Chapter 11…
Hank McCoy was a smart guy. It was the one thing he was certain about—he could analyze problems and uncover solutions. As he stood in the center the debris that had been Charles' bedroom, however, not one solid hypothesis would surface.
Erik had kidnapped Charles. Hank had heard Charles' telepathic call for help. So had Alex and Sean. None of them made it there in time.
Charles' physical therapy clinic had already called several times already, inquiring about missed appointments. With each call, the woman on the other end sounded more displeased; she insisted Charles needed help.
Closing a hand around the end of Charles' bed frame, Hank released a small growl. Erik had entered their lives at the least opportune time. How wonderful it would be to offer the other man the same inconvenience.
"Hank," Sean called from the bedroom's entrance, "any luck yet?"
Tapping his claws on the bed frame, Hank sniffed the air. It wasn't the first time he'd done so over the last two days. He didn't recognize the scent, but it was sweet. And strong. And he knew whatever it had been, it had rendered Charles unconscious within seconds.
Chloroform was the only practical conclusion.
It still didn't answer the real question here—why on earth would Erik abduct Charles in the first place?
Stepping away from the bed frame, Hank walked to the only other piece of furniture that hadn't been demolished by Erik's powers or Sean's sonic scream—the nightstand. Charles' medications were missing, leaving only the lamp and an empty bottle of scotch on the oak surface.
Dropping to the edge of bed, Hank snatched up the bottle.
Sean wandered into the room. Making his way to Hank's side, he reached out and took the bottle from him. "I thought he was doing all right, you know. I mean, he seemed like he was doing all right, all this time."
Hank sighed. "That's what he wanted you to believe."
Brushing a hand across his furry blue head, Hank studied the room again. Other than the trace of chloroform in the air, Erik had left no other clues. He hadn't even busted the front door to the mansion; he simply twisted the lock with his mind like he didn't want to inconvenience anyone.
Shaking his head, Hank stood. He turned towards the door to leave—a light caught him. It was tiny, like a weak flashlight that was barely capable of clearing any darkness away. A nightlight, glimmering inside Charles' bathroom.
Hank twisted back around. He stepped beside the bathroom's door, and crept it open. Inside, the room was completely altered for Charles' needs. A shower bench sat in the tub; the cabinets under the sink were gone. Latex gloves rested behind the toilet and grab bars were installed on the walls.
To the right was a small linen closet. Hank opened it. Inside was an array of medical equipment—catheters, medicine bottles, disinfectant solution, and other items Charles required.
"What is it?" Sean asked as he peeked inside.
Hank stared at all the items. Charles needed each one. He needed them everyday. Most people wouldn't think of that. Not even someone as clever as Erik.
"We need to start doing a search," Hank finally said as he faced Sean.
The other man tipped his head like Hank was trying to communicate through hand signals.
"Of what?" the other man finally asked.
Hank motioned his head to the linen closet. "Medical supplies. Medicine—equipment. All bought on the same day. Everything someone would need if they suddenly had a paraplegic guest staying at their house."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
In the distance, the island base was just a speck in the ocean. Magneto stood on the foredeck of the Cassandra—one of Shaw's older yachts where he and his band of mutants had relocated—peering out. The Pacific Ocean appeared as wide as the sky above it. The day was sunny, warm and ungodly humid. The ocean breezed whiffs of salt into the air. If someone had been watching him and his fellow mutants, they'd assume they were vacationing.
The only contrast to that image was the bulky red helmet on Magneto's head. Underneath it, Magneto's expression was set in stone. His eyes were as sharp as razors. Tensions were high that day, as the day before it. The other mutants were waiting to see what Charles would do…or not do.
Everyone was already sick of the latter.
Magneto had visited his old friend several times already. He had gotten Charles the items he needed—shirts, pants, a sheet of sheep skin, catheters, and other items Magneto would have never considered. Charles also wanted a wristwatch, but Magneto refused that. Taking away a sense of time would better motivate his friend to get this nonsense over with.
Underneath him, the Cassandra rocked gently to and fro. Such a peaceful moment—a shame it couldn't last. Throwing a look to the bright red man stationed at the yacht's helm, Magneto gave a nod.
With that, the other man vanished into fog. He materialized a heartbeat later beside Magneto. And then both men disappeared, leaving the other mutants to bake in the sun.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
At the base's dining room table, Charles kept his fingers to his temple. His left arm was tired, his hand almost numb. He had been sitting that way for hours, stretching his telepathy as far as it could reach and trying to snag onto something out in the world.
Unfortunately, the world was a void. He might as well have been on the moon, trying to wave back to Earth and hoping someone would spot him.
