had an opportunity to request bail.

Next to the Polite woman, the prisoner who attracted most attention was Mrs. Florine orine Rob. erta, 40, of 135 Mt. Vernon St., Middletown, Conn. Mrs. Roberts is the mother of Pvt. Robert Bandy, of the 730th Regiment, Jersey City, who came to the Polite woman's assistance when she was placed under arrest.

Mrs. Roberts was also held in $10,000 bail in Felony Court on a charge of assault. She was said to have struck Patrolman James Collins of the E. 135th St. station, who had been stationed in the lobby of the Hotel Braddock, Eighth Ave. and 126th St.

Magistrate Aurelio, during the arraignment of prisoners who were brought into court in batches of 25 at a time, remarked: "This outburst of lawlessness is not understandable. As far back as I can remember, the residents of Harlem have lived in harmony. Now, of late, on the slightest provocation, large numbers are moved to disorder, as if giving in to some pent-up feeling. It would seem as if some insidious propaganda is misleading otherwise would be peaceful people."

Picture caption: Standing beside a detective (left) at their arraignment in Felony Court are Margie Polite (second from left). Mrs. Florine Roberts and Frank Valdez. Riot reportedly started when son of Mrs, Roberts interfered with a patrolman who was arresting Miss Polite.

"Harlem Heavily Guarded. While Pvt. Robert Bandy, Negro M. P., whose shooting precipitated Harlem rioting, recuperates [left] in Bellevue Hospital, troops of the 17th Regiment of the New York Guard prepare [Above] their equipment at the 71st Regiment Armory. They were part of 8,000 Guardsmen mobilized as a precautionary measure last night by Gov. Thomas E. Dewey. Army troops, policemen and other forces patrolled the streets of Harlem last night where war-time dimout was lifted, liquor sales banned and a 10:30 o'clock amusement curfew imposed. Damage caused by rioters has been estimated at $5,000,000. Story on page 2; other pictures in center fold and back page." - from the New York Daily News. August 3, 1943. Back page.

#harlem #new york #race riot #1943 harlem riot #police shooting #police killing #police racism #african americans #world war ii #nypd #new york national guard #rioting #law and order politics #history of crime and punishment

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westonbuilders · 1 year ago

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ejanitorial · 2 years ago

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gaeilgeoirgay · 3 years ago

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Whumptober Day Two

Here's my fill for Day Two- choking

Hope you enjoy :)

Ao3 Link

he looks untouchable (but now he's gasping for air he can't breathe)

Kurt watches Warren as he spirals through the air above him, powerful wings propelling him through the air gracefully. He flies as if it’s easier than breathing and maybe to Warren it is. The acrobatic twirls and flips make Kurt smile because Warren only does them when he’s comfortable and safe.

He’s a show off sometimes, but he never lets himself go during battles and training like he does now. It’s incredible to see, like watching the best acrobats in the world combined. Kurt lived with a circus for years, he knows how much effort it takes to do the kind of tricks Warren does. Maybe those acrobats didn’t have wings, but he imagines it still takes the same amount of energy even in the air.

Warren tucks in his wings and Kurt has seen him do this move a thousand times, but it takes his breath away anyways. He’s falling, hundreds of metres in the air, seemingly to his doom. Warren has described what it feels like before, to trust himself so absolutely, and it sounds like heaven to Kurt.

He’s tried it before- Warren will carry him to the highest point he can and then let Kurt fall before catching him- but it’s not the same when Kurt is trusting Warren to catch him. He doesn’t know what it feels like to have that sort of confidence, that sort of faith, in his abilities that Warren has.

Warren is still falling, barely twenty metres from the ground. Then suddenly, abruptly, his wings snap out and Warren soars upwards, letting out a scream of pure exhilaration. He looks untouchable as if nothing could ever hurt him.

The image keeps replaying in Kurt’s head six hours later when Warren is choking on his own blood, gasping for air he can’t breathe.

It’s supposed to be an easy mission which is why Kurt knows it’s absolutely gonna go to shit. Professor Xavier was looking through Cerebro for a routine scan when he caught sight of a mutant in England who was carving her way through her fellow mutant population.

The professor had called the X-men together and had Logan select a team to go. Kurt and Warren had both ended up being picked and Kurt decides it’s kind is strange that while humans his age are getting picked for sports in P.E class, he’s getting picked for a mission class. He wonders if he would like P.E. They play games too don’t they? He thinks he would enjoy dodgeball.

It only takes a few hours to get to England because of the X-jet and they land at the deserted top of a valley Kurt struggles to pronounce. Quernmore? He supposes it must be pronounced something like Quorn because they seem similar enough. He is wrong.

The mutant apparently makes her kills in the city of Lancaster before heading back to the small town to hide. It’s the sixth English city she’s made a base in and according to Cerebro, she’s killed roughly twenty mutants. In each of them.

Professor Xavier had told them that she thinks she’s the strongest mutant in England and it’s therefore her duty to eliminate all of the weaker ones. It’s horrendous logic with an awful outcome but that’s what the X-Men are for, he supposes.

The mutant-Katie West, according to Professor Xavier-has the ability to generate endless amounts of red-energy waves. She can apparently shape them into whatever she wants but usually turns them into shuriken to slit her victims throats.

She’s sloppy about covering her tracks though and Logan easily picks up the distinctive scent of mutant blood. Kurt is tasked with reconnaissance because of his ability to teleport. He’s not too enthused about, but it’s night in England and his colouring will help conceal him from West.

Warren is accompanying him at least, which makes Kurt feel a little better about it.

Logan says she’s in the rented house at the end of Quernmore’s main street so Kurt chooses to teleport beyond it, where there’s a small copse of trees he can use for cover. The dense foliage masks the slight sound of his jump.

Warren has shifted his feathers to that of Archangel to blend in with the night sky so Kurt can’t see him circling West’s house but the knowledge of his presence keeps him steady. Archangel’s metal feathers will protect Warren from any projectiles and Kurt can jump before he gets hit.

Despite the fact that it’s well past midnight, Kurt can still see West moving around the bedroom upstairs. He scans the room as best he can for weapons, seeing as he’s twenty feet away, but his gaze catches on a display case.

It’s filled with trophies. There’s a dark-green tail so, so similar to his own curled around a metal hook and he nearly vomits at the sight of it. These are mutants, or what’s left of them after West is done.

He does vomit when he sees the trophy under the tail. It’s a little clawed hand, so small it could only belong to a child. It hardens Kurt’s resolve to take down this woman, this murderer. The Brotherhood say that humans are the villains but Katherine West is a mutant who hunts those of her own kind. Kurt reckons even Magneto would think her a monster.

He spots the gleam of Logan’s claws and makes the signal to move in, knowing the teacher’s night vision will pick it up. Warren descends, landing silently, as Logan and Jean move in from the front so Kurt jogs over to them.

Logan slices the lock in half, catching the metal before it hits the ground. Jean eases the door open with her telekinesis so it won’t creak and they all pad silently in, Warren at Kurt’s back with his wings spread wide to catch any projectiles that may come from behind them.

Kurt hates the circumstances of Warren gaining the metal feathers of Archangel but he can’t deny they’re useful. Nothing attacks them though as they head up the stairs, Jean levitating all three of them to avoid stepping on creaky steps.

Warren takes his place guarding the door while the rest of them get ready to breach it. His wings are too unwieldy for close combat but he’s the perfect guard in a place like this, his large wings covering the door completely to prevent escape.

Logan slices through the door and kicks it open, immediately heading for the startled woman on the opposite side. West reacts quickly and Wolverine is forced to dodge three deadly blades all spinning for his throat. Kurt breaks left as Jean goes right, aiming to surround West.

She sees them and realises what’s going on, so she releases a full circle of lethal red light. They all duck and she takes the breather to send a blade at Warren and break for the door. The window could be an option, but West would have to go through Logan and it’s a substantial drop to make it the pitch dark.

