Chapter Text
"We should make the night
but see your little light's alive."
-xxx-
June 29, 1951 - Belgium
The evening starts with very little promise of adventure. Charles Xavier, recently free of graduate school concerns with his doctorate studies on the near horizon, is glad for it. He's enjoyed a busy day in Brussels, one where his step-father's cavalcade of cohorts had convinced him to present his graduate thesis to a select group of geneticists. He'd accepted readily – Charles does like to hear himself talk – but it had required so much more standing in his very uncomfortable shoes.
Shoes that he removes at the earliest convenience, despite how fashionable his sister claims they are. He doesn't have spares on him, and they've already checked out of their rooms at the Metropole, so he holds them in two fingers and sneaks towards the valet in just his socks.
This same stylish sister, dressed in the height of fashion with a square-shoulder dark evening dress and contrast ermine shrug, sees his shoeless state when he joins her in the car, staring at him slack-jawed.
"Are you going to change into a frumpy shirt and one suspender?" Raven asks, appalled. "Or maybe take off your slacks and pull your underwear up to your nipples?"
"We're just going to the bed and breakfast, aren't we?" Charles mutters, smacking around his jacket pockets for his cigarette case. "I don't need shoes for eating and sleeping, do I?"
"Actually, yes you do," Raven says. "Papa says the dinner party's tonight."
"Dinner party -- tonight," Charles parrots, uncomprehending. "Oh, for fu --" He peers at the driver, briefly, sinking in his seat. The last thing he needs is it getting around that Dr. Marko's stepson has the uncouth mouth of a sailor. Not that Marko minds, because he indulges Charles anything. Such information does get back to his mother, and the idea of a strongly-worded letter from her is incentive enough to watch his mouth.
"Goodness sake. For goodness sake," Charles says. Then groans. "Oh, God, that means we won't be stopping at the inn first, then? I'll have to keep these bloody things on my feet?"
"Ex-actly. Y'know, Charles, for a guy who got into graduate school at sixteen, you can be pretty dim," Raven says, patting his hand tenderly. Her needling words are her highest form of affection, and Charles always knows he's in trouble with her when she stops tenderly insulting his intelligence. He knows he’s a genius -- only Raven really keeps him from floating away with a swollen head.
Right now, he's just an easy target. But he still isn't going to wear those damn shoes until the absolute last moment.
"Is it an indoor party?" Charles asks, hopeful.
"Nope," Raven says, studying the invitation. "Colonel Johann Leiden welcomes esteemed guests, Raven Darkholme Xavier and Charles Francis Xavier, to the enjoyment of an evening of outdoor refreshment in his hillside retreat, yadda yadda."
Spring is turning to summer, slowly and surely, and Charles knows that a night in these heat-swelling shoes and wool slacks may, indeed, kill him.
He says so: "I'm going to die tonight."
"Good," Raven says, folding the invitation and placing it in her handbag. "I'll get all your stuff. That's what the will says, right?"
"Ugh," Charles says. "I hate you."
Which isn't true, but he does resent her, a little -- she's going to be just fine, whatever the weather. She's made out of sturdier stuff than Charles, and that was a fact. Not for his lack of trying -- it simply isn't possible to match Raven's resilience. No human can, because Raven is not human at all. She's something more. She’s a mutant.
Well, so am I, but not like it's helping me right now. Charles puts his cheek flat on the window and shuts his eyes, letting the rocking car soothe him into a jerky little doze. It's not even worth smoking yet. He's only got a few left in his case, the rest of his carton in his luggage, and he's going to need them all to excuse himself from painful conversations with strangers.
Unless I want to bum some off of a handsome stranger, of course. That makes him laugh quietly at himself. All of these parties his father and his team of biologists have taken them to -- and indeed, most any high society event Charles has attended -- are packed with men nearly twice his age, at minimum. And the same men, half the time. A stagnant pool of dusty old cockerels.
Charles hopes this Leiden, a newly minted "patron of the sciences", will have brought in some new blood in -- preferably someone under the age of thirty. Attractive would be a bonus, but he's not been as picky as late as he should've been.
