Fear the Rest
Chapter 3: Break
November 1985
The ringing phone dragged Erik out of sleep. He frowned at the clock and reached for the phone, bringing it clattering across the table into his hands. He didn't bother to sit up, meaning to make the conversation scathingly short.
"Yes?"
"Dr. Lehnsherr? It's me, Jean."
He shrugged off the covers and sat up on the edge of the bed.
"Where are you?" Whatever her predicament, she wouldn't call unless she was closer to him in Boston than to Charles in Westchester. Or unless she'd put herself in danger doing something she didn't want Charles to know about. "Do you need me to come get you?"
"I'm at Westchester Medical Center," Jean said. "I'm fine. It's the professor."
"Charles is ill?" Erik ran a hand through his hair, worry fading and irritation taking its place. So much for a decent night's sleep. "It's after midnight, and I'm not a substitute teacher. Surely one of his actual friends can supervise for a few days."
"His car hit a tree," Jean said, clearly and a little distantly, as if she were delivering a report in class. "There's a lot of ice on the road. There was a winter weather advisory last night. He had a conference in Ithaca."
"Ithaca?" Erik said, aware even as he said it that it wasn't the relevant detail.
"He has head injuries and his back is broken. He hasn't woken up and they're not sure he--and I know you aren't . . . getting along very well, but I didn't know who else to call, and I thought you deserved the chance to . . ."
She was crying, soft ragged breathing over the phone line.
His hand moved impotently over the phone receiver. "It'll take me a few hours in this weather," he said. "I'll be there before morning."
He made the drive to Westchester sure that it couldn't be as bad as all that. Jean was still young and easily upset, and hospitals were intimidating. Charles would be awake by the time he got there, stoic and uncomplaining and garnering sympathy in the process. Erik turned on the radio and then snapped it off in irritation.
And of course he'd be expected to drop everything and look after the students. And meanwhile Charles would be recovering cheerfully in the hospital with his precious children sending him get-well cards. Not to mention Jean wearing herself out at his elbow. Erik thought he'd have to tell Charles a thing or two this time about finding someone to replace Moira. It had been nearly two years since she'd left him trying to chase after two dozen teenagers on his own.
It won't do, Charles, he would have to say. There may be no one who suits your exacting standards, but you're going to have to accept help in the end. Not something Charles had ever liked being told. Perhaps a few broken bones and an enforced week or two watching game shows would convey to him the need to hire a teacher with whom he could not possibly have a failed romance.
Erik strode in and confronted the front-desk clerk, who was reading the newspaper through heavy black-rimmed glasses.
"Charles Xavier," he said.
It was a minute before she looked up. "Are you a family member?"
"No." He supposed not.
"I'm afraid you'll have to come back in the morning. After nine a.m."
"Thank you," he said, walked out of her line of sight, and found the elevators.
What he found after a search of upper floors was Warren, standing outside a closed door. He was looking at a large glass window with curtains drawn across it from the outside, the odd curve of his back showing under his trenchcoat. Otherwise he looked neat and pressed, with only his blond hair disheveled.
He turned, with the slight stiffness his movements always had when his wings weren't free. It made him look arrogant, which would have been unfortunate if it weren't in Erik's opinion true. If he was surprised to see Erik, he covered it well.
"The nurse just left," Warren said. "I'd go in now if I were you. Or you'll have a fight to get in at all. Jean did."
Erik nodded and stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. He looked at the bed for a long moment and then looked away, noticing with excessive sharpness the way the bottom of the I.V. stand caught the light.
"You came," Jean said. She came around the bed to him and touched his shoulder gingerly. He didn't encourage her. After a moment she moved her hand away.
He made himself look up at her. Strands of her hair had come free of her ponytail. She'd tucked them behind her ear like a little girl.
"Have you been crying?" he asked. He brushed a tear track on her cheek with his thumb. She met his eyes, looking at him as if she could hold herself up that way. He looked at the bed again.
"He won't wake up," Jean said. "Not even for me."