Warren’s feathers’ cover him completely and the red light simply bounces off them. West dissipates it with a wave of her hand and refocuses her efforts on those in the room. She’s not the only one with projectiles though and as Warren’s wings unfurl, several metal feathers are released towards her. West dodges and they lodge in the wall, but the momentary distraction costs her and Logan lunges forward to restrain her.

He gets her pinned to the floor and she shrieks, thrashing. Several blades form from her hands but she’s so low to the ground that Jean and Kurt simply jump over them. Logan hauls her up as she struggles, keeping her hands clasped together so she can’t attack them.

He hauls her down the stairs and the rest of them follow after Warren and Kurt both say a silent prayer for her victims and the remains kept in the case. It had barely taken them ten minutes to finish the fight and the X-Jet is thankfully pretty close so it doesn’t take them long before they get back to it.

That’s where it all goes wrong. As Logan drags West up the stairs, she kicks her legs out. Apparently, she doesn’t actually need her hands to form her weapons and it costs them dearly. Warren is standing behind her and his wings only barely start to move by the time the blade buries itself in his throat.

Kurt watches in horror as blood pours from Warren’s throat and he falls to the ground. Logan slams West’s head into the jet and she goes unconscious. He tosses her in and scrambles to Warren’s side, where Kurt has already gone to his knees, frantically pressing his hand to Warren’s neck.

Jean disappears to get medical supplies and Kurt keeps pressure on Warren’s neck. It's the only thing he can do. The other mutant is gasping for air but the blood pouring from his ruined throat prevents oxygen from getting to his lungs and Kurt can only watch uselessly as Warren chokes on the blood, teeth red-tinged.

Jean comes back and Logan slams down a bandage but it only soaks up the existing blood rather than stopping more. Warren is still choking, a harsh sound that Kurt wishes he had never had to hear.

“He can’t breathe, Logan! Wh-what can we do?” Kurt asks desperately. Logan searches through the medkit and comes up with a small tube. Kurt’s seen this go horribly wrong before but they don’t have another choice. Warren is pale from blood loss but his lips are going blue without oxygen.

Logan unceremoniously stabs the tube into Warren’s throat below the wound and blows air down through it. The feeling of Warren’s chest heaving beneath Kurt’s hand is the best thing he’s ever felt as he finally takes a full breath. There’s still blood gushing from the gash though so they pack on gauze and bandages, hoping to stem the blood flow.

They get Warren onto the jet and Jean breaks all known laws of aerodynamics with the way she pushes it back to the mansion. Logically, it should take nearly seventy minutes to get back to Westchester and Jean makes it in forty-five. Kurt suspects telekinetic help.

Logan had stitched up Warren’s throat as best he could to stop the bleeding but it needs to be constantly drained so there’s not a build up of blood beneath the skin and they only have a limited supply of Warren’s blood to replace the stuff he’s lost. Something about mutant blood means it’s near impossible to find a match for them.

Warren hasn’t woken up since he stopped gasping for air and Kurt is scared for him. He keeps running through all the consequences of going without oxygen and losing too much blood and wounds to the throat. What if Warren doesn’t wake up? What if he does but he has permanent brain damage? What if he can’t speak anymore?

They would adjust, of course, learning sign language would be the least they could do but if permanent damage meant that Warren could no longer control his wings? That would kill him. Warren’s only just gotten them back after Kurt destroyed them and he knows how badly it affected him the first time.

Hank works for hours on Warren when they get back and Kurt stays outside their operating room the whole time. He washes up in the bathroom beside it but that’s the only concession he makes. Warren means everything to him and Kurt isn’t leaving until he’s out of surgery.

It goes well and Warren is soon brought back to the medbay. Kurt is allowed in on the condition that he touches nothing. He’s fine with that if it means he gets to see the evidence of Warren’s breathing for himself.

He hopes he never has to see Katie West again and he hopes she rots in whatever prison the Professor puts her in. He hopes that Warren will make a full recovery and that he never has to hear him gasp for air again. He’s got a lot of hopes but those are the main ones, really.

Warren wakes up three days later and he doesn’t speak for three weeks. His first words to Kurt are “I love you” and Kurt isn’t ashamed to admit that he cries. He replies through his tears and Warren kisses him. They both get nightmares and life definitely doesn’t immediately get better now that Warren is healed physically. But they’re getting there and that’s all they can ask for. Anything else can wait.

#whumptober 2021 #talking is overrated #no.2 #fanfiction #x-men #kurt wagner #warren worthington iii #choking #blood #graphic descriptions of violence

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papermoonloveslucy · 3 years ago

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‘MY GOOD WIFE’ v ‘MY FAVORITE HUSBAND’

June 23, 1949

"My Good Wife," an added starter on KNBC, 6:30 p.m. PST Fridays, is another comedy about a young married couple, as if we needed another one. I must admit this one is a little different. This married couple, Steve and Kay Emerson, are not nearly so fast with a wisecrack as, say, Lucille Ball and her husband on "My Favorite Husband," 9:00 p.m. PST the same night on KCBS. Great night for matrimony, Fridays, and if those two programs don't provide enough for you, tune in Dorothy Dix at 1:45 pm. (not broadcast in west). She'll tell you how to win back an erring husband.

I haven't yet made up my mind whether the Emerson's ineptness at repartee is deliberate - after all, not every young wife talks like Groucho Marx - or whether the script writer isn't very good at it either. Anyhow, whether by accident or design, the Emersons are a very restful young couple, possibly a little too restful to get anywhere in the entertainment world. In radio, they're a real novelty.

As a wife Arlene Francis who plays Kay Emerson, wins out on points over Lucille Ball In other regards - talent and looks, for example - Miss Ball is way out front. But how long could you live with a girl who says: "Oh, we don't miss television. I climb in the Bendix and sing and George looks at me through the little window." Imagine having a girl around the house who said things like that before breakfast. It'd curdle the milk.

STARTS OFF FAST

“My Good Wife" started out at a gallop two weeks ago, NBC deciding to set the stage and get everything out of the way all at once. The first program resembled one at those synopses of previous in installments in the popular magazines. Steve met Kay, quarreled with her, married her, taught her how to drive, learned he was about to become a father, and became one - all in 15 minutes. One minute later, the dialogue went like this:

"It doesn't seem like we've been married 12 years."

"We've been married 10 years."

"Well, that's why it doesn't seem like 12."

That, incidentally, Is a little brighter than the conversation around the Emerson household generally gets.

On the second show of the series, the pace settled down to a walk. During the first few minutes the Emersons and their neighbors lay lazily on the grass, not even talking very much. This may be taking realism too far. I mean there ought to be some crickets chirping or something. Things quickened a bit later when Mrs. Emerson decided she was going to help her husband out with his law practice and, of course, messed things up.

YALE, NO LESS

The Emersons are quite upper middlebrow as radio's young married folk go. He went to Yale, for heaven's sake, and she not only went to Vassar but led the daisy chain or whatever they do with that daisy chain. What is this - counter revolution? Oh, yes, they live in Larchmont up to their ears in other upper middlebrows. I don't know what else to tell you about the Emersons except they sound like a nice young couple to have over for a drink some time but conceivably a little mild to entertain you much on the air.

My favorite young married couple is still Ozzie and Harriet Nelson - I put Goodman and Jane Ace off in another category entirely - and while we're chatting about this sort of thing, I ought to point out Ricky and David Nelson, Ozzie and Harriet's children, are now playing themselves on that program which solves a lot of problems. I have a spy in the Nelson household, named - in case any congressional ears are pricking - Harriet Nelson, nee Harriet Hilliard, and she is not now and has never been a Communist nor worked on the atom bomb nor designed the B-36.

