Chess Problems
I. En passant
The boy is shabby and thin, looking around the train station like he's lost; that's nothing out of the ordinary, these days, but there's something about his the intensity of his stare that makes Charles stop and watch him.
"Come on, Charles," his mother says impatiently.
"I'll sit down while you get the tickets," he says.
"Just sit right there while I get the tickets," she says, and hurries off toward the ticket window. That's been happening a lot, lately. It's almost uncanny.
Charles walks through the crowd toward the boy who's looking at the train like it's a thing he could reach out and pick up in his hand. The boy reaches out his ungloved hand and brushes two fingers against the metal.
"Are you lost?" Charles asks.
The boy shakes his head. "Train," he says. Charles doesn't think he speaks much more English than that. He holds out his ticket, and Charles looks at it. He's on the right platform. Charles nods encouragingly.
The boy unfolds another piece of paper. On it is printed very neatly JACOB LEHNSHERR, and an address in Chicago. He's a refugee, going to his ... uncle? Cousin? Charles can't be sure. He's not sure how he knows at all.
"Good luck," Charles says, hoping the meaning will trickle back in the other direction.
The boy smiles, his blue eyes bright.
Charles wishes he had more time. There's the sense he's been having on and off lately of something important about people he meets, a missed connection.
"Charles," his mother says from behind him, and Charles turns guiltily.
"I was helping him find his platform," he says. Her frown fades. Charity to the less fortunate is an acceptable reason for talking to shabby strangers.
"Hurry up, now," she says. "We'll miss the ten o'clock."
"I heard people saying there's going to be a war in Europe," Charles says as they hurried down the platform, ducking around businessmen and families on vacation and a few other badly-dressed immigrants clutching tickets like talismans.
"Of all the things to worry about right now," his mother says helplessly.
"I was just thinking about the boy back there."
"You can't be responsible for everyone," his mother says, and Charles supposes she's right.
II. Castling (king side)
"It's still not right," Erik says, frowning at the mirror.
Charles can only see the slightest bit of stiffness in his movements when he walks. "It's fine."
"No, it's not. People will be able to tell."
"It'll take practice."
Erik frowns. "I suppose." He turns from the mirror and walks back over to Charles. Charles glances down at the cuffs of Erik's trousers, making sure there's no steel showing. He wouldn't care, but he knows Erik does.
"You're going to have to be careful," he says. "You won't know if you're getting blisters or cutting off your circulation."
"Don't lecture me," Erik says, brittle tension under the words. He'd put his arms around Erik, but he doesn't think Erik would let him. He sits down on the bed, and after a moment's hesitation Erik sits next to him. It's an artificially smooth motion that ends in too-sudden stillness, but he doesn't think anyone but him would notice.
"You can't wear the braces all the time."
"I'm not wearing them all the time."
"You slept in them last night."
"I was working. I fell asleep."
"Even when you can't walk, you're not helpless."
"If you're going to play psychoanalyst, shouldn't I lie down on the couch?"
"You're not being fair."
"Being crippled isn't fair."
"Erik," Charles says, and rests his hand on Erik's back. Erik lets him, which is a good sign. He strokes in idle circles, and Erik closes his eyes.
"I shouldn't need them," Erik says. "There's iron in blood. If I could just see how to do it--" He frowns, determined to control his own body like a clockwork toy.
"Maybe you will. In time." Charles slows the rhythm of his touch, willing Erik to patience, to acceptance of gravity and the limitations of his damaged body. After a while he shifts around to kiss Erik, and Erik lets him, but his back goes tense.
Erik's thoughts are a roiling mass of shame and frustration, and Charles doesn't dare calm him too obviously. He puts more intensity into the kiss, and Erik grips his arm tightly and pushes him away. "I don't want to."
"You do," Charles says. "And you don't."
"This isn't fair ," Erik says.
Charles kisses him again, and Erik leans into the kiss with a sense of surrender. Erik is far too aware of how this feels wrong, angry at the failure of his body to do what he still expects.
Charles wraps his mind around Erik, projecting his own sensations as Erik's hand slides lower. He's found that frightens Erik less than creating the illusion of sensation for him. At least it makes them argue less afterwards.
It's oddly awkward to focus this much on his own pleasure rather than losing himself in someone else's, but Erik is there, and that makes it all right. He can feel Erik's pulse beating faster under his hands and taste the faint sheen of sweat on his throat until Erik slides down to use his fingers and his mouth to best effect.
The orgasm is intense, and Erik shudders and swallows, pulling away and rolling over. Charles breathes raggedly, trying not to push Erik out of his mind so he can feel the sensations of fading arousal.
There's a wet patch on Erik's trousers. He'll have to undress, and that's still painfully awkward, whether Charles watches or doesn't.