Erik took the chair and pulled it closer to the bed, wheels squeaking. He put his hand over Charles's, spreading his fingers to avoid the plastic I.V. tubing. After a moment he touched Charles's bruised temple. "Well?" Jean asked after a minute. She had her arms wrapped around herself, clutching at the fabric of her sweater. She looked at him as if there were something he could do.
He looked back at Charles. "So unlike you to have nothing to say."
* * * * *
Jean was perched on a bench in the hallway, watching blankly as white-coated doctors and nurses went by. She wondered if she'd somehow blended into the background, as unobtrusive as the pale abstract paintings that were spaced regularly along the walls. Someday she'd be able to, she hoped. Someday she'd learn everything Charles Xavier knew.
She could hear raised voices coming from the room where she'd left Dr. Lehnsherr arguing with the new doctor. He was somehow in charge; there seemed to be a complicated hierarchy she hadn't figured out. He hadn't wanted to talk to Dr. Lehnsherr, but he'd wanted to talk to her even less, and watching them argue over Charles's unconscious body had made her feel sick.
She wasn't sure what they were arguing about. If she could stretch out her senses she'd know, but she couldn't here. When she'd tried to reach the professor she'd ended up shaking from the pain and fear and grief all around her; even after she'd stopped trying the emotions had seemed to be soaking through the walls like stains on the fresh white paint.
She watched as Dr. Bennett came out and crossed the hall to the nurses' station. She was effectively invisible, she thought; beneath notice. She didn't like him a bit.
"I think we'll need an HIV test on 32," he said.
The nurse frowned as she took the chart out of his hand and put it away.
"The car wreck?"
"Apparently there's a boyfriend. He's just been giving me hell about a medical power of attorney. I told him he can go call his lawyer."
"Any family show up?"
"There's a sister in California," the doctor said. "We're waiting for her. In the mean time, get the bloodwork done. Let's find out what we're dealing with."
"You never can tell, can you?" the nurse said.
"If the boyfriend gives you trouble, call security. I'm not going to be pushed around by one of them."
There was a low rattle. The wall of charts was shaking, folders trembling like leaves in a high wind. The glass in the door behind the nurse splintered and cracked.
"What the hell?" Dr. Bennett exclaimed. There was a general clamor of voices. Jean heard the room door open behind her and jerked around to look.
Dr. Lehnsherr looked at her, and then looked over at the nurses' station. He beckoned her away with a sharp nod of his head. She followed, opening and closing her hands helplessly.
He backed her up against a wall and spoke quietly and precisely. "Do you want me to tell them that Charles is not your legal guardian and that you have no right to see him? Break things again and I will."
"What did the doctor say to you in there?"
Dr. Lehnsherr shrugged. "He hasn't thrown me out," he said. "That's more than I expected." He looked down the hall, his eyes not focusing on the crowd. "I have phone calls to make," he said. "Can I trust you to behave? You're not eleven any more."
"I lost control," Jean said. "It won't happen again."
"I trust not," Dr. Lehnsherr said. He strode off down the hall.
Jean curled up on the bench, afraid to cry, afraid someone would see her and think she was acting like a child. She visualized Professor Xavier's hands spread out on the wood of his desk. Focus, Jean. Her eyes stayed dry, and under her hands the wood of the bench stayed still.
After a while Warren appeared carrying sodas. He handed her one and sat down carefully.
"So," he said.
In a tight voice, Jean told him what she'd heard.
"And then . . ." Her gaze drifted to the broken glass.
"Jean?" Warren said. "Not so good."
"I know," she said, burying her face in her hands. "And the worst of it is he's right. We don't have any real right to be here."
"It'll be all right," Warren said. "Even if they do throw us out, they can't throw the professor's sister out when she comes."
"We're his family," Jean said.
Warren put his hand on her shoulder.
* * * * *
Charles's sister opened the door and came in, looking rumpled from travel. She either hadn't brought her children or had left them somewhere safely out of sight. Erik watched her take in Charles's state for a moment before he spoke.
"Catherine."
"Erik," she said without warmth. "What are you doing here?"