Anyhow, my spy informed the Nelsons had a little trouble with the kids. The real Ricky and David I listened to the radio Ricky and David and discovered them doing things they weren't allowed to do or wouldn't do voluntarily if they were allowed. Being children, they got confused over their own identities. Well now the real Ricky and David are the radio Ricky and David and the split personalities in the kids has been averted. You run into a lot of funny problems in radio.

# # #

FOOTNOTES FROM THE FUTURE

It seems pretty clear that NBC was counter-programming CBS’s “My Favorite Husband”. Not only are the names very similar, they were scheduled on the same night, as critic Crosby points out.

The episode of “My Favorite Husband” described above might apply to any domestic sitcom, but was actually titled “Budget - Mr. Atterbury” broadcast June 3, 1949. However, this newspaper is still calling Lucille Ball’s character Liz Cugat, when her name had changed to Liz Cooper in January 1949, to avoid comparison with the well-known bandleader (no, not Desi Arnaz).

Counter-programming by NBC would not stop on radio. When “I Love Lucy” was a juggernaut hit for CBS TV, NBC created a similar show titled “I Married Joan” for star Joan Davis. It was billed as “The adventures of the scatterbrained wife of a respected city judge.” Substitute “bandleader” for “Judge” (played by Jim Backus) - and you’ve got “I Love Lucy.” Like Ball, Davis was a film star of the ‘30s and ‘40s getting aboard the TV bandwagon. Like Lucy, Joan wanted to be in showbusiness. Many of the same situations that Lucy got into, Joan did too. The series even featured a few “I Love Lucy” refugees: Jerry Hausner, Elvia Allman, Bob Jellison, Margie Liszt, Shirley Mitchell, Ross Elliott, and many others. "Lucy” and “Joan” even employed the same director in each show's first season, Marc Daniels. "Joan” lasted three seasons, from 1952 to 1955 and is all but forgotten today.

Kay Emerson was not the first domestic radio role for Arlene Francis. In 1940, she took over the role of Betty on “Betty and Bob”, which had been the first successful soap opera. She was one of the hosts of the quiz show “What’s My Name?” beginning in 1938. The show was seen as a model for TV’s “What’s My Line?” which premiered in 1950. Francis would stay with the show for its entire run, including six mystery guest appearances by Lucille Ball.

The husband to “My Good Wife” was played by John Conte. From 1944 to 1946 he was married to Marilyn Maxwell (1944-46) who would later appear with Lucille Ball in the 1963 film Critic’s Choice. He had also been seen with Ball (and Maxwell) in As Thousands Cheer (1943). In 1960 he would work for Desilu in an episode of “The Untouchables” (1960).

Unlike “My Favorite Husband’s” mythical mid-Western Sheridan Falls, the Emerson’s livid in the real New York suburb of Larchmont, an affluent village located within the Town of Mamaroneck in Westchester County, New York, approximately 18 miles northeast of Midtown Manhattan. Nearby was the town of New Rochelle, whose most famous fictional resident was Rob Petrie on “The Dick Van Dyke Show” (filmed at Desilu Studios). Danfield, New York, another fictional town in the area, was the residence of Lucy Carmichael and Vivian Bagley for the first three seasons of “The Lucy Show.”

“My Good Wife” began airing in June 1949, and by April 1950 was nowhere to be found. In October 1949, Billboard reported on a new NBC Gallup Poll that placed the show dead last - with 32 stations voting it poor and only 8 saying it was excellent. The future of “Wife” was bleak. The sitcom was cancelled after 18 weeks to make room for the new Jimmy Durante show. Meanwhile, Ball’s “Husband” (on CBS), thrived. Coincidentally, the show was initially a replacement for Red Skelton’s show. Skelton and Durante had both worked with Ball on films.

Crosby’s quote from “My Favorite Husband”

"Oh, we don't miss television. I climb in the Bendix and sing and George looks at me through the little window."

was spoken by Lucille Ball in the episode titled “Television” on June 17, 1949. A Bendix is a brand of front-loading washing machine. The porthole-like window was similar to the size screen of early television sets.

Crosby’s observation that Liz talks like Groucho Marx is attributable to the show’s writers Bob Carroll, Jr., Madelyn Pugh, and Jess Oppenheimer. And let’s not forget that Lucille Ball acted opposite Groucho Marx in Room Service (1938)!

After making the obvious comparison to “My Favorite Husband,” Crosby lets readers know that neither “Husband” nor “Wife” will ever displace “The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriett” in his domestic dome. The show launched October 8, 1944 and a total 402 radio episodes were produced. When it was optioned for television, it was upstart network ABC that made the sweetest deal to the Nelsons.

As Crosby alludes to, their real-life sons, David and Ricky, did not join the cast until the radio show's fifth year. The two boys were played by professional actors prior to their joining because both were too young to perform. Crosby’s allegations of possible identity crisis due to watching their parents with other sons on television, might easily apply to “I Love Lucy”, where the real-life Desi Arnaz often lived in the shadow of the young actors playing Little Ricky on television. Mrs. Ricardo and Mrs. Arnaz giving birth to both boys on the same day only added to the confusion - one that still lingers today.

Crosby declines to compare the aforementioned shows with the popular Goodman and Jane Ace. The real-life marrieds had a show titled “Easy Aces” Goodman Ace cast himself as a harried real estate salesman and the exasperated but loving husband of the scatterbrained, malaprop-prone Jane ("Time wounds all heels"). “Easy Aces” became a long-running serial comedy (1930–1945) but did not make a graceful transition to television, lasting only a few months on the ill-fated DuMont Network. Coincidentally, Martin Gabel, who married Arlene Francis in 1946, had a recurring role on “Easy Aces” during the 1930s.

In a more sarcastic shout-out, Crosby mentions capping off this slew of domestic dithering by listening to Dorothy Dix. Author Elizabeth Meriwether Gilmer (1861-1951) was widely known by the pen name Dorothy Dix. As the forerunner of today’s popular advice columnists, Dix was America’s highest paid and most widely read female journalist at the time of her death. Her advice on marriage was syndicated in newspapers around the world with an estimated audience of 60 million readers. Naturally, radio was not neglected, getting their Dix fix when her column took to the airwaves. Due to Lucy’s insistence on interfering in the Mertz’s personal affairs, Ricky compares Lucy to Dorothy Dix in “Fred and Ethel Fight” (ILL S1;E22) on March 10, 1952.

We haven’t yet mentioned this 1940 gem, but we’ll save that for another time!

#My Good Wife #Arlene Francis #John Conte #My Favorite Husband #Lucille Ball #radio #1949 #I Married Joan #John Crosby #Dorothy Dix #Ozzie and Harriett #Easy Aces #Groucho Marx #Desi Arnaz Jr.#Larchmont NY

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bhgaragedoor · 4 years ago

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Get The Best Out Of Your Garage Door Company

Is the door to your garage giving you problems? Do you need a garage door replacement and garage door opener? It is high time for you to replace and install a new one. This is after all, the most vital component of the garage. If it gives you problems, then it is high time to give some professional a call. Experts are always there available for your service. They have all the required skills to take care of this particular problem and ensure that you receive the best quality service.

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windowkingllc-blog · 4 months ago

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Perks Of Installing Hopper Windows In Basement

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mastergaragedoorngates · 4 years ago

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Critical Information On Garage Door Repair Vs Replacement

Most doors are opened and closed at least twice a day. Over 5 to 10 years that is thousands of times up and down. Tracks can get out of line. The door will get dents or take on damaged. The springs supporting the door can break. The electric opener may start to malfunction or stop working. Then you need to look at garage door repair vs replacement.

In some locations, garage door replacement may require a permit from your city or county. That is because improper installation may result in serious injury. Some locations may require a professional who is licensed with the state. Check your building department in your location to be sure.

There are two main types, solid doors made of one piece and those made of four or five sections. Both types may have insulation. Check your door to see if it has an open back exposed to the garage. If it does then this is not insulated.