There are, occasionally, pretty daughters on hand, and they're always a joy to speak to even if women aren’t Charles’s preference. In fact, their very own Dr. Cavallo had gone earlier in the day to pick up his daughter Sabine, much to Raven's equal delight and distress. She knows Sabine from Charles's graduation a month prior, but she wants to know Sabine. Her anxiety is practically radiating off of her, and without looking, he reaches over and grasps her gloved hand.
It's all right, love, Charles says, but not out loud. His mutation may not help him against sweaty outdoor evenings and pinched shoes, but it's still a powerful gift. One that, by its nature, he can't utilize lightly. Speaking to Raven, mind-to-mind, is far from frivolous use, though. It keeps him sharp and aware of one person and one person alone, keeping himself back from diving too far, ignoring everyone else. And comforting her, when she needs it.
Thanks, baby. Raven squeezes his hand in return. You okay over there? You look really uncomfortable.
Closing my eyes feels amazing, Charles thinks. Maybe if I pass out...
You are not abandoning me! Raven thinks sharply, hitting his hand now. He draws it back to his lap, resuming his doze with a grin.
All too soon, the car jerks on an unpaved gravel road, and Charles blinks himself awake. He checks his watch and sees that he's apparently traveled twenty-five minutes into the future.
"Feel better?" Raven asks, while they sway comically in their seats as the car lurches down the road. Charles manages enough coordination to get a cigarette ready to light as soon as he's out the car.
"Everything except my feet," Charles reports, cigarette waggling in his mouth. "How's my hair?"
"Terrible," Raven says, and reaches to push Charles's side part into something resembling acceptable. "Oh, Lord, you really do need to tidy yourself up."
"Who’s even going to notice?" Charles mutters, picking at his collar. The car jerks to a halt in the parking lot, and they get out, Charles helping Raven as is proper. She adjusts her small hat, pushes up at her curls, then goes right into fixing Charles up with vague savagery as he attempts to light his cigarette around her arms.
She kicks his shin when he finally strikes a match correctly. "Your shoes," she hisses. “They're still in the car.”
"Shit," Charles says, turning back. He sighs. "I thought I was too comfortable."
When finally shoed and smoking, Charles gives Raven his arm as the two of them make from the tree-lined green to Colonel Leiden's soiree.
It is not very impressive. The house is all one storey, which is not on its own a terrible thing, but it cannot decide what century it wants its decor to be from. The Grecian columns and steps are fine, but immediately upon entering the foyer, the bizarre curling Baroque makes their clean lines look half-formed in comparison. Charles is loathe to judge, but he knows "new money" when he sees it, and he adjusts himself accordingly. People are going to want to impress him and Raven tonight, which is going to be a trial. But also -- perhaps -- there will be some new faces, like Charles has so desired.
A quick scan of the banquet room shows his prospects are quite dim. There are a few new faces in the crowd, though, and he supposes that if he can get a close look, he might luck out. That is, if he's got enough in him to work a man to get into bed with him. A dance he may not want to do with these shoes.
That is the problem, as always: Charles is queer, has known he’s been queer since he was eight, and being queer in the current political climate is always less than ideal. Not that it's ideal to begin with. He's incredibly rich, and so it provides him a degree of security. He's young-looking and pretty regardless of whatever fashion he’s not wearing, also in his favor. Yet he's not yet had any kind of encounter that's truly encouraged him to consider something more permanent. There's no way to experiment when your potential partners face possible persecution just by getting a thrill over an evening.
You see Sabine yet? Charles asks, gravitating towards where he smells food. He gives a few clusters of people a tight little smile, keeping his physical language set on “my shoes hurt and I am hungry, don’t talk to me”.
Not just yet, but I know she's coming, Glen told me, Raven thinks back. But I did find Papa.
The tone of her 'voice' says it all. Oh no, what's he done?