"Let me," Charles says. Charles unfastens his trousers and slides them and his underwear down, making sure his hands linger enough to make it sex, not caretaking.
Erik lies back, his eyes closed, naked from the waist down except for the bands of steel wrapped around his legs and hips. They're lined with cotton, but it doesn't expand when Erik changes their shape; Charles can see places where bare metal is rubbing angry red lines against Erik's skin.
"Erik," Charles says, but he doesn't tell him to take them off, even though he knows that Erik's dreams will be of cages.
III. Late opening
Charles wakes up sweating and bites his lip not to cry out. The nightmares are getting worse. He reaches for the bedrail and wrestles himself up and into the wheelchair, rolling into the bathroom to splash water on his face and stare at the dark circles under his eyes in the mirror.
He tells the dreams to his therapist every week, and draws the obvious connections: the barbed-wire fences around the prison are his resentment of the new limitations on his life, the medical torture is the lingering horror of his injuries and the weeks he spent in the hospital, his furious struggle to survive is his own life instinct asserting itself in dreams.
He can't explain the grief. More than once he's woken up crying, his pillow wet and his face hot. His therapist has made the obvious suggestion, but he doesn't think he's crying for himself.
He makes himself coffee at the low counter in the kitchen. There is a coffee shop downstairs that would deliver coffee and pastries, but there is more satisfaction in making his own coffee and toasting his own stale bagel and washing his own cup out afterwards, setting it neatly upside down by the sink. He never knew how precious his independence was until he thought it had been taken away.
It is still possible to live alone, with the aid of a cleaning woman and an occasional aide and weekly grocery delivery. It will still be possible to teach, but the semester is half over, and he has been informed by the dean that his presence in the classroom will not be required until spring. There is no point in returning to his laboratory until he has a student assistant to reach things on high shelves.
He retrieves the newspaper from outside the apartment door and tries to read. The noise in the apartment is distracting. The walls look sturdy enough, but they must be paper-thin. Every scrap of conversation carries, and every argument, and every noise of wordless pleasure or grief.
It's not really noise. He knows that. He never used to question the truth of this thing he has, this knowledge. He knows it's real. He's trusted it since he was ten years old.
And yet he's sat in his therapist's office and been afraid to say the words: I hear voices in my head. I think I know what other people are thinking.
He knows how it will sound. An imagined compensation, a way to make himself special rather than a handicapped college professor who goes to bed alone with the television on. He doesn't think it will help to say that he's always heard the voices, ever since he was a small child.
He doesn't think he can stand to be crazy. He doesn't have that much pride left.
After breakfast he goes out for the sake of going out. He browses through a bookstore, although their selection on science is limited and their literature only slightly less so. He buys books and has them sent back to the apartment, knowing that he's bought far too many books lately. He'll have to see if any of the used bookstores will come and take some away.
When he gets back to his building, there is a sign on the elevator saying it is out of order. He stops, looking at the sign, willing no one to see him looking at the sign, wondering what to do. This is a minor disaster. His apartment is on the third floor. Even with help, there is no way to get the chair up the stairs. There is nowhere to wait but the coffee shop or the small Thai restaurant next door, both of which are crowded with tables and people; he is not sure he can even get in the door. He hates the idea of approaching the doorman and asking when the repairman will arrive, and thereby becoming a problem.
A dark-haired man approaches the elevator and scowls at the sign. Charles has seen him before, heading off to work early and coming home late. He is wearing an old-fashioned hat, and it occurs to Charles that he might be older than Charles has always thought. His hair is lightly brushed with gray at the temples, and there are lines at the corners of his mouth.
He presses the button for the elevator.
"It's out of order," Charles says. The man looks at him. He has pale blue eyes the color of the winter sky.
"It will work," he says. "Are you going up?"
Charles starts to say with some irritation that he has less faith in the miraculous healing of elevators, but the lights above the elevator are lighting, and the elevator is descending. The doors open smoothly, without even their usual jerky hesitation.
The last thing he wants is to be stuck in an elevator, but the man's confidence is clear and intriguing. Besides, he will not be able to live with himself if he has grown too fearful to take this small a chance.
"Yes, I'm going up," he says.
There is something familiar about the man. Charles feels the itch of curiosity as the elevator rises, and knows that if he does not speak he will lose the chance. He's not even sure whether it's really intellectual curiosity or a more personal sort of interest. His therapist tells him he's been repressing his sexual feelings because of his discomfort with his body, which might account for his inappropriate interest in this stranger.
The bell rings for the third floor. Charles realizes he has run out of time for self-analysis.
"Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?" he asks.
The man sits awkwardly on the edge of the sofa while he makes the coffee. There are enough possible reasons for the awkwardness that Charles can't decide which one he thinks is most likely. "I'm Charles Xavier, by the way," he says, feeling rude not to have said it already.