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chicagolandgaragedoorsil-blog · 5 years ago

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Garage Door Repair for Different Materials

If your door is in need of repair, the first step is figuring out what is broken. This problem varies depending on the type of material that your is made out of and in what fashion that material was crafted. Generally, your door is probably made out of steel, wood, aluminum, wood composite, or fiberglass. Each kind of material comes with its own set of common problems and by deducing which one applies to you, the repair can go a lot quicker.

Insulation

Not all are insulated, and there are many different kinds of insulation. If your insulation needs repairing, you could be wasting energy as well as letting sound and other annoyances into your garage and home. Insulation seals the door away from the outside. Many people store things in their garage. If your insulation has deteriorated, everything in your garage could be at risk from the elements outside. Determine the type of insulation that you have before you get quotes on repairing it.

Panels

Your door repair might depend on replacing the panels in your door. Garage door panels can become worn out from weather damage or from play (such as kids bouncing a ball against the door). They can also break due to automobile damage. Sometimes the windows that are set into panels can be broken. The cost depends on whether the panels are made of steel, aluminum, wood, wood composite, or fiberglass. Each material has a different cost. If this isn't the first time you've had to repair one or more of the panels on your garage door, you might consider using a different material and replacing the door all together.

Mounting Bracket, Roller, and Hinge

These components are relatively easy to fix and generally less expensive than other parts. The mounting bracket holds the track to the wall. Occasionally, your repair might be as simple as tightening the bolts that hold the mounting bracket. The hinge is the part that bends when the door rolls up along the track. The rollers are set into the track and roll back, pulling the door up onto the ceiling of the garage. The rollers and the hinge are a bit more difficult to repair on your own. There are springs involved in these parts that hold a great deal of pressure. It can be dangerous to try, and fix on your own. If this is the problem, it is definitely better to call on the help of a professional.

The Track

If your track is the problem, there's a good chance that you will have to replace it. Repairing part of the track on your is difficult because it is usually one large piece, so the parts on generally sold on their own.

Simple Garage Door Repair

On rare occasions, the fix is as simple as replacing the garage door opener. Before you go spend too much time trying to figure out what is wrong with your garage door, make sure that your garage door opener is working properly.

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irelise · 6 years ago

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the yew tree - 1.1/?

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)

Warnings for this part: referenced past suicide, past child abuse, canon-typical references to human experimentation Rating: M Word count: 4311

“No. Absolutely not. I’m impressed; this is the worst idea you’ve come up with yet.”

They’re in Shaw’s office, facing each other across Shaw’s rich mahogany desk, surrounded by shelves upon shelves of expensive trinkets and rare books that have never once been opened. Behind Shaw stands Emma Frost, bodyguard and enforcer and confidant all in one.

Not a year ago, Erik would have been the one in her position.

Now, Shaw smiles at him indulgently, and Erik’s scowl deepens. “Absolutely not,” Erik repeats. “Are you even listening to yourself? You want to seduce some rich naïve human boy, and you want

to pose as his servant and help you. If it’s money you’re after, there are cleaner ways to go about it.”

Shaw hums. “One point three billion dollars, and more than twice that in assets. You would leave it in the hands of the humans?”

“That’s not the point and you know it.” A familiar anger is bubbling up in Erik. This is only the most recent in a series of arguments between himself and Shaw – yes, Shaw aims for the good of mutantkind, but his methods. He works far too closely with humans for Erik’s tastes. “You’re wasting our time. Our brothers and sisters are out there, and-”

“Do calm down.” Emma cuts in, looking bored. “Your capacity for long-term planning is astonishingly low.”

Smiling, Shaw shakes his head and tuts fondly. “Emma, be kind. Erik only has our best interests at heart. We all have our strengths, and Erik’s does not lie in diplomacy.”

Erik refuses to rise to the barb. “Then you should know there are better people you can use for your inane plan.”

And now Shaw is just watching him, and Erik doesn’t like the shrewd look in his eyes one bit. “I thought you’d have had enough of your current job,” Shaw remarks. “But if that’s not the case…”

Nine months ago, he had been Shaw’s right hand. He had been right in the thick of things, the head of his own elite strike team. He had been a hunter, a spy, as comfortable working alone as he is with others.

It had all changed with the Trask incident. Bolivar Trask was one of the few humans aware of the existence of mutants, and Shaw and Frost had been carefully worming their way into his confidence, ferreting out his secrets: what he knows, who he’s been in contact with, the plans he’s set into motion.

Then Erik had hunted Trask down to one of his facilities. Facilities where he had kept mutant children. His own memories howling in his ears, he had killed Trask in front of his own men, ripping him apart with the metal of his own facility, making an example of him.

You’ve cost us months of work, Shaw had raged. Do you have any idea how much Trask was involved with? Do you know how impossible it’s going to be to track down all his contacts now that he’s dead?

He had children in his labs, you of all people can’t expect me to sit and do nothing!

Erik doesn’t even know where those children are now. Shaw had cut him off right after that, re-assigning him to the middle of nowhere. Erik had been relegated to being little more than a glorified repairman, taking care of their safehouses and maintaining their equipment, kept far away from the action.

But he hasn’t been idle. He had developed a reputation for doing what needs to be done, and even in exile, plenty of Shaw’s mutants have been bringing him news. Erik spends most of his days puzzling over reports. It’s intellectually stimulating work, satisfying in a different way from what he’s used to.

Even so, he’s looking forward to getting back into the field.

“I want you to listen to me carefully, Erik.” Shaw waits for him to nod brusquely before he continues. “You’re one of the most valuable assets I have, but right now, I can’t trust you. You understand that, don’t you? Emma and I are playing the long game. And, yes, right now that means engaging with the humans. Until you prove that you can play nice, you’re nothing but a liability. Understand?”

“Don’t tell me you came up with this whole ridiculous plan just to test me.” Right now, the only thing being tested is Erik’s patience.

Shaw smiles lazily, self-satisfied. “No, that’s just a bonus. The young Lord Xavier’s fortune will put us in a good place, and I can’t imagine someone as sheltered as he is will be hard to charm.”

By now Erik’s frown is a permanent fixture on his face, but he’s grudgingly resigning himself to this mad scheme. “Fine. Seeing as you’re going to waste your time on this with or without me, you might as well tell me the rest of your plan.”

“Wonderful! I knew you would see things my way eventually.” Shaw shuffles some papers around. “I’ve already made arrangements. Lord Xavier is in poor health, and his uncle has hired me to be his personal physician. As for your part – like any man of his station, Lord Xavier has a personal manservant, but his has recently been dismissed due to some scandal. I’ve recommended you as a replacement for the role. Your duties will be to bring him meals, help him dress and bathe, flatter him and make him feel good about himself – nothing you can’t handle. And, of course, you’ll help him fall in love with me.”

Erik snorts. Behind Shaw, Emma’s cold eyes are bright with amusement.

Shaw chuckles. “Yes, yes, I know it’s beneath your dignity, but what’s that you always said? Anything for the cause?”

“This is barely related to the cause,” Erik says caustically.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that just yet.” There’s something very pleased about the way Shaw is smiling, something that goes beyond his usual levels of smugness. “How much do you know about Charles Xavier?”

“What is there to know?” Rich, spoiled nobles, they’re all the same.

Shaw is still shuffling through his papers. “Well, you’re not wrong. He’s pretty enough, but unremarkable. From what Emma has gathered, he was orphaned young and his health has been frail ever since, so his uncle had him shuffled back from school in England to the family estate in Westchester and Xavier hasn’t left since. Xavier came of age around two years back, but his uncle is still looking after him. The uncle is some businessman, not nobility, but he sure enjoys pretending to be one. Holds all these fancy poetry sessions in the Xavier estate and has our Charles read for him and his friends. He’s a widower; Emma tells me he’s planning to marry Charles for his fortune.”

Humans. Erik’s lip curls. “Anything else?”