Nothing yet, Raven thinks, with the sweet roll of mental laughter. But you'd better get over here. He's a few sheets in.
Charles finds an ashtray to stub out his smoke, then navigates with great earnest towards where he senses Raven's presence. Indeed, she's bending near a chair not too far from the ballroom, a few tables from the banquet spread. In the chair is a balding man with a face that, while often jolly, is red with drink and a rather surly fighting spirit, though Charles and Raven were in no danger from that.
"I would have preferred the Metropole again," Dr. Kurt Marko says, soto voce, but not really. Raven and Charles both can hear him just fine.
"Papa," Raven says, squeezing his arm. "We don't need fancy."
"Fancy's not what I care for, mademoiselle," Dr. Marko huffs, wiping at his nose with a handkerchief. Charles and Raven exchange looks over his back, both of them fond. "This is -- we're in a den of vipers, I tell you! Vipers."
"Dad, please, stop besmirching the name of good, hard-working reptiles," Charles says, as he and Raven begin to escort him around towards the back of the massive, open room. There, they stop in tandem to fan Dr. Marko as they sit him down in a lounge chair.
"You're just trying to make sure I don't get into a fight," Dr. Marko mutters, folding his arms on the table, head drooping.
"Maybe a little, papa," Raven says, kissing his balding crown. "You did give that one man a shiner a few months back. Where was that?"
"Oxford," Charles says, folding his jacket over his arm. He adjusts his vest, making sure he looks neat in his dishabille state. It wasn’t white tie, after all. "Remember, they asked if I’d enter in the Spring semester instead of Fall?”
"Why the hell -- oh excuse me, Raven -- why in blazes did they do that again?"
Raven smothers her laughter behind her handbag.
"Because," Charles says, rubbing his father's shoulders, "they needed to make sure none of the tenured professors have a grudge for me having a hellion of a step-father. Don’t worry, I said no.”
"Oh, is that it! Cowards!" Dr. Marko wipes at his sweaty face with his kerchief. "Hoo, oh, it's rather hot in here?"
"It's why we moved you near the open windows, Papa," Raven says.
"You two need to go mingle," Dr. Marko mutters. "Didn’t you want to see her? Cavallo's little girl? Sabine? Not like you'd want to talk to that old fart, of course it's Sabine --"
"That old fart is one of your best friends, Dad," Charles reminds him, going to pour him a some water from one of the sweating glass pitchers near the open windows. "Come on, drink this."
"This," Dr. Marko says rather darkly, "is not whiskey, Charles."
"It's another fine drink that starts with 'w'," Charles says, "and I have it on high authority that most living beings require it to sustain life."
"It still isn't whiskey." Dr. Marko drinks anyway.
"Do you think it's safe to leave him there?" Raven asks, as they make their way back to the center of the ballroom.
"I think if we can point Doctors Lazlo or Green in his direction," Charles says, gesturing to the crowd. He couldn’t see either of them, but he knew they were there: their mental signatures stood out, familiar as they were to him. "They'll handle him."
"We're bad children," Raven says, fidgeting with her handbag. "But he's not wrong, I want to see Sabine.”
"Then go," Charles says, shoving at her gently.
"What about you?"
"I'll get a drink," he says, hands in his pockets, pushing himself up on his wing-tips and down again with a wince, because being cheeky in these damn things was suffering, "and see if I can't find another man closer to my age than to the grave."
"Good luck, baby boy," Raven says, tugging him close for a kiss on the cheek, then pushing him away just as abruptly.
It is true that another evening at Hotel Metropole would have been preferable, but Colonel Leiden's residence near the Brussels-Flanders border had been perfect for the conference's crowd to enjoy the country air and the promise of a few rounds of golf the next day, which most people enjoyed more than lectures about projected advancements in genetics and biological research methods. Charles hates golf, and would prefer the lectures, but he's already had a chance to present his paper, and so the conference isn't yet a complete loss. If they are sent home because of his step-father's fisticuffs, all the better for their entertainment.