The only exception was a single ship floating a few miles away. But it was Erik's ship and Emma Frost was onboard. Charles couldn't even get a read on the others mutants there—if there were any. Every time he tried, it was like a glass door being shut in his face and all he could see through it was her.
Charles shook his head. Not powerful enough to handle Cerebro—he doubted that.
There was a shift. It flashed near the outskirts of the island, and as soon as Charles felt it, he shot out his telepathy. It only took him a millisecond to find the source. Before he could lock on, however, the presence was gone.
With a groan, Charles dropped his arm to the table.
Azazel.
The teleporter was fast—just a touch faster than Charles' telepathy—and it was always random. Sometimes, he teleported just fifty feet from the base and others, as fas a quarter mile where the island met ocean. Making certain Charles didn't catch a pattern, it seemed.
Despite where the teleporter landed, there was only one reason he visited the island at all. He was transporting Erik. On that thought, Charles straightened up. He threw a look at the base's entrance.
He waited.
As the base's door opened by itself several minutes later, Charles tensed in his chair like someone was approaching him with a needle. Cape gliding behind him, Erik stepped inside, and then the door shut with a clap of metal against stone.
The other man found Charles, and, under his helmet, he snorted. "Exactly where I left you," Erik commented and marched up the stairs. The metal fencing separated, and linked together as he passed. "Still trying to use your telepathy, I've been told. I would point out that it's a waste of effort, but…" he sighed as he sat at the table, "I don't think you'd listen to me." Reclining, Erik pulled out a box of candy and popped one in his mouth. Spearmint whiffed through the air.
Charles glared at him, his teeth clenched together.
Erik only grinned at that. "You don't pull off menacing well, my friend. Perhaps if you had red skin or beastly teeth—"
"Take me home, Erik."
"Are those the only four words you know?"
"Take me home now, Erik."
"That's not any better."
The men locked eyes. Without lifting his hand, Charles focused his telepathy towards Erik's helmet. If he could simply find a chink in that armor—
"Stop doing that," Erik said as he brought another mint to his lips.
Charles blinked. "What?"
"Stop trying to reach my mind. I recognize that look, Charles. If Emma can't penetrate this helmet after six months, I imagine you won't figure it out anytime soon."
With that, Charles stopped concentrating and huffed out a breath. Both men grew silent again. Leaning back, Erik rolled the candy around in his mouth and tried to act as if he had all the time in the world.
His expression greatly contrasted the one he had sported when Charles first refused to use Cerebro. It was like flipping a switch, and with that thought, a touch of anxiety jabbed Charles' gut. Erik wouldn't intentionally harm him, but what Charles considered harmful might not match Erik's definition. As much as he hated to admit it, Erik possessed the control.
On that thought, Charles lowered his gaze to the table. "How's Raven?" he asked.
Erik stopped popping mints. After a second, he replied, "She's fine, Charles. She's grown up quite a bit these last few months."
"Does she know I'm here?"
Again, Erik hesitated. He dumped the box of candy to the table, looking as if he was considering something. Then… "No. She doesn't."
"Why? You think she'd disapprove?"
"I believe she would."
"Doesn't that tell you something?"
Erik smirked. "It tells me that she still needs to learn that not everything in life is as simple as right and wrong."
"And yet, here's a perfect example of it," Charles said. "Bringing me here against my will is wrong—taking me home this instant would be right. Simple, yes?"
"You would like to think that, wouldn't you?"
"I already know that, Erik."
The other man shook his head; the conversation was over. Erik leaned back in his chair again, and brought his eyes to Charles again. They were the same eyes Charles recalled from the weeks before Cuba. Strong. Determined. But angry. And under that anger, Charles knew, lingered a deep, icy pain—almost as old as the man himself and just as intense as his cool, sharp stare.
Charles' heart sank a little. There was so much potential—so much more to Erik than the man even knew about himself. But he believed he was simply a weapon now, only as good as any other weapon and only capable of the same talent. Destruction.
And yet Erik just sat there, gazing at him.
If Erik was just a weapon—just set out for his own conquests—then he wouldn't be sitting at all. He would have dragged Charles to the other side of the room. He would have strapped Cerebro on his head and activated the machine like he was switching on a lamp. He would have tortured Charles until he complied.
Instead, Erik simply sat, waiting.
On that thought, the fear inside Charles soothed some.
Erik remained at the base the rest of the day. Neither man said hardly more than two words to each other, permitting the tension to cool, letting the slight hum of the lights above offer the only sound as the hours passed and daylight shifted to darkness.
End of Chapter