The rustle of paper stops as Shaw picks out a document, sliding it over to Erik. “That’s the uncle, by the way. Kurt Marko.”

Erik stills. Shaw smiles.

“Associate of the late Bolivar Trask.”

***

The Xavier estate is less a mansion and more a ridiculous castle, suffocating in its wealth and taste. Erik’s skin itches when he looks at the subdued décor. With Shaw, he had learnt to move among the rich and the noble as an equal – even found himself enjoying it, the spiteful satisfaction of fooling these aristocrats into welcoming their own enemy into their midst.

So it seems rather a step backwards to be in a place like this as a servant. Erik smiles wryly to himself as he looks at his new sleeping arrangements. He’s expected to be ready to attend to Xavier at all hours of the day and night, which meant the most logical place for him to sleep is directly across from Xavier’s room. A bell links their rooms together, ready to summon him like a dog at Xavier’s leisure.

Hah. Room. As if a servant is deserving of his own private room even though the estate has more bedrooms than any family could ever use. Erik almost has to admire their dedication to keeping servants as invisible as possible: the door to his room is hidden, indistinguishable from the surrounding wallpaper. The room itself is less a room and more an alcove, just large enough to fit a narrow cot. There is no light.

It��s long past midnight, and the major-domo had just finished showing him the mansion and outlining his duties. He’ll officially begin work tomorrow. Right now, his only duty is to stay in the suffocating claustrophobia of his cot and sleep so he’ll be fresh and ready to serve tomorrow.

It’s harder than it sounds. Erik has slept in any number of uncomfortable places, but something about the low ceiling of the alcove, the flat discomfort of the cot… When he closes his eyes, he can almost feel leather straps tighten around his chest and wrists, strangling. Erik forces the memories from his mind, locking them back in the tight iron box where they belong, and guides himself through breathing in. Out. In.

A cry shatters the silence, jolting him out of an uneasy sleep. Erik curses as he bolts upright and bangs his head against the ceiling. Fumbling in the pitch black, he shoves his door open, already fully awake. That cry had came from Xavier’s room.

Erik doesn’t stop to think about propriety. He slams into Xavier’s room, eyes peeled for danger.

What he finds instead is pale young man sitting in his extravagant bed, staring quietly out the window. The moonlight washes all the colour out of the room, limning Xavier’s curls in silver and casting gentle shadows across his face. When Erik steps closer, he’s caught by the glimmer of blue in Xavier’s eyes.

Even when dishevelled with sleep, wearing nothing but a loose nightrobe, Xavier looks like the masterwork of some melancholy painter.

The moment breaks when Xavier turns to face him. “I’m sorry, did I disturb you?” His voice is soft and accented, obviously upper-class.

Erik is suddenly, awkwardly aware of just how improper it is for a servant to burst into their master’s room without an invitation. Nothing for it now. If he gets tossed out on his ass on the first night here, then Shaw will just have to find himself a new lackey.

“Sorry, sir. I thought I heard a disturbance.”

“Ah, so I did wake you.” Xavier’s head tilts. In the shadow of the moonlight, it’s impossible to read his expression. “I apologize again.”

A spoiled noble apologizing to the help – that catches Erik off-guard. “Better safe than sorry,” he says gruffly. “What happened?”

Xavier’s gaze returns to the window. “An old nightmare,” he says, matter-of-fact, and Erik wonders how someone can be so open about his own weakness. “Look out the window. Do you see that tree?”

The estate is lined with trees, but it’s impossible to miss the one Xavier is talking about: an ancient, massive yew, black in the moonlight, dwarfing the surrounding trees.

“I was nine when my aunt hung herself there. Sometimes I still see her.”

***

Xavier sends him back to bed soon after that, and Erik rises early the next day with only a fitful few hours of sleep. When he reports for duty, Xavier is sitting in his bed again. The collar of his nightgown is open, and Erik catches a glimpse of pale skin and defined collarbones. In daylight, Xavier is handsome in a boyish sort of way, his clear blue eyes serene as he smiles politely at Erik.

“You’re Erik, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Erik bows, movements perfect and precise. “At your service.”

“Good morning, Erik. Help me get ready for the day, and then we’ll talk.”

Getting ready for the day means helping Xavier shave and then dress. Someone had already picked out Xavier’s clothes for him – crisp white shirt and blue waistcoat, followed by a dark coat on top. Xavier is clearly well-used to this, sitting docile as a painted doll while Erik knots his cravat and straightens his clothes.

Afterwards, Erik brings breakfast on a silver tray. He had expected a decadent meal, but Xavier must prefer to eat light in the mornings; there’s barely enough for one person, and in flagrant breach of protocol Xavier even invites him to share. It’s probably a test. Erik has no patience for it; he takes up the offer without comment, portioning out the food between the two of them.

Surprisingly, Xavier offers him the bigger portion.

“Are you not hungry, sir?”

Xavier’s mouth quirks into a half-smile, drawing Erik’s attention to the indecent red of his lips. “My appetite has always been low. You should help yourself. I imagine you had a long trip yesterday?”

“Yes.” Is Xavier trying to make small talk?

Xavier doesn’t seem to find his clipped responses discouraging. “Now, you seem like someone who appreciates efficiency, so why don’t we get straight to business? How much have you been told about your duties?”

Erik rattles off the list given to him yesterday, and Xavier nods. “Yes. My days are quite regimented, so you’ll have free run of the house for most of the day. Mornings I always spend with my uncle – he expects me to practice my poetry reading every day. Afternoons I have a fitness regimen my uncle expects me to adhere to. However, I’ve recently been given a new personal physician, and I imagine my afternoons will be taken up by that from now on. The evenings are my own; that is the only time I expect you to be at hand. Why don’t you come with me after breakfast? I’ll show you where Dr. Schmidt will be attending to me. Would you fetch me this evening at 5 o’clock, sharp?”

Shaw is right; this Xavier boy seems to live firmly under his uncle’s thumb. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent.” Xavier smiles again, utterly serene. “I look forward to working with you, Erik.”

***

He is not allowed into Kurt Marko’s wing of the mansion – “My uncle is very particular, I’m afraid,” Xavier had said – so after he sees Xavier to the entrance, Erik leaves to make a start on his assigned duties.

As Xavier’s personal manservant, it is his duty to keep everything in Xavier’s rooms absolutely spotless. There is the bedroom, of course, but Xavier also has a personal study and a bathroom of his own. A quick inspection reveals everything has already been cleaned to a shine; he doubts anyone would notice if he missed a day of cleaning.

Which leaves him plenty of time to sort through Xavier’s personal effects. He starts with the study first: for someone who spends so much time on poetry, Xavier’s collection is surprisingly devoid of poetry books. There are a few works of literature, but for the most part, the books are all scientific in nature. Evolution, to be precise. Mutation. Most of the books are well-thumbed, showing signs of wear and tear – clearly, they aren’t just there for show.

Erik’s breath catches. Had Xavier also worked with Bolivar Trask?

With renewed urgency, Erik scans the study, rifling through drawers and rapidly flicking through sheafs upon sheafs of paper, searching for anything written in Xavier’s own hand. He doesn’t find much – Xavier’s writing only deals with theory, no signs of experimental work present.

Perhaps this is something Marko put him up to. It would fit with the pattern so far. Really, the only surprise here is that Marko hadn’t talked his nephew into marriage yet…

Erik puts everything back into order, heading for the bedroom next. It’s surprisingly devoid of personality. Going from what Shaw had said, Xavier should have spent most of his life in this mansion – so where are all the childhood trinkets? Old toys, photographs, posters, anything?

He’s a little reassured when he hunts down an inconspicuous box inside the closet filled with interestingly shaped rocks, the sort of collection a little boy would have put together. So, Xavier does have a personality buried somewhere in there. The closet doesn’t yield anything else of interest, just rows and rows of neatly-pressed clothing.