There's very little here for Charles, though. The music is decent, provided by a live band towards the entrance near the kitchens and the private household. Close to the courtyard, music creaks out via a large, ornate gramophone that faces into the candle-lit patio area outside. Charles plucks a glass of wine from a passing waiter and strolls outside. He turns to truly look at the estate, now: long, flat, and hastily constructed after the war, Leiden's opulence is in its ostentatious decorations and not in the actual construction of the building. It won't last past his lifetime, Charles thinks, tipping back a good amount of very bland red wine. If it even lasts five years.
Everyone who needs to be fooled that Leiden is a man to impress, is. If they can afford not to impress him, well, they still get a few rounds of free golf and fresh wine. Even if it's shite, Charles decides as he drains his glass, it's still wine.
Leiden's fortune is in his sale of laboratory items, some recent manufactured, but with much of his bulk product coming from reclamation in war-torn areas. Dr. Marko swears he's just stolen everything because he's a "bleeding Nazi sympathizer", which Charles is inclined to believe. Seeing how lousy he is with money, how showy -- Charles doesn't doubt there's some kind of dirty money behind the gauche Cupid statues urinating into the main fountains and entire cratefuls of contraband luxuries spilling over the pavilion tables.
Their host is currently ensconced nearest the self-same hideous fountains, entertaining everyone with his gold-capped smile. He turns often to speak to someone at his side, to make sure they watch what he does next. That person is not, as Charles would have assumed otherwise, a woman, but a tall man in a sharply tailored pair of trousers and suit vest in contrast colors. The pinnacle of fashion. Unlike himself.
"Now, that's new..." Charles mutters, plucking a new wineglass from a nearby table, trying to get a better look at the man. He hasn't heard Colonel Leiden is a fairy, at least not from Dr. Glenda Green -- and she keeps him quite abreast of these things -- so this is a little strange. Maybe the man is part of some sort of displaced royalty and Leiden is doing a little song and dance to get access to someone else's money. Or --
-- maybe he's just young and beautiful. Charles feels his fingers tingle a little once he gets close enough to see Leiden's hanger-on. Tall, with dark, curling hair that's tucked artfully in a perfect side part. His mouth is curled in a lazy smile, his pale blue-green eyes well-lashed, watching Leiden with indulgent interest. His shoulders speak of strength, his posture speaks of culture, and his attentiveness to the Colonel's yammering speaks of trying to ensnare this idiot man for some piece of his fortune.
Charles feels his ears ring with annoyance. Someone stunning like that, trying to impress this bumbling nouveau riche?
"Oh, you finally saw him, good."
Raven materializes from behind him like a ghost; Charles nearly spills wine all over himself.
"Raven, for God's sake," Charles says, hand to his chest. "Where -- when did --"
"Sabine wants to come out for a -- stroll," Raven says, clearing her throat and arranging the tight curls of her hair. "She went to go powder her nose."
"Like she needs it," Charles says. He's recovered enough to rib her. "And what, you saw this fellow and you didn't tell me?"
"I wanted it to be a sur-prise, Charles," Raven says, pushing at his shoulder. "I see he hasn't let up trying to hop on Leiden's lap, though."
"Ugh," Charles says, wrinkling his entire face in disgust. The dark-haired man is oblivious, that sleepy smile on his face contented. "I'm much cuter, and richer. I think."
"He's got to take a piss some time tonight," Raven says, shrugging and pulling out a compact to check her lip lacquer. Which is to say, she makes sure her lips are just the way she wants them, no makeup required. She moves her finger on them like she's applying a balm, the slight blue flicker of her power making her lips just a shade darker. Charles, now slightly drunk, find this fascinating, squinting at her finger.
"What? You've seen me do this. Anyway, as I was saying --"
"Something about him pissing, yes," Charles says, hands behind his back. He shakes his head, curls flopping free in his face. "Well, shall I go accost him a little in the toilets? That goes well for me."
