CHARLES XAVIER SPRAWLING IN HIS THRONE
Dare we hope for a touch of angry dark Charles? PLEASE.
I want dark, angry, pissed off Charles.
It’s a stare-down. Even Darwin can’t predict who’s going to win this one. Erik has all those years of anger built up in him like a wall, but Charles has his pain, too, more of it than Erik’s probably even let himself consider.
If it weren’t for that damn helmet of Erik’s… but that helmet’s still there, solid, a weight that bears down heavy on all of them. Darwin could probably snatch it off him, could make them talk to each other instead of staring past what’s real and shoring up behind their shields and barriers and the emotional moats they’re both too damn stubborn to put a bridge over, but it wouldn’t last. Charles has to choose to reach out; Erik has to choose to let him.
“I suppose it’s too much to hope for that you’re here to apologize,” Charles says.
If Erik flinches, the helmet hides most of it.
“We can discuss our apologies later,” Erik returns. “We’ve got bigger problems than the ones between the two of us… my friend.”
Charles turns his wheelchair around and heads back toward the ramp at the front of the mansion. When Erik stays rooted to the spot, Charles stops, turning to look over his shoulder, over the backrest on his chair.
“Are you coming? My friend,” Charles calls.
Even Darwin winces at the sound of that. But Erik raises his hands slightly to his sides, his palms facing Charles, his hands spread, and he comes up into the air, floating along— showing off, maybe, but it works. Charles’s angry expression falters for a moment.
It’s back on his face and back in the set of his shoulders before he gets inside, but it’s enough to build on. Darwin hopes to hell they build on it.