Or maybe he spoke too soon. There’s another closet, smaller in size, and when he throws the doors open he finds costumes, of all things, yards of draping white fabric in the Greco-Roman style, intricately-patterned silken robes with a suspiciously feminine cut to them, pelts and furs, and that’s only the top layer. The closet is narrow, but deep. When Erik reaches out with his metal-sense, he can feel delicate jewellery and ornaments tucked away.

What does it all mean? Something to do with those poetry readings, perhaps? Or maybe Xavier has some sort of fetish – locked up in a mansion like this all his life, Xavier must be at least a little mad.

Erik shakes his head, amused, then puts the matter out of his mind and continues his investigation.

Hours later, he has little to show for his efforts, but time is ticking and he’s morbidly curious as to how Shaw’s plan is proceeding. Erik strides rapidly through the servant corridors – he’ll have to spend a few days familiarizing himself with every nook and cranny of the house – emerging by the room Xavier had shown him earlier.

The door is open just a crack. Stealthily, Erik peers in. It appears to be a guestroom hastily converted into a medical facility: it has the same décor as every other room, all understated opulence, but a number of machines have been set up, and Erik can spy newly-installed cabinets that must contain even more tools. Pills, too, and serums and sedatives and who knows what else. The whole thing makes his skin crawl.

Shaw and Xavier are seated at the lone table in the room, a touch closer than strictly appropriate. Their heads are bent together, and Erik can see their mouths moving, although the hushed murmur of their conversation is too quiet for him to make out. It’s difficult to see anything more from this angle; the most Erik can say is that they both look engrossed in the conversation.

Curiosity satisfied, Erik knocks on the door, watching quietly through the crack as the two of them pull apart.

“Is that you, Erik?” Xavier’s accent curls elegantly around his syllables. “Do come in, we were just finishing up.”

Erik opens the door and gives a perfunctory bow, not sparing a glance at Shaw. “Whenever you’re ready, sir.”

“Of course.” Xavier glances at Shaw. “I’ll see you again tomorrow then, Dr. Schmidt? Same time?”

“Yes. Have a good evening, Charles, and do try to relax a bit.”

Erik holds the door open for Xavier. They leave together, Erik walking a respectful step behind Xavier, wracking his brain for something to say. Why Shaw would enlist him to play matchmaker, Erik has no idea; he hasn’t had a single successful relationship in his life.

“You and the doctor seem quite familiar with each other already,” he ends up saying.

If Xavier is offended by a servant speaking out of turn, it doesn’t show. He only hums thoughtfully. “Really? It’s only been our third session together. Still, I quite admire him. Being a doctor takes skill and dedication both.”

Does Shaw even have a valid medical license, or are his papers all forged? Erik pushes the thought to the side. “So you’re enjoying your sessions together?”

“I don’t mind them, which is more than I can say for some of my other doctors. Having to see a doctor daily is never a pleasant thing, I’m afraid, although I do count myself lucky that I have the option to do so.”

Surprisingly self-aware of Xavier. Erik feels a twinge – something, something unidentifiable, knowing the fate that awaits Xavier at the end of all this.

“He seems quite interested in you,” He says instead.

Xavier turns those vivid blue eyes of his on him, open and curious. “You know Dr. Schmidt, don’t you? As I recall, you were hired at his recommendation.”

“Yes. He was responsible for much of my training.” That was the cover story they had agreed on; it isn’t far from the truth.

“Would you say you know him well?”

Erik blinks. “Reasonably so. Why?”

“I do appreciate having someone so informed in my corner, as it were. You really think he’s interested in me?”

Damn. Why did Shaw pick him for this? “Of course. He…” Think, Erik. “He thinks about your case often. He thinks about you often.”

He’s spared having to come up with something more to say by their arrival back in Xavier’s rooms. “Would you like me to draw you a bath before dinner, sir?”

“Yes, thank you, Erik.”

Glad of an escape from the torturous conversation, Erik starts filling up the bathtub with hot water, channelling his frustration at the whole thing into heating up the metal pipes to speed up the process. Slowly, the room fills with steam, lazy silver curls mixing with the scented oils he had poured into the bathwater.

“Bath’s ready,” he calls.

Xavier steps into the room and Erik rises carefully to his feet. This is one of his duties too, he remembers. Helping the young master bath.

He had helped Xavier dress earlier today, but helping him undress now – it’s strangely intimate. Erik has eyes, he’s not blind to Xavier’s boyish handsomeness, and as he peels off all those formal layers he makes note of Xavier’s trim stature. He’s well-formed, lightly-muscled, and he’s been taught to hold himself well, graceful and noble.

Unattainable.

The steam wraps around them both, the heat settling a light flush onto Xavier’s creamy skin. Erik silently helps him into the bath, the water rippling as Xavier sinks in. “Shall I do your hair first?”

“Yes, please.”

Grabbing the shampoo, Erik begins to knead at Xavier’s scalp, working up a proper lather. And, finally, he’s treated to the sight of Xavier demonstrating an emotion other than self-possessed serenity: his head lolls back, pushing into Erik’s touch. When Erik’s nails drag lightly against his scalp, Xavier’s eyelashes tremble against his cheek. A whisper of a sigh drifts through the steam.

“I’ve always had a terribly sensitive scalp,” Xavier remarks without prompting. His eyes are still closed, his body a languid sprawl in the bathtub. “Dr. Schmidt has told you about my migraines, yes?”

“Some. He worries about you.”

“Lovely of him, to be so concerned about a patient.”

Erik stifles a snort – Shaw and lovely should never be in the same sentence together – and continues to massage Xavier’s scalp. He must be doing something right because Xavier sighs again, sinking deeper into the tub. “Lovely,” he repeats, sounding sleepy.

It’s strange. Erik had expected to hate every moment of servicing this undeserving human, but there’s something oddly soothing about taking care of another person like this. He’s gentle and careful as he helps Xavier wash the shampoo out of his hair, before grabbing a bar of soap and a soft sponge to wash the rest of his body. “Sit up a little so I can get your back.”

Obediently, Xavier shuffles up, water rippling down the expanse of his back. There’s a rosy flush to his skin – making the silvery whiteness of scar tissue stand out in sharp relief. Xavier’s back is marked in long, thin stripes. Some of the marks have a terrible artistry to them, precise and even as the lined pages of a notebook, whereas others are a mess of criss-crosses and jagged edges.

Xavier must have sensed Erik’s surprise, because he blinks his eyes open, tilting his head back to look at Erik. “Everything all right?”

Erik hastily picks up the soap again. “Yes, of course. I didn’t expect…”

“It’s all right.” Xavier saves him from his floundering. He closes his eyes again. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of curiosity; it’s quite healthy, in fact. For your information, those were from my uncle. I don’t remember it so well now, but apparently I was quite the terror as a child, enough that he had to resort to the whip in order to discipline me. I would have hurt myself otherwise.”

How old was Xavier then? Seven? Eight? It doesn’t matter – no guardian should be taking a whip to their charge, regardless of age.

Nobles, he thinks again, derisive. Humans.

Erik smooths the sponge down Xavier’s back, studying the pale map of lines etched there. It looks innocuous now, but past experience makes it easy for Erik to imagine what it must have been like at the time, the splitting skin and the splash of blood, the pain and terror and humiliation.

Erik wonders if he’ll ever understand the way Xavier can be so frank about his weaknesses.

The silence has dragged on for too long. If Erik was in Xavier’s position, he wouldn’t appreciate pity, so he tries for levity instead. “You, a terror?”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Xavier is smiling again.

They fall into a thoughtful silence again, Erik losing himself to the gentle rhythm of soaping and sponging. Xavier’s skin is wonderfully soft and water-sleek under his hands, the underlying muscle adding a pleasant firmness to his form. When Erik moves to wash Xavier’s front, he finds Xavier looking at him, biting at his lower lip. His cheeks are flushed, his hair dark and curling, tousled from the wash. A few stray drops of water trickle slowly down the pale column of his throat.