"Erik Lehnsherr," the man says.
Charles drops the coffee cup. It shatters on the floor. He can hear the voice in his dreams calling Erik! as they drag her away. He turns to look at the man, who has stood up at the noise, and knows what he would see if he grasped his hand and pushed up his sleeve. He has seen the blue numbers etched on his own skin in dreams.
"It's all right," Charles says. "Just let me clean this up." He realizes after he's said it that he can't, not easily. He will have to get a dustpan with a long handle. He takes a deep breath. "Actually, if you wouldn't mind ..."
"Of course not," Erik says, and looks around for the broom.
In the dreams, Charles remembers cold steel yielding in his hands like clay. He wonders if that's true, too. It feels true, and if he can trust the dreams ... He takes a deep breath, trying not to let his excitement show. Erik is terribly cautious. He's only here because a man in a wheelchair can't be much of a threat. He will have to take care not to show Erik anything that might frighten him away.
He knows this isn't fair. He knows too much about Erik, more than he should know about an old friend, let alone someone he's just met. It's an unfair advantage, and he knows he can't throw it away. It's taken him all these years to find someone who might be like him.
"Do you play chess?" Charles asks, knowing the answer even before Erik turns, the first light of interest in his eyes.
IV. Castling (queen side)
"Charles," Erik says, his hand on the back of Charles's chair. Charles doesn't think he means it as the threat it feels like. He has no way to leave the house if Erik will not let him go. The chair is metal, and for that matter so is his car.
"Yes, Erik," he says, his voice pleasant, as though he expects Erik to ask him to pick up groceries while he's out.
"I won't let you do this."
Charles turns the chair to face him. Erik lets him do that, at least. "Won't you?"
"Where will you go?"
"Back to New York. I'll let you know where when I'm settled."
"What about Cerebro?"
"For all I care, Erik, you can throw it out with the trash."
Erik suddenly looks as though Charles has slapped him. "You'll change your mind," he says, but he still looks shaken. The hard lines of his face are not as sure.
"I will not. No one should have that kind of power."
"We need the power."
"We do not need a machine that could kill every human on the planet."
"It's hardly the only machine that can do that these days."
"Do you think that makes me feel better about it? Do you think I like having my own personal equivalent of nuclear holocaust in the basement?"
"And what about the power here?" Erik says, tapping one finger lightly at his temple. "You can't turn yourself off."
"I could if I had to," Charles says.
Erik's face hardens again in something that isn't entirely anger. "No, Charles. Promise me."
"Or you will what? Keep me here as your prisoner?" Charles relents enough to provide Erik the reassurance he is silently screaming for. "I'm not suicidal, Erik. Just determined not to play God."
"Fine," Erik says after a silence. "Go spend some time in the city. Rest. We'll talk in a few weeks."
"I'll call you when I'm ready to talk," Charles says.
"Will you?" Erik's expression is bleak now. "Will you ever?"
"I don't know."
"If you don't call, Jean will try to find you."
"Keep her out of Cerebro, Erik."
"You're not her teacher anymore."
"She's my daughter," Charles says. It's true in every way that matters. "Please don't risk her life just because you're angry at me."
"Real parents do not abandon their children."
"But sometimes they can't protect them."
"I will protect her."
"From humans with guns, I'm sure you will. But will you protect her from that thing in the basement? Will you protect her from herself?"
"The monsters are out there, Charles. Not here in this house."
"I'm not so sure," Charles says. His chair trembles as if in a high wind. All around him, metal creaks. He waits to find out what will happen next.
V. Mate
"I'm not sure this is a good idea," Jean says. She is sitting on a park bench playing nervously with a cup of coffee while he sits beside her, tossing crumbs of her uneaten pastry to the pigeons.
"Neither am I, but try to look sure," Charles says without changing expression. "Our guests are approaching."
He can see them from across the park, a man in a dark overcoat and hat and a taller, younger man with red sunglasses. Jean looks at the younger man, her face calm, but Charles can feel her emotions flickering like banked fire. Last time they fought, he broke her arm. The time before that, he saved her life. Her feelings for him are complex.
"Charles Xavier, I presume," the older man says. His voice is dark and rich, more so than Charles has imagined. He is older than he looked in dreams. He is looking at Charles with interest and what might be a hint of amusement. Charles suspects that his astral self has hair.
"Magneto, I presume," Charles says. "This is Jean Grey."
"I'm Cyclops," the young man says. He's younger than Charles thought, but he moves with confidence.
"Sit down, please," Charles says. Magneto takes the corner of the park bench on the other side of him from Jean. He can feel Jean at his back, braced for any threat. Cyclops stands behind Magneto's bench as if he's used to playing bodyguard. Charles has the feeling he should not make any sudden movements.