"What do you mean?"
"Charles told me you weren't in his life anymore."
"Only as an old friend," Erik said.
"That's not what you told Dr. Bennett," Cathy said.
Erik looked sharply. "What did he say to you? How is Charles?"
"Don't you know?"
"Only what I see." Bruises, pale skin, bandages, plastic tubes, the glow of monitor lights. Slow steady breathing.
"Well, he could wake up at any time," Cathy said haltingly. "That's what they said. But . . . sometimes people get worse very suddenly. They said that too."
"And if he lives?" Erik asked.
"At least some paralysis. He'll be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. He may not be able to live on his own." She scrubbed a hand across her reddened eyes. "I have two children," she said. "I can't do this."
"There's nothing you need to do," Erik said. He'd known better than to think he'd find an ally here.
"What about those kids? His school?"
"I'll see to everything," Erik said tightly. "Don't feel you have to put yourself out."
"That's not very fair."
"Do you really think right now my main concern is being fair?" Erik snapped.
"Who's at the school now?"
"Jean."
"Charles's Jean? How old is she?"
"Eighteen," Erik said. "Old enough to baby-sit." He shook his head. "But not to teach classes tomorrow."
"I can't be responsible for the school," Cathy said. "I don't know how I can even—"
"You aren't," Erik said. "But I am. And I should be there now." He stood up and reached for his overcoat and hat. It would be cold outside.
"I'll be here," Cathy said. "I'll call you if he wakes up."
He couldn't quite bring himself to thank her.
It was late when he got to the school. He pulled his car into the garage and went in through the side door. He'd made a show of giving the key back years ago. Charles had refrained from pointing out what an empty gesture that was. Erik opened it now with a brush of his hand over the lock plate.
Dinnertime had come and gone. Students were milling around in the rec room and in the hallway, sitting on the stairs or perched on the backs of sofas, talking in low tones. He walked in, ignoring the stares, and stood by the staircase. He let the children gather, led by the few who he knew. Hank coaxed Jean to sit down on the stairs, and patted her on the shoulder when she did. He sat beside her and looked up at Erik as if daring him to hurt her. Jean was pale and looked battered. Scott stood with one hand on the banister, his other hand combing nervously through the feathers of Warren's wing.
"What's going to happen?" Warren asked, twitching his wing away from Scott.
"I'm Erik Lehnsherr," Erik said, for the benefit of Charles's new crop of waifs and strays. "I used to teach here. A while ago." He smiled tightly. "I'll be taking over classes for the time being."
"We still have classes?" a white-haired girl asked. Erik thought he'd seen her before.
"You will have classes in the morning, so I suggest you all go to bed," Erik said. There was a general murmur somewhere between complaint and relief.
Scott frowned at him. "Is Professor Xavier going to be all right? When is he coming back?"
"His condition is very serious," Erik said. "Even if he lives, he--" He stopped, started again. "We're going to have to wait and see." He took off his coat and hat and set them down on the chair by the stairs.
"Is the school going to close?" the white-haired girl asked.
"It most certainly will not," Erik said.
"You heard Dr. Lehnsherr," Jean added as that sank in. "Now everybody go on to bed. I'll be upstairs in a few minutes. Scott and Warren can help if you need anything." Her voice was firm, accompanied by a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"And me," Hank said mildly.
"And you." Jean smiled more warmly at him.
"I will help, too," the white-haired girl said.
"Thanks, 'Ro," Jean said. "But get some sleep now." She reached out to squeeze the girl's hand. "It'll be all right."
Scott looked for a moment as though he wanted to argue that, but he put his hand on the girl's other arm. "Come up with me, Ororo. Help get the girls to bed."
Jean stayed where she was. Eventually the hall emptied. Erik could hear the sound of footsteps on the floor above, and the murmur of voices. He sat down beside Jean on the stairs.
"Are you okay?" Jean asked after a minute.
Erik couldn't look at her. "How are the rest of the children managing?"