“You can join me, if you like.” Xavier says quietly. Erik can’t read the look in his eyes. “The water feels absolutely wonderful. Shall I do your back for you?”

“I…” His mouth is dry. “That doesn’t seem very appropriate. My lord.”

Xavier’s expression doesn’t change. “Of course. It was only a thought. I’m sorry, did I make you uncomfortable?”

Erik can only shake his head mutely.

(next part)

#cherik #xmfc #my writing

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gold-from-straw · 6 years ago

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Consequences - ch 3/3

How Cuba went down in the Consequences ‘verse... especially tackling Charles’ STUPID ‘just following orders’ comment! I hope you like it ^_^ Thank you so much for all the love this has had! This has been the first full fic I’ve written for this ship and everyone’s so lovely! I’ve got another story to come soon, the chapters will be a lot shorter but there are more of them. Thank you!

There was something different in Charles now, a resignation. He was quieter, even with the children’s training, spoke less of morality and the greater good, and when Erik narrowed his eyes at that realisation, he simply sent an image of his stepbrother being led off into one car to return to California while his stepfather carried on into New York city without a backwards glance. Who am I to speak of ethics? he asked softly, and turned to walk away.

Erik followed him, caught up with him in the corridor outside the study and pushed him against the wall, kissing him breathless. “You’re the only one I’d listen to,” he answered, and lifted him up, breathing kisses into his neck as he clung to him like he was drowning.

They lay close together afterwards, not bothering to emerge for dinner, wrapped in each other’s arms until the sun rose on the day they’d be flying to Cuba.

Charles flew with his jaw set, his eyes hard, and Erik was the one left to encourage the team, keep them calm and safe. He kept his focus on them, on the serenity needed to protect the children, both older and also so much younger than he had been when he first hunted down the same evil.

He faced Shaw. He heard Charles’ voice in his head, calming him, talking him down from the panic. I will not let you die here, Charles said, and Erik found his balance. He whipped the helmet away from his monster, felt Charles’ mind wrapping around Shaw’s, holding it in place while Erik drove the coin forwards, his mother’s brave smile at the front of his every thought.

As the coin burrowed into Shaw's skull, Erik thought he heard a truncated scream of pain .But it was gone in an instant, and he kept his focus, driving the coin through and out, ending it. He almost slumped when he saw Shaw’s body fall an empty, lifeless thing with no more power than a stuffed animal, and for a moment hysteria overwhelmed him. Was this it? Was it truly over? How could that be possible, with him still living? Charles had told him, over and over, breathed into his ear, into his very mind as they moved together, as they played chess, as they handed each other coffee, he wasn’t going to let Erik die destroying Shaw, but… he hadn’t realised until now that it had all felt like a dream, an impossible wish.

He stumbled out of the risen submarine, met Charles’ eyes as he staggered out of the downed jet, and laughed. Charles smiled, his face tense, and Erik started forwards to him, and stopped.

“The missiles… they’re firing…”

“What?”

“Charles, check! They’re both firing, both navies.”

Charles turned to the ships, his face going slack with horror, and he turned back to Erik, speechless.

“Oh my God,” Raven said, almost under her breath. Moira raced back to the jet, screaming into the radio.

Erik felt the rage rise in his blood again, tipping the balance, only this time, the balance had shifted. Shaw was dead. He had done the impossible, and come out the other side, alive. He held up his hand as the missiles screamed towards them, and stopped them, every single one bobbing in the air, peacefully.

How dare they? How dare they try to take everything from him again, after everything he’d lost, everything they had all given to stop the annihilation of their world, and the humans had the audacity to fire on him? He turned the missiles, his focus complete, and every single one aimed itself towards its origin.

“Erik… Erik, please, no…” Charles’ voice shook, and he reached out to touch Erik’s arm. Flashes of panic started to come through. Going to die Someone save us.

Erik projected calm towards him. He wasn’t going to let anything happen to Charles, not to any of them. Our Father, who art in Heaven. “Please… oh God, there are innocent people on those boats!”

The panic rose as the missiles got closer to the ships, I’m never going to see them again and Erik wished, selfishly, please God let us get through this that he could block out Charles’ worry, my children, what will they do the way it was disrupting his concentration. Will she name the baby after me

He frowned, and several missiles fell into the water. “What?”

“They’re just oh God I should never have signed on following my little girl, only four orders will it hurt Erik”

And suddenly, I don’t think I can handle feeling them all die.

“What?” he said sharply, and all the missiles fell. Erik turned and grabbed Charles’ wrists, shaking him, and the skin contact made the voices flow faster are we safe oh my God my heart is it gone what are we going to do oh God please don’t let them tell us to fire I can’t do this we’re outgunned I just want my babies I just want my mother oh God, my head

“Charles!” Erik snapped. “Block them out, shut them down!”

“I… I can’t, it hurts!”

“You, Azazel,” he said, turning to the teleporter, held tightly by Hank. Like all of Shaw’s people, he had seemed to deflate when Erik had emerged unscathed. “Take all of us away - if you get us all to safety you can go wherever you like after that, I don’t care, just…”

He nodded, and everyone gathered together, linking hands. Erik wrapped his arm around Charles’ waist, held Moira’s hand tightly, and nodded. The beach disappeared in red smoke.

They appeared in a field, and Charles sighed, his tense muscles relaxing and slumping closer to Erik. Erik glared at Azazel, not willing to trust him yet. “Where are we?”

“Wisconsin,” Azazel said. “Am I free to go now?”

“He’s telling the truth, Erik,” said Charles, straightening up. “Although,” he added, looking from face to face in the Hellfire club. “You’re welcome to come with us, if you’re interested in a different path for mutantkind. One that doesn’t lead to a nuclear winter.”

“The humans obviously aim to destroy us,” Erik ground out. “We’d be better staying together, all of us.”

“Not all of them wish to destroy us,” Charles said softly, glancing to Moira.

Erik rolled his eyes. “Only the ones in power, Charles.”

Charles made a face, and rubbed his temples. “I’m too tired to argue.” He looked up at Janos, Angel and Azazel, shifting uncomfortably. It didn’t take a telepath to see their mistrust and confusion. “The offer stands. Stay as long as you like.”

“Why are you so trusting?” Angel shook her head.

He gave a false smile. “I’m a telepath. I don’t have to trust you. I know when someone means me harm.” His face hardened. “And you should know I am perfectly capable of protecting myself and those I care about.”

Angel stared at him, then nodded once, sharply. “I’m in.”

Janos shrugged. Azazel held out his hand. Erik held tight to Charles’ shoulder, just in case the teleporter had a trick up his sleeve, but Charles simply shook on the agreement. “If I give you the location of the mansion, will you be able to take us all there?”

He nodded, and the world disappeared once more, replaced by the lawn outside the Westchester mansion. Erik felt something under his ribs uncoil at the sight of the pretentious old pile. As if some part of his body and mind recognised it as home. Charles smiled tiredly at him, and at that, his entire soul recognised home.

They couldn’t simply collapse into their room as they both wanted. There were rooms to find for the new people, by unspoken agreement in a different wing to the current inhabitants of the house. There were ground rules to cover, and even, thanks to Alex and Angel, a screaming fight about Darwin, which resulted in both of them storming off in opposite directions, Alex down to the bunker to burn off some grief.

When Erik started noticing Charles wincing and rubbing his temple every time someone snapped or glared, he realised the steady migraine he was feeling wasn’t actually his own. He slapped some money in Sean’s hand, told him to call for pizza, and hauled Charles off to bed.

“I’m really fine,” he protested, which was clearly utter rubbish by the way he was rubbing his eye socket. “I should be there to keep the peace.”

“It’ll be good for them to sort out their own problems - you’re not their parent, Charles.”

