skull_bearer | Present Perfect 2/? (Reply)

Present Perfect

Chapter Two

Later part nicked shamelessly from Uncanny X-men: Legion Quest. But as that has Charles and Erik being massively homoerotic in Israel I think I'm entitled; particularly since it involves the phrase, I kid you not: 'Fourteen sailors later...'

The outside is bright and deafening and too fast. Charles closes his eyes, trying to sort through the noise and the thoughts. Erik touches his hand and the worst of it fades, leaving him blinking in the dazzling early morning light. Tel Aviv is white. White houses, white sunlight, white dusty streets. Charles shades his eyes, even this early the heat is like having a bucket of sunlight poured over you. It's not yet burning though, and Charles will never complain of the heat.

It's their first time in the city since they arrived, one hot night where they had to wait at the docks while the patients were taken to the hospital in their one and only truck. It hadn't been this noisy. It hadn't been this bright.

The street the hospital is in is fairly quiet, but they can hear the noise of the main roads close by. There's a market, Allens had told them, and the fruit he had ordered wouldn't arrive until tomorrow, could they please-

At least he hadn't suggested they go separately. And sooner or later they would have to face the world. Charles would prefer it be later than sooner. Beside him, he saw Erik's jaw flex as he swallowed and jerked his head forwards, rag and bone defiance against the world that made Charles feel a little better. It's a loud and huge world before them, a world that has no reason to pay any attention to them. He tugs at Erik's hand, he can feel his friend trying to search everywhere for anything threatening. Erik blinks, and looks down, slightly embarrassed.

"I don't think we can be in any danger here." Charles says softly as they start walking towards the source of the din - the marketplace.

Erik nods, and looks up when a car whips past them, Charles can feel his mind trying to feel and catalogue all the parts. One day you'll do that and the wheels will fall off, he sends, and Erik gives a small smile.

"I wanted to see interesting places when I was younger," Charles continues, they really should get used to talking out loud, "I liked the idea of coming here, seeing some of the places I'd read about. Laurence of Arabia, you know."

"No I don't." Erik's still smiling. "Tell me about him."

It's odd, having a conversation with Erik like this, trying to remember bits of the Seven Pillars of Wisdom he read five years ago now. It feels a little fake, and part of Charles thinks it would be much easier just taking short cuts and showing Erik directly. But they do need to talk more, their voices are getting rusty from lack of use, and he missed the warm burr of Erik's accent when he speaks English. Their thoughts are without language, just meaning, and it's a luxury to hear him talk. Erik's never read the Seven Pillars of Wisdom, but he had read some books on Palestine, and as they walk together talking quietly about the strange new land they've found themselves in, Charles realises that if he angles his and Erik's thoughts just so, he can block the past out and reflect nothing but here and now, like a hall of mirrors.

It doesn't work very well, and it jars and breaks easily, but the world suddenly seems quite a bit brighter there's less to fear around them.

Erik blinks, looking around him. "Thank you." He sounds a little stunned. "You did that?"

Charles gives him a small smile, feeling lighter and happier than he has in a long time. It seems as though his strange skills could be useful after all.

"I did tell you." Erik's being too smug, Charles gives him a mental flick and he just smiles.

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The trick Charles has used isn't perfect, the moment a car goes past with a coughing roar that makes them jump it shatters and Charles has to piece it back together. But it calms the constant fear that he doesn't even bother noticing now, and keeps them both calm, but isn't so oppressive that it would keep them from noticing danger. It's a good feeling, and Charles is looking much brighter already, relieved that his abilities could help them.

Are you forgetting this? Erik taps the side of his head, Because I'm not doing it. Charles smiles, the expression coming much easier and causing Erik's heart to jump. Their hands brush as they reach the marketplace.

The market is nothing but noise, and Charles simply cannot maintain the shield he made, it's constantly breaking under the onslaught of a thousand voices, the crunch of wheels, the screaming of chickens in their baskets. I'm sorry *stupiduselesscan'teven-*

- if they'd been alone Erik would have kissed him to make the string of self-loathing stop. You are none of those things. I'm the one being scared by goats. He glares at the offending animal, which tries to eat his sleeve.

He can feel himself curling up under the weight of memories, forcing himself forwards away from them, and feel Charles' new confidence vanish them both go back to their old places of pressed up against each other.

I'll get better at this, I promise. We'll never be scared of going out again.

It would be nice. His spine is sore from the constant tension in his body by the time they reach the fruit seller and buy the basket of oranges, limes and peaches Nurse Gunther wanted. Charles hesitates over a small pot of strawberries.

Go on.

It's not my money.

It isn't as though they're expensive, and I'm making them a radio.

Charles hesitates, them smiles and buys the strawberries too. He sends Erik an image of the two of them in their room, on the bed, which no clothes and strawberries and Erik hopes his blush will be put down to the morning's heat.

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It's a relief to head away from the noise and back into the shadows of the alleys. The bags are not too heavy - or perhaps the work in the hospital is making them stronger - and it's good to be out of the sun. The roads seem almost deserted after the marketplace, with only a few old women standing in the doorways or on the balconies, and some of Tel Aviv's countless scrawny cats sunning themselves on the walls and pavement. It's easy to bring the shields back up and they both relax a little.

Erik catches Charles' arm, almost making him drop the oranges. Across the road is a dusty brick building, it's doors open despite the heat of the day, and the word 'Library' written above the door in English, Hebrew and Arabic.

You wanted books. Erik's thoughts are a little hesitant, and a little impish.

Charles nods, "I'd like to go there. Later. When we have time."

Erik doesn't seem to want to continue their conversation, and they lapse into comfortable silence. Charles watches Erik think over what they could find in the library. maybe there would be a book on how he could get the motorcycle working. He has been able to clean it up, but there seems to be pieces missing. Maybe with a book he could find out what they were and find them - or make them: an image of metal twisting above his hands, the warm comfort of his- their-

Powers? Charles suggests, Abilities? Skills? 'Curse' goes unmentioned and besides, it's becoming less applicable now.

Erik shakes his head. There is no word for what they can do, and if there was it would have to contain the wonder and the fear and the control and lack of it, the terror of what they'd seen in the camp hospital, and the comfort of hearing each other in their own heads. There's no word big enough. It would crumble with the effort.

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And time passes in a warm, sand coloured blur and it's good. The patients sleep like children the moment Charles walks into the wards now, the radio is finished although only Erik can get it to stay on any one station, and the motorcycle is taking shape. They wake every morning entangled in each other's arms and there is no better way, Erik is sure, of waking up. The food is simple but good, the work quiet and peaceful. Allens and Gunther leave them alone, and the other nurses pass through regularly, leaving them the four permanent staff members.

Any spare time they have is usually spent in the back, where Erik slowly picks and cleans and reshapes the Ariel motorcycle into something which might just work. Charles reads to them both from books they borrow from the library, never aloud, but the words echo through both their heads. Books on long gone history and medical sciences Erik only barely pays attention to, and fiction sometimes. H.G. Wells is found, a dusty paperback behind some stacks, and one evening in October Charles finally finishes War of the Worlds, nearly four years since he started it. He closes the book with a snap, and Erik smiles, still bent over the Ariel, cleaning out the carburettor handlessly.

"Was it worth the wait?