"Ohhh, yeah," Raven says, rolling her eyes. She tries to adjust Charles’s hair again, to some success. "You know what I mean. Grab him before he gets back out there with Colonel I Deal In Stolen War Spoils. Give him a drink, have a smoke with him." Raven bumps their hips together. "Try for once, you egghead."
"I can achieve great things," Charles says, digging in his pocket now for his cigarette tin, drawing one out and tapping it sharply, "if I am not trying to date people within two decades of my age group."
"That is still so sad, and so gross," Raven says, patting his cheek. "Come on, Cupid. Aim for the stars. And," she touches her finger to her temple briefly, "give me a sign if he wants to end up taking you out for a stroll, huh?"
"I will, darling," Charles says.
He lingers on the patio a big longer, watching the handsome stranger long after Raven has left his side. Charles has decided to drink some water, not entirely desiring of a hangover, and he wants a chance to drink with the stranger. If the stranger ever disengages with the Colonel.
It doesn't seem to be happening any time soon, though, and Charles finds himself oroperly hungry. He trails back up the stairs where the party inside is dying down. There's still food to pick at, and he finds his fill in cheeses and grapes, glad for something recognizable -- he isn't sure he wants to take a chance on the unopened tins of Russian caviar. Once he's had his fill, he finds himself tired, disinterested in the hunt he was on. Not tonight, I suppose.
Until the stranger walks from the patio into the open ballroom, all fine tailored lines and chiseled features, and Charles grabs the nearest glass of wine to sip, watching Leiden's far-too-attractive hanger-on make his way towards the study area. He’d noticed the study has its own set of private balconies that overlook the small lake on the property, and the hills beyond it. He waits for ten antsy minutes to allot the stranger a few moments alone, but Charles knows that if he doesn't impose now, he's not going to get the chance later. He also tells himself he's not going to read the man on purpose, whatever else. It spoils the fun, and when he's drinking, Charles has to make the decision between shielding his mind from the world around him and using his powers. The former is paramount in unknown places.
The balcony the stranger has chosen is the one furthest away from all the noise. He is bent in perfect lines over the balustrade, cigarette in one hand, an empty tumbler in the other, ice melting. He doesn't startle when Charles comes up beside him, but he does seem mildly surprised that anyone has followed him here.
"Good evening," Charles says, placing the wine beside the stranger's elbow. "I thought I'd join you away from the maddening crowd."
"Don't you mean, 'I hope I'm not imposing'?" the stranger asks. It's a friendly little challenge, said mildly, his light eyes scanning Charles from head to toe.
"Why for? I bloody well am imposing," Charles says, grinning, raising his glass. "I would've brought something stronger, but it's easier to get my hands on these."
The stranger chuckles. He turns around to accept the glass, sips it.
"Swill," he says, still mild.
"He has a good bottle or two in the study, I bet,” Charles says, looking back. "Maybe I should grab that?"
The stranger's brows lift. "You --"
"Oh, we can switch the bloody labels," Charles says, wagging a hand.
"I think stealing from the Colonel's own study while we are guests in his house is a bit gauche."
Here we go. Test the waters. See if he’s so in with Leiden that he’ll balk at a little politics. You're Dr. Marko's boy, after all. Charles leans against one of the wood-carved pillars, tilting his head so his wayward curls fall just so in his face, free from the pomade. With the right angle in this kind of light -- sconces, with real fire -- and he knows he can look quite charming.
"Between you and I," Charles says, "that study's more full of things the Colonel's stolen himself. I think filching some of his wine isn't amiss, on that account."
"Ah," the stranger says, tilting his head to the other side. His expression betrays nothing. "So, we do good, by doing a similar but less avaricious act?"
"Oh, I'm not saying we'd be doing good at all, friend, only that he's not one that should point fingers at thieves," Charles says, lifting his wine glass to his mouth, "and we deserve to be drinking better wine."
The man blinks at Charles a few times, a strange curve of his well-formed mouth, as if he's not sure what he's just heard. He laughs then, surprisingly light, and then sips the wine again.
"Cheers, then," he says, and holds his hand out. The shake is firm, and Charles makes sure to return in kind. "Erik."