He sighed and let Erik manhandle him into the huge, dimly lit room. “It’s only eight o’clock. Would you like a drink?”

Erik just shrugged and sat on the window seat, staring out at the dusk. Now that he was finally at rest, his mind went back through the battle. It had always been like this. He’d focus on the present until the fight was over, then, exhausted, he’d revisit it and dwell, and analyse.

It was a good thing. He always remembered more than he realised at first, and he’d learned new techniques and strategies from analysing his own actions after the fact. He was just a little surprised that it was hitting him while he was still in Charles’ company. He had thought it would wait until he was completely alone.

Now he revisited the beach, a fierce pride at having lifted the sub, irritation at having lost his focus and allowed Riptide to knock the jet off course. At least he had been able to stop Charles from tumbling around as they crashed, and he shuddered at how close they had been to ending the battle there.

The fight with Shaw drew out in his mind, every moment observed from every angle. Charles was right, there was no new peace to be found from killing the man, but he did feel like he could take a breath at last, his greatest demon vanquished, his greatest threat eliminated.

And then the nukes. He clenched his fists at his sides, the thought of those ungrateful, stupid humans turning their weapons on them - and Charles! Now, without the whirlwind of voices coming through from the humans’ minds he remembered what Charles had said, how he’d tried to stop him - ‘they’re just following orders’. How dare he? What was he thinking?

There was a clatter of glass on glass and Erik looked up to see Charles staring at him in horror, whiskey dripping onto the tablecloth. “Erik… oh my friend, I’m so… I can’t believe I said it like that, I’m so sorry.”

Erik raised his eyebrows as Charles approached him, his hands fluttering. “I’m sorry, I heard… my boundaries are all shot to hell since… but I’m so sorry for being so thoughtless!”

“Charles, Charles! It’s fine,” he said, standing and touching Charles’ cheek.

“It’s not,” said Charles, looking distraught. Erik could hear his regret, and a current of fear underpinning it, and he frowned. Charles closed his eyes, and the fear peaked. Stupid stupid careless insensitive stupid boy.

“Charles! Calm down, you’re projecting.” Charles gasped and opened his eyes again, and the sound cut off completely. So did the throbbing pain in his head. Erik had expected that at least some of the pain would have been his own headache.

He pushed it to the side for a moment, running his fingertips through Charles’ hair. “It was… a stupid thing to say,” he admitted, and Charles nodded, eyes damp. “I’ve already lost one family to men who were just following orders - and I know that’s all it is for some of them. They were just too weak, too scared to do what was right, so they did what was easy.” He pulled Charles close and kissed him on the forehead. “I refuse to lose another family to men just following orders.”

Charles whimpered and pressed himself close to Erik, his fingers gripping his shirt. “Erik, I know… I know you probably don’t want me anywhere near… it’s so selfish, but… please…”

“What is it, liebchen?” he asked, trying to pull back to look at Charles’ face.

Charles struggled against him, trying to press closer. “I… I need…”

“What do you need, love? Anything.”

Charles reached up a trembling hand to Erik’s temple. “Please?” he whispered.

Erik held his hand there and nodded. “Of course.”

Before he even finished speaking Charles was sinking into his mind with another whimper, and he gasped. Charles seemed to be completely immersed in him, his mind spreading out with a greedy sigh, tangling into his very soul. I’m sorry I’m sorry so selfish I need you, your mind, so safe, I’m so sorry.

“Why are you sorry?” he asked, with a little laugh.

It must feel so invasive… I just… you’re my anchor. You feel so wonderful.

“I’m glad to hear my mind is comfortable. And it doesn’t feel invasive,” he said, wrapping his arms around Charles’ back, plastering him against his chest. “I like it.”

“You… you do?” So cool so safe doesn’t hurt any more

“Why was it hurting?” Erik frowned.

Charles pulled back, tendrils of thought going silent. Erik tightened his arms. “Charles,” he said, warningly.

“It’s fine, I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. Don’t lie to me, my friend. What was it? When you heard all the sailors?”

Charles shook his head, and tried to pull back again, but as he did so, a memory slipped out. A coin, a struggle to hold two minds, and a scream that went on and on.

Erik stumbled back, gasping, his hands pressed up to his head.

“Erik! Erik, are you OK?” Charles scrambled for him, touching him on the face, the head, the hands.

“Wh… why didn’t you tell me?” he croaked, his throat as raw as if it had been him screaming. “You felt Shaw die, you felt the coin… I hurt you!” His eyes widened with horror. “The scream that cut off, that was you!”

“I’m so sorry,” Charles said, his blue eyes rimmed with red and tears. “I never meant for you to feel it, I pulled back from you as soon as…”

“I don’t want you to apologise for that!” he shouted. “I hurt you, Charles, how can you be apologising?” He grabbed his hands, torn between shaking him and protecting him from the world. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have… I would have…”

Charles closed his eyes. “There was nothing you could have done, no other way for us to… to kill Shaw. And I know we had to, I agree with that. I told you I would take the consequences with you, Erik, and this was one of them. If I hadn’t been in control of his mind, he would have been able to absorb the energy of the coin.”

“You say you will take the consequences with me, but it seems like you’re unwilling to actually share these consequences with me! Charles…” he cupped his face in both hands. “Are you trying to punish yourself?”

“No! Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Because that would, truly, be ridiculous. Sebastian Shaw was a monster, who did his best to turn me into a monster just like him, and you do not need to force yourself to suffer for his death.”

“I’m not, Erik,” he said, sighing and slumping into him. “It really was the only way.”

“Then why, when you started feeling the pain, did you pull away from my mind? We were in this together, I would have borne the pain with you. I should have, as the one inflicting it.”

“It… it would have distracted you.”

He raised his eyebrows. “It could have distracted you, but you managed to hold him immobile the entire time. You may say you’re not punishing yourself, but I think you are. I think you’re punishing yourself for your stepbrother, as well.”

Charles seemed to give up, closing his eyes and looking wretched. “My stepbrother… I went too far.”

“He was hurting you. He hurt Raven. What were you supposed to do? Just allow him to do so?”

“I was stronger than him--”

“No, you weren’t. Your mind was stronger than his, it’s true, but you weren’t in full control of your powers then. You acted out of fear for you and your sister, and you stopped the abuse.”

“I went too far. I could have--”

“But you didn’t. You can’t punish yourself for that forever, you know.”

“I deserve to be punished for taking a life.” Charles was almost whispering now, and Erik wrapped his arms around him. Even now he could feel flashes of pain and grief and guilt.

“You know, you can come back,” he said softly, lifting Charles’ hand to brush over his temple.

Charles looked up in shock. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I… God, my defences are just shocking right now, I’m so sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry, Charles! I’ve said before, you’re welcome.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, looking up, deep blue glinting through black lashes. “I know it’s uncomfortable and intrusive, and--I just, your mind, it anchors me, I sometimes don’t even… I think my mind reaches out for yours without my intent.”

“I like it,” he shrugged. “I like the thought that I’m holding you in my mind. Protecting you.”

Charles stared at him for a moment, then surged forwards and kissed him, and their minds sank into each other at the same time. Charles sighed and went pliant in his arms, nuzzling into his neck, tendrils of thought twining around Erik’s, soft and peaceful.

“We’ll face it all together,” he said softly, stroking Charles’ hair, the strands matted with sand and sweat. “We’ll fight, and we’ll protect each other, and we won’t let anyone get away with treating us, or other mutants, like we’ve been treated. And we’ll face the consequences together, you hear? No more hiding the pain from me.”

Charles didn’t answer, but pressed even closer, clinging on, and in his mind Erik felt a whisper of yes, thank you, I love you. He smiled, and wrapped him in love.

#My writing #Consequences #cherik #Charles Xavier #Erik Lehnsherr #charles/erik #hurt/comfort #no beach divorce #alternate universe #canon divergence

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