"All right, I guess. Everybody's upset. And some of them are scared. Like Ororo. If the school has to close down, she won't have anywhere to go."
"Don't worry about that for a minute," Erik said.
Jean nodded, slowly, and let out a quiet breath. "Thank you. For coming."
If she had still been eleven, he would have put his arm around her shoulders and told her what comforting lies he could. But she wasn't; he could see her struggling to stay in control of her feelings, and he wasn't about to make that harder by treating her like a child. "Of course," he said instead. "Is there coffee? I could very much use coffee."
"Coming right up," Jean said, scrambling to her feet. She stopped at the foot of the stairs, looking down at him. He was having trouble forcing himself to stand up; the idea of making coffee seemed terribly hard. "You think he's going to--"
Erik made himself raise an eyebrow at her. "Out of my head, young lady."
Jean closed her eyes for a moment, and then opened them again. "That was a stupid question, wasn't it?"
"There's always hope," Erik said.
* * * * *
Jean stared at her desk. There was a notebook opened to a page of half-done math homework. She tore it out and crumpled it into a ball.
Dr. Lehnsherr would frown at her when she had nothing to hand in. It didn't matter.
The other side of her desk was covered in application forms. Columbia. Bryn Mawr. Yale. She picked up one and looked at the deadline. Two weeks. She wondered if the professor had written her letter of recommendation yet. It was probably in his desk if he had.
Dr. Lehnsherr could write one. He probably would, especially if she made some effort to do her math homework. She wasn't sure she cared.
It had been six days. The doctors said that wasn't so long, that it was still possible that he'd wake up and be . . . not fine. Never fine again. But still himself, his mind untouched. Six days wasn't so long.
She'd sat by his bedside and tried and tried to reach his mind. If she could just do the same from here, reach out and find him wherever he'd gone . . .
She got up and slipped out of her room, closing the door softly behind her. The hall was deserted. She took the elevator at the end of the hall; its soft chime would be infinitely quieter than her footsteps on the stairs.
She'd seen Dr. Lehnsherr looking at the elevator the day before. They'd put it in the first year she was there, to avoid any more hauling heavy equipment down into the basement and furniture up the stairs to students' rooms.
"Just as well," Jean had said, but he hadn't answered. She wished he'd talk to her. He treated her gently but brusquely, as if afraid of what he'd say if he spoke.
The elevator stopped on the first floor, but she didn't need the key to go farther. She spread her hand over the lock. She'd had a good teacher.
Dr. Lehnsherr had taken an afternoon when the professor was in town to show her how to open the simple skeleton-key locks of the room doors; when she'd learned to do them all, he'd brought her a box of padlocks to practice on. The professor had caught her at it eventually, and there'd been a fight. She shook her head at the memory.
She got off the elevator when it stopped again in the basement and walked down the hall to Cerebro. She caught herself listening for footsteps, and reminded herself that was silly. Dr. Lehnsherr hadn't come back from the hospital yet, and there was no reason for anyone else to be down there.
She stood in front of the door, pressing her fingers against the metal. It would be hard, terribly hard. The locks were heavy. Still, with some patience, she thought she could do it. Maybe not all at once. She'd come back if she had to.
"I thought this was where you were going," Warren said from behind her. She jumped and spun around, readying an excuse. "Don't tell me you got lost."
"What do you want me to do?" she demanded. "Just sit here and do nothing?"
"You're taking care of the children. You're visiting the professor."
"He doesn't even know I'm there," Jean said.
"It still matters," Warren said. "At least, I think it does."
"I just want to try." Jean spread her hand out on the metal.
"You can't. You know you can't."
"If this isn't worth taking risks, what is?"
"It's not a matter of taking risks. It's a matter of what's possible." Warren looked at her for a minute, and then looked away. "We're adults now," he said. "I know that, even if no one else does. That means accepting that sometimes there's nothing we can do to fix things."
"Is that what it means?" Jean sat down with her back against the door. The chill of the metal seeped through her shirt. Warren didn't answer. After a minute he sat down beside her and draped a wing around her shoulders. It was like the world's best blanket, she thought wearily, burying her face in the soft feathers.