"Erik, a pleasure. Charles Xavier."
"Charles," Erik repeats, drawing back. “The name’s familiar. You’re with the scientists, then."
"'Scientists first, specialists second'," Charles says brightly. "As Dr. Cavallo would say. We are a motley crew, yes?"
"From all around the world," Erik says. "What are you, a faithful lab assistant?"
"No, Dr. Marko's step-son," Charles says, "and, well, yes, an assistant. For now. I'm starting my doctorate tract next year."
"Aren't you coming up in the world," Erik murmurs, a bit of a jibe, but friendly enough. "You're a little young. yes?"
"I'm old enough to get a man drinks on a balcony without worrying about too much of a scandal," Charles says.
"And so bold, too."
"Yes," Charles says, and plucks his unlit cigarette from behind his ear. "Do you have a light?"
The man leans over. Up close, Charles can see the curl of his lips, and a thrill goes through him as the man touches the cherry of his cigarette to light Charles's own. It's a very intimate gesture, but Charles is steady despite his sudden onset of butterflies.
"Thank you," Charles says, inhaling the fragrant tobacco. "Ah, God. I really did need a smoke."
"You've been abandoned, haven't you?" Erik says after a moment of silence, leaning easily against the rail again. "You need someone to talk to."
"Well, not abandoned," Charles says, laughing softly. "You're the only other person here close to my age group. Perhaps I'm looking for a bit of solidarity, eh?"
"Well, if you were concerned about that," Erik says, still politely condescending, "maybe you shouldn't have been so very eager to finish your studies at a very early age. There aren't many eighteen-year-olds in a doctorate track, I don't think."
"Nineteen in a month, and yes, I'm aware." Charles wags his cigarette between his lips as he’s wont to do, speaking through it. "You guessed close. Most people think I'm much younger."
"You didn't seem to be anyone's pet project, if you catch my meaning," Erik says.
"I have my own pet projects, I don't have time for anyone's affairs but mine."
"Ah, but that blond you're with?"
Charles's face flushes. "You mean, the woman? My sister."
"Sister," Erik says. He sounds appreciative, which is not at all what Charles wants out of this exchange. Oh, Charles, you idiot, of course he doesn't actually like men. Leiden is a mark he's just willing to go all the way for.
That, he shoves away before he loses his nerve. No, if this Erik fellow is willing to get fucked by Colonel Leiden for gain, he could make an exception for someone far more pretty and charming: himself. Charles passes a hand over his head to adjust his curls, to let another one loose.
"I'm usually driving people towards her, it's true," he sighs, looking forlornly in the direction of the gardens. "I have a routine that works well, like clockwork. Though I dare say you won't be running to her; she's occupied for the night."
"Oh, no," Erik says, chuckling and turning around to lean backwards against the railing. "I've got to hear what you intentionally do to make people avoid you."
"It's not just that," Charles says, honestly a bit hurt. "I just start to talk about my studies, is all. They get a bit bored after a while."
"So the repellent isn't your sugary charm," Erik murmurs. He finishes off his wine. "Or your bold impositions."
Charles's mouth pinches slightly. Erik is not pleased with Charles interrupting him, though he is being polite enough around the barbs. It's not that Charles hasn't suffered this kind of roadblock before. He takes a breath, deciding to barrel through.
"Let's begin -- could you come into the light? I'd like to see you."
Erik's brow lifts, and he shrugs, as if to himself, and then steps into the light shining from the balcony doorway. Charles reaches up and very, very delicately, touches one of the slightly loose hairs from Erik's careful coiffed 'do.
"Yes, yes. Your hair. Very subtle, but I can see it -- it's auburn, isn't it? Just a touch of it." Charles grins, stepping back and passing a hand over his chin, feeling the very subtle shadow forming at the end of the day. "My hair -- dark brown through and through, but: my whiskers grow in ginger. It means you and I are part of a rather select club."
"Oh?" Erik looks almost interested.
