Universal Truths
by Elizabeth

Keywords: X-Men: The Movie fic, Xavier, Magneto
Category: Slash
Rating: PG
Summary: Ummm, hmmm. Ok, here goes. Post-movie recollection of pre- movie events,
Xavier pov.
November 2000

I talked to Rogue today.

She asked about your past, looking up at me from behind a curtain of hair, her face tilted a little to one side. You used to look at me like that, with a slight quizzical bent to your head, as if I was a puzzle you wanted to solve.

I couldn't think of much to say. I was too blinded with envy and memory. Erik...Erik, you gave her so much of yourself in seconds. Seconds. It took me years to know you as well as she does.

You tried to kill her. And she doesn't hate you; she wants to understand you. She just wants to know why.

I think you have that effect on everyone.

And so here I am, inside the room that you and I created.

You tried to kill me here.

'Ah,' you'd say. "Not me, Charles. I didn't strike the blow.' I can almost hear you.

You and your truths.

Rogue asked me what I meant to you.

All I could do was remember.

I remembered one day, one moment. I remembered you looking up at me, your face wreathed in what might have been a smile.

"I think it's done" you told me and then there was a smile on your face. You handed me the helmet; an absurd thing, shaped like some costume designer's imagination of a Roman soldier's helmet made futuristic, round and shiny with cables protruding like a plume. Was that your comment on the entire situation?

I didn't ask.

I could have pressed closer, could have taken a look inside your mind, checking for the truth, unvarnished and just there. But your truths, Erik--they were never the absolutes I wanted them to be. Like a hard-boiled egg, your truths came out in slow spins and wobbles, in little pieces like tiny bits of shell.

I slid the helmet over my head--it fit perfectly of course, but then why wouldn't it? You made it and you knew me inside and out. You could have described the geometry of my heart, the angles and planes of my love for you. I have no doubt of that. Hadn't you rested your hand against my cheek, slid your fingers down the curve of my chin, rested your palm against the pulse that beat in my throat? Hadn't you stared at me, your eyes taunting me because you always knew what I thought and I floundered, guessing at your motives, your actions?

You had, you did.

I heard you exhale as you turned the machine on. It was comforting to hear you as I went into the unknown for the first time.

What did I see? I can't remember if you ever asked, but I'll tell you anyway.

It was a blur of forms, shapes, and shifting lights. It hurt quite a bit--bright lights blinding my eyes and the pounding of many hearts in my head--and I struggled to pull myself free. You didn't help but when I could open my eyes again you were standing there, watching me. There was still that hint of smile on your face.

"Charles" you said and your voice--Erik, there is no limit to that voice of yours. You could drive a saint to leave heaven with that voice of yours. "Charles, it will take time to learn use it. Don't worry."

I looked down at my hands, resting in fists on the arms of my wheelchair. How well you knew me and how well you used that knowledge.

"I'm not worried," I lied.

My chair floated towards you then, pulled along by the force of your will. I came too, a prisoner of the chair, but willingly for your touch. Your hands met my arms, their pressure something I could feel. Once in a while, at night, your legs would tumble over mine as you turned (you were always a restless sleeper) and I would always imagine that I could feel their weight.

You took the helmet out of my hands and in the moment you turned away I lifted my fingers up, rested them on your arm. You stiffened, as if I was touching your flesh. I ran my fingers down, absently tracing over the fabric of your shirtsleeve and you stiffened more.

I knew what lay on your skin and under it. That always bothered you. In your world, truth was shaded and hazy but the one absolute you held was that the number that marked you meant nothing to you. I commented on it once, early on, and you left the room we were sitting in, did not return for two days.

But you came back, didn't you?

You turned back towards me and lifted your arms away, as if you were going to leave. And then you returned again, your fingers framing my shoulders, your breath warm on my cheek. You smelled like metal and sweat--yourself--and I inhaled; surrounding myself with you, let my mouth turn just far enough to meet your own. Just a touch, but it was enough.

And later, we left the room, full of metal and gleaming silences and went back into the house we'd just purchased. I would ask if you remember all the plans we had, but the truth is they were mostly mine. I sometimes think of you as I roll down the hallways now, remember the stride of your feet on the stairs or the feel of your mouth on my neck.

Sometimes I sit inside Cerebro--our creation, you know, though I suspect you rue the day you agreed to help me build it--and wonder why I never noticed how very much like you it is. This room is beautiful and quiet and it's never a source of understanding--it provides hints, suggestions, possibilities. Truths like yours are found here, Erik, and I have always been more comfortable with absolutes.

But I sit in here and remember anyway.

The End