"Or Big Bird," she said, with a choked giggle.
Warren stiffened. "You mean me, don't you? You think I look like a giant chicken."
"No," Jean said. It was still funnier than it should be. "No, I promise I don't think you look like a giant chicken."
"Giant Chicken Man," Warren said. "That's me."
"I'm so scared," Jean said, fighting the urge to crush handfuls of feathers.
"I'm scared too," Warren said.
Eventually he stood up, and offered her a hand; she let him pull her up, and they walked back toward the elevator.
"And I was worried that Scott might follow me," Jean said.
Warren twitched his wings in a way that made her wonder what he wasn't saying. "Summers doesn't know everything."
* * * * *
Erik was teaching simple geometry, the unvarying truths of angles and planes. It was just absorbing enough to keep him from thinking about anything else. He sketched careful lines across the chalkboard, and listened to the sound of pencils scratching in notebooks.
The door rattled as it opened, and Erik turned to see Scott leaning in the doorway.
"Jean's on the phone for you," he said.
Erik put the chalk down, carefully. It didn't break.
He went quickly out of the room, brushing past Scott. Erik could hear Scott's uncertain voice behind him in the classroom.
"Okay. Well. Everybody read the next chapter for a while, okay?"
He made himself walk to the phone. It seemed simple enough, now. He'd have to go back to Boston for his things. He'd need a moving truck.
It seemed to be terribly cold. He picked the receiver up.
"He's awake," Jean said in a rush. "He knows who he is, he remembers almost all the way up until the accident, he's talking."
He wasn't sure what else she said, or what he said in response, only that he put the phone down eventually and stood with his hands on it for a long time, and then turned and half-ran for the door, grabbing his coat as he went.
He found Charles's room door shut. Jean was nowhere in sight. He guessed she'd gone to find food or a moment's relief from the pressure of so many minds in pain. It must be bad enough for Charles, and he had decades of mental discipline to protect him.
He opened the door and faced a stern look from Dr. Bennett. There was another doctor in the room, talking in a low tone to Charles. Charles didn't look up; he didn't have to look up to know Erik was there.
"I'm sorry," Dr. Bennett said shortly. "You'll have to come back later."
"No, I won't," Erik said. "Charles, get them out of here."
The doctors left in wordless confusion; Erik supposed they'd remembered some important appointment elsewhere. He waved a hand and slid the chair over to the bed. He sat down in it, smiling.
"That's better, isn't it," he said. "Only me."
"You've talked to my doctors," Charles said. He wasn't meeting Erik's eyes.
"Of course I have. I've been here a week."
"You couldn't have respected my privacy."
"Someone had to make decisions."
"Then you know it all," Charles said. There was something wrong with his expression, something Erik couldn't quite read.
"You're out of danger now," Erik said.
"Yes, they say I won't die." His voice was flat.
Erik reached for his hand. Charles moved it away. Erik spread his hands on the metal bed rail instead. "Your children are fine," he said.
Charles frowned at him. "Erik, what are you doing at my school?"
"I said I had a family emergency, which was true enough. And I can apply for a leave of absence next semester," he said. "I'll stay as long as you need me."
"I don't," Charles said.
"Charles?" Erik felt his relief fading at the tight sound in Charles's voice.
"Erik, I would not have asked you to come if I had been awake. I appreciate what you were trying to do, but it's time for you to go."
"You don't mean that," Erik said.
"Do you think I'm not in my right mind, Erik? That I'm too damaged to know what's good for me?"
"Charles." Erik took a steadying breath. "Charles, you need someone to go home with you. To run the school until you're better. To help you."
"I don't need your help," Charles said. "And what I want you to do is go away."
"I won't," Erik said.
Erik's hands snapped open, lifting off the bed rail. They drifted, ever so slowly, to his sides. He couldn't even speed up the motion to something other than a crawl.
"I'll be out of your range once I leave the hospital," he said, ignoring the shivering that started at the core of his body, as if the room had grown bitter cold.
"You're right. I can't make you get out of my house," Charles said. "Shall I make you want to leave? I can do that, you know. I know your mind so well. It wouldn't even be hard." His voice dropped. "I don't want to do that to you. And I don't want to beg."
"I won't make you do either," Erik said. "If that's what you really want."
"We're not lovers anymore," Charles said. "We're hardly even friends. The only thing I want is that you leave me in peace."
"Very well," Erik said. He stood up, looking at Charles's hand on the sheets. He didn't try to touch it; he didn't want to try and fail.
* * * * *
Jean passed Dr. Lehnsherr in the hall. He stopped, looking at her, his face a neutral mask, his body taut. In that moment he seemed very dangerous.
"I have to leave," he said.
"All right," she said. "I can stay here until morning."
"You'll have to find another way home. I'm not coming back."
"What?" She was immediately furious. "How can you leave?"
"Because he wants it," Erik said. "Because he wants nothing from me. He would not have me remain near you as a bad influence."
"That can't be what he meant," Jean said.
"I am not stupid," Dr. Lehnsherr said. "I know what I heard. Good day."
"Wait," Jean said, but he had stepped into the elevator, and with a sharp motion of his hand the doors closed. She pressed her hands to the doors, willing them open, willing the motion of the elevator to stop, but the weight was too much for her.
She strode down the hall, shoving open the door of the professor's room.
"This isn't a good time, Jean," Professor Xavier said. "I'm tired."
"Did you tell Dr. Lehnsherr to leave?"
"I told him to leave four years ago," he said. "This doesn't change anything."
"You need him."
He looked away. "I don't think you can possibly understand."
"I'm a telepath," Jean said. "So are you. Make me understand."
"You don't know what you're asking," he said, shadows darkening on his face.
"I'm not a child. Make me understand."
"I'm not interested in Erik's pity," he said, still not looking at her. "I think I'll have enough of other people's."
"He loves you," Jean said.
"I could fix that," Professor Xavier said.
"No," Jean said in utter horror.
"After all, it only hurts to want things you can't have."
She wasn't sure if she felt his control about to break or heard it in his voice, only that some instinct made her grasp the bedrail as if she could brace herself against—
— all the things he'd never do again, imagined years in the prison of this ruined body, everything he'd lost one moment of inattention to the road, the desperate need to turn back time a week and lift his own eyes from the radio dial—Erik sitting by his bedside, smiling, secure in the knowledge that Charles could never send him away now—the memory of Erik's hands on his face—the memory of grains of safety glass crawling down his face as he struggled helplessly to free himself from twisted metal in the endless few minutes before he blacked out—Erik's beautiful hands on the ugly metal bed rail—his humiliation at having Erik see him reduced to this, waiting for Erik's hard cool shock to turn to pity—his horror of knowing Erik would sooner or later touch him out of a sense of responsibility and duty, and poison every memory of their lovemaking when memory was all he'd have —
At some point Jean had started to cry. Professor Xavier was getting control now, cutting off the flood of memories and feelings, but she could still feel him in her head. He was ashamed of having showed her those things, of having hurt her, and even more ashamed of his relief at having done it; he'd been so terrifyingly alone with his thoughts.
"Jean," he said. She slid out of the chair and knelt beside the bed, her forehead resting on the cool cotton of the sheets. He touched her hair.
She couldn't stop crying. She could feel that he didn't want her to. He needed to have someone to comfort, the shreds of his pride too ragged for him to accept any comfort himself. She gave him what he could take, and understood why it was all he could bear. She understood him best of anyone in the world.
Eventually the weight of despair lifted enough for her to breathe, push her hair out of her face, smile.
"Don't say you're sorry," she said before he could speak.
"I'll always be sorry to hurt you," he said.
"I understand," she said. "You're going through a lot."
"So are you," he said. "You've been working so hard."
"So has Dr. Lehnsherr, you know."
"I don't want to talk about Erik," he said.
"Of course not," she said, trying to keep any edge of anger out of her voice and her mind.