"I take it this isn't merely a social occasion," Magneto says.
Charles shrugs. "It's been three years. We ought to at least introduce ourselves."
"We've been doing this for longer than three years," Cyclops says.
"So have we," Jean says. "But for a while we didn't know about you."
Cyclops smiles grimly. "That changed."
"Yes, it did," Jean says. She rubs her arm pointedly.
Cyclops touches his temple. "You give as good as you get."
"You've never seen me take my best shot."
"You've never seen me take mine."
Charles clears his throat.
Magneto chuckles. "Would you two like some time alone?" he asks dryly.
"I don't think so," Scott says.
"Neither do I," Jean says.
"I think we'll still be well guarded," Magneto says. He looks at Charles, a courteous question in his eyes.
"I have other people here, yes," Charles says. He can feel Ororo nearby, and Warren somewhere high above them near the limits of his range.
"As do I." Charles can feel them, too, although he doesn't mention the fact. "Run along and play, children."
Charles glances at Jean. It's all right . Jean lets out a dissatisfied breath, odd lights flickering in her eyes, but she stands up and nods at Cyclops as if she were about to give him a tour of the school in Westchester.
"Shall we take a walk?"
"My pleasure," Cyclops says, offering her his arm, although he doesn't look any happier about leaving than she is.
Magneto lets out a long breath as they walk away. "They hover," he says. "You'd think I was eighty years old and utterly helpless."
"Hardly either one," Charles says.
"I assure you I'm older than I look."
"I assure you I'm not," Charles says. He wonders which one of them is older. It's odd talking to someone he's only met in dreams. He's not used to having to speak aloud.
"Can you really read my mind?" Magneto sounds curious, and feels just a little bit afraid.
"I could, but I won't. I imagine you could wrap this park bench around my neck if you wanted to, but I think we're being polite."
"So we are." Magneto looks out across the park. "Are you here to persuade me of the error of my ways?"
"Not at all," Charles says. "I'm here because I'm not sure you're in error."
Magneto's expression remains neutral, almost bored, although Charles can feel his sharp interest. "If so, why have you been trying to stop me?"
"Because random acts of violence won't help matters."
"They're hardly random."
"They're hardly strategic."
Magneto's eyes flicker in his direction. "You think you can do better?"
"I think we can do better."
"This isn't like you," Magneto says after a pause.
"You don't know what's like me."
"In my dreams, you talk of peace."
"Not all of my dreams come true," Charles says.
A shadow of understanding passes across Magneto's face. "Who?"
"How do you know it's not just the registration act that's changed my mind?"
"Experience."
"Henry McCoy. You may have met him as the Beast."
"I remember him. A brave young man."
"And a kind one." Charles keeps his voice very steady. "You broke three of his ribs once, I believe. With a parking meter."
"It wasn't I who killed him."
"No," Charles says distantly. It's still a cold grief. Hank is less than three weeks in the ground. All his strength couldn't protect him from an angry mob. Charles was too far away to even hear him. He had only heard Jean when she began to scream. "A teenage pyrokinetic burned down his parents' house. The neighbors wanted to lynch him. Hank and Jean got in the way." He still isn't sure what's happened to Jean. She says she's fine, and looks away when he frowns at the dark fire dancing in her eyes.
"And?" Magneto says briskly. He doesn't say he's sorry. Charles can feel that he is, and that he believes the words are useless. Charles doesn't think they are, but he doesn't need to hear the words aloud.
"You don't have any telepaths, but you have people with combat skills. If some of your people had been there, maybe no one would have died."
"Or maybe only the people who deserved to."
"Maybe so," Charles says calmly.
That seems to silence Magneto for a minute. He takes off his hat and props it on his knees. They watch the birds peck at the crumbs at their feet as if they are old friends here to feed the pigeons.
"What makes you so sure we don't have a telepath?" Magneto asks finally.
"If you did, I would have found them in my dreams, not you."
"Maybe you were looking for me."
"Maybe I was."
"Well, you found me."
"So I did."
"You know, I'm not sure I believe this change of heart," Magneto says. "Could it be that you are promising an alliance when what you intend is a takeover?"
"There's no way for me to prove that's not true," Charles says. "But even so, wouldn't that be a more interesting game than the one we're playing now?"
Magneto smiles. "It might be." He glances up at Cyclops and Jean, who are walking by the lake, the tails of his coat spread out behind her like dark wings. Charles hopes Warren is currently watching him talk to Magneto. He forsees certain complications arising. Magneto leans back on the park bench. "What are you proposing, Xavier?"
"In your dreams you call me Charles."
"You said yourself that not all dreams come true," Magneto says, but he is smiling.