"Yes," Charles says. "You and I, friend, are mutants."
This is the line that perplexes most people -- they are either intrigued or offended. It's clear Erik is an outlier in this data set: he goes utterly, completely still at what Charles says, and his handsome face goes dangerously blank for a moment before resolving itself in something resembling amusement again.
"Are we now," Erik says.
"Your hair, my whiskers -- they're all different levels of the mutation of the MC-1R gene," Charles goes on, his heart hammering, and not in a pleasant way. He's glad he has this entire thing memorized. "Our blue eyes, too -- a corruption of the HERC2 gene. You and I are part of a proud history of deviations in the human genetic code, the very stuff that took us from single-celled organisms to what we are today."
"Ah," Erik says. He seems to be forcing himself to relax now, though his jaw is still tense. Charles knows it has to have been the word -- "mutant" -- that had put him on alert.
"Well, well, there you are," Charles says. He's playing it off as if he's sensed annoyance, rather than what was clearly on Erik's face: menace, danger. He doesn't need psychic powers to understand that. "See, I told you it runs people off to my sister. I mean, it's true, the logic's sound and so's the science.”
Capitulating seems to bring a bit of softness to the surface of Erik's face, but only for a flickering moment. It does, however, put his guard back down a fraction, which takes all the tiger-like tension with it. He steps away from the light, taking his wine glass in hand.
"Well, I'm just driven to drink," Erik says. "You said you know where a bottle is in this study?"
"We can certainly look."
If Charles held hope for a good tumble, he's certainly had it dashed now. I should've known better, he thinks, easily picking out the most likely place for a hidden stash of alcohol, finding spirits rather than wine. Erik is busy looking at the man's desk, curious about a few drawers, finding a few locked and looking rather perplexed at them. Charles makes to rub his temple, planning to skim Erik's mind for a brief idea of what kind of hard liquor he preferred for one last-ditch attempt at --
Ne jouons pas ce jeu --
I wonder how long it will take for you to lose consciousness from blood loss? Of course, I could make it stop
JE VEUX SCHMIDT
EIN
You can either tell me now, and I make it easy, or you can die very slowly. The choice is
-- tou ce reste de mon peuple
ZWEI
Truly, I have all night, but I'd give you only a
OÚ EST-IL
Johann Leiden now, is it? It's a bit far from Otto Richter. Oh, I do I remember hi
DREI
VOUS NE SAVEZ PAS?
You have been very kind with your time. I will certainly keep my end of the --
Charles stumbles forward at the memory-sensation of a gunshot, hitting his thigh against the side of Leiden's desk. It is certain to bruise, he knows it, but right now, all he can feel is the rolling nausea and the absolute, unmitigated terror that comes with seeing what he has now seen. More than one man, splayed out before the knife, begging for their lives, bleeding, or dead. And then the intent to do it again, tonight: the sight of Colonel Leiden, tied up, naked and spread eagle and being gutted like a fish.
"Charles?"
Erik is poised at the desk. He's got a true look of concern on his face, as one might for a dog that's suddenly began acting strangely. Charles straightens up, blinking rather dramatically to hide the fact he's almost in tears, out of breath in the sudden onset of panic.
"Bent down a bit too quick," he says, wiping at his face with a clumsy grin. "Maybe I've had a bit too much."
Erik smiles in a manner that might've made Charles twitterpated only five minutes ago, but now just fills him with dread. He's got such a pretty face, Charles thinks, and such a violent, frightening mind.
"Maybe you have," Erik says. "Well, look, why don't I walk you to ballroom, Charles. I think both of us know how the night's going."
"Oh, I'm aware," Charles says, making a wince of a smile, hoping it looks embarrassed rather than an ape's fear-grin. "You've been quite kind to me."
"There is no need to be cruel to honest enthusiasm," Erik says, taking Charles's empty wine glass. "Come, let's go."
"I'll be right behind you," Charles says, and lets Erik leave on his own before collapsing beside the desk to catch his breath and calm his mind. To his relief, Erik does not return to find him.