"I'll get home soon," Professor Xavier said. "I'll manage. Even with this." He gestured at his legs under the sheet as if he were talking about the wreckage of his car.
"Of course you will," Jean said, trying to figure out how they'd manage. She'd think about that when she got back to the school. When he couldn't hear her.
She stood up, looking at the chair. "He left his coat," she said. "Should I take it away when I go?"
He looked at the dark coat draped over the back of the chair. "Leave it here."
Warren came to get her. She leaned back against the seat on the way home and wished she had taken the coat anyway. Her sweater was too thin for the weather, and she could have used its warmth over her lap.
"What are we going to do?" Warren asked after a while.
"I don't know. Why does everyone ask me?" Jean spread out her hands over the heating vents and looked at them. "I don't think we should tell the others tonight. The two of them may work things out."
"If you say so," Warren said.
"There's always hope."
She woke up in the morning to the phone ringing downstairs. For a moment the knowledge that there was no one else to get it, that she'd have to drag herself out of bed and go and handle things, made her feel too heavy to move.
She got up anyway and went down, jogging down the stairs to get the phone before the machine picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Jean. I should have known you'd be holding down the fort."
"Dr. MacTaggart?"
"I'm in the airport on an ancient pay telephone, so bear with me. I wondered if someone could pick me up from LaGuardia. I'll be there . . . I think six o'clock your time, I'm terrible with time zones."
"I . . . yes, of course. What are you . . ."
"I'm coming to help, of course, and I understand that Charles is being difficult, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything to him until I'm settled in Westchester and he'd have to have a row to shift me. I was lucky enough to get this ticket yesterday; all the reservations lines seem to close at nine."
"He probably won't like it," Jean warned.
"He's not himself. I don't expect him to be. But I won't take personally being told I'm horrible, if that's the frame of mind he's in. I expect he's more than a bit angry with the world."
"You'll stay at least a week or two? I can't do everything at the school."
"I'll stay at least a month or two. And more if I need to. I can well afford it, don't worry about that."
"Thank you," Jean breathed. "Thank you, thank you, thank you . . ."
"There's no need for all that," Moira said. "It's not as if it's such a hardship, being in Westchester. I might be there still, if Charles and I hadn't gotten the idea of having a grand romance. Still, it's probably just as well we've gotten that out of our systems. It makes things simpler."
"Maybe he won't mind you as much as . . ." Jean said, and then ran out of words.
"He won't mind me as much because he loves me less," Moira said briskly. "At least that's what I'm hoping. Charles is a dear friend, and this is a terrible -- but that's my flight. Take care of the children for me, and I'll see you soon."
She hung up before Jean could ask her how she'd known, but she realized she didn't need to. She knew who'd called Moira; who must have called her even before he drove back to Boston in the snow.
* * * * *
Erik came home to a week's worth of messages on his answering machine, the light blinking frantically. He pressed the button and then ignored the messages as they played.
He went back to classes and read from his notes. The students copied what he said. He answered their questions clearly and without wasted words. He sketched engineering diagrams on the blackboard, although it seemed that the chalk was always splintering in his hands.
One night some time later there was a knock on the door, starting tentative and growing insistent as Erik sat in front of the papers spread out on his desk and tried to ignore the noise. Eventually he gave up and went to the door.
Raven was waiting on the doorstep, her hair brown and feathered around her face, shading worried brown eyes. She smiled when she saw him, but her smile faded quickly.
"Can I come in?" she said after there'd been too long a pause.
"Yes," he said. "Of course." He motioned her in.
"I haven't heard from you in three weeks, Erik. You haven't returned my calls."
"I'm sorry. I've been busy. Things came up." He didn't look at her. He looked at the wood of the chair instead, and the mail piled unopened on the table.
She touched the stack with her fingertips, brushed at the tabletop. It was dusty. She was clearly starting to say something about that when she looked up and saw his face. "My God, Erik, what's wrong?"
He shook his head. "Nothing," he said. He walked into the bedroom. A retreat. She followed him.
"I was scared," she said.
"Were you?" he asked curiously.
She came closer, put a hand on his arm.
"Erik, tell me what's wrong. Are you sick?"
He sat down on the bed, made a helpless gesture with his hands.
"It's nothing," he said. "I'm just . . . Charles was in an accident, a very stupid automobile accident, the road was icy and . . ."
"Charles is dead?" Raven asked very softly.
"No. No, they say he'll recover. But not walk again."
"Oh, Erik." She sat down beside him. He could feel her warmth against his shoulder. "I suppose you'll need to go up to Westchester for a while."
"I've been. He threw me out. He won't take anything from me." He looked hard at the bedside lamp. "I'm all right."
"Erik, for God's sake." She slid her arms around him. "Of course you're not all right."
"I'm all right," he said, and buried his face in the curve of her shoulder. She held onto him. Her arms were warm, her skin warm against his cheek.
"Go ahead and cry," she murmured. "It's only me."
"I would if I could," he said distantly. "I never thought he could hate me this much."
"He's proud," she said. "He doesn't want to be dependent on you."
"He needs me."
"He doesn't want to. But he won't ever hate you. I can see that."
"Maybe not," Erik said. He lifted his head enough to see his hands curled around the curve of her back. They seemed entirely alien to him. "Then why do I feel like this?"
"Erik," she said, sounding like she was struggling to be patient. "Because Charles is maimed, and you can't be with him, and it's a terrible tragedy."
He stifled a noise of pain against her shoulder. She held onto him and let her hands say all there was to say. He held her as if he could thaw himself against her warmth, as if her heart could beat in his chest where his own had stopped.
He pulled away eventually, nodding to show he was back in control of himself. She put her hand on his shoulder.
"Who's in Westchester now?"
"Moira," Erik said.
"Have you talked to her?"
"When she first arrived."
"You could call her and see how he is."
"I could," Erik admitted.
Raven looked at him critically. "Erik, when did you last eat?"
"I don't remember."
"All right," she said. "First we're going out for dinner. Then you can call Moira if you want."
"I'm not hungry."
"No arguing," she said firmly. "Come on."
He let her herd him to the door.
"Don't you want your coat?" she asked. "It's freezing."
"I'm afraid I've lost it," he said. "I should get a new one, shouldn't I? It's really unseasonably cold."
Later that night he put the phone down and went back into the bedroom where Raven was waiting.
"How is he?"
"'As well as we can expect,' Moira says. They're talking about sending him home after the holidays. Or at least he's talking about making them send him home. And of course he can if he likes."
She stroked his arm. "Tired?" she asked.
"Not too tired," he said, and kissed her hard. He pulled her against him, sliding his hands against the fabric of her dress. "Is this real?"
"Yes," she said, her hands curving around his hips. "But I can take it off."
He took an guilty, angry pleasure in her body against his, her warm breasts and arching hips and fingernails raking his back. He pushed her down to the bed and pressed his weight on top of her, pushing into her. Everything Charles couldn't do now.
He moved his mouth to her breast and her hands slid lower down his thighs. He rocked on top of her, the breathless rhythm of it close enough to crying. It seemed to take forever for the tension to break, leaving him resting weary and drained against her.
"Rest, Erik," she murmured. He rolled over, feeling her curl tight against him, and let the warm weight of her body comfort him.
"Let's go away for the holidays," she said after a long while. He'd thought she was asleep. "Somewhere warm."
They spent winter break in Florida, in a beach house with sand on the floors. They ate in restaurants and took long walks along the beach after dark. They sat out on the deck and talked into the night, the cool salt wind flicking her cigarette ashes away.
On New Year's Eve he gave her the present he'd brought, a pair of white leather gloves he thought would suit most of her female personae.
She smiled. "It has been a cold winter, hasn't it? Open yours."
The coat was black, with the heavy slick feel of cashmere.
"Did you pay for this?"
She shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"No," he said, and smiled, taking her hand and kissing it. "Not in the least."
He wore the coat back to Boston, and walking to his classes he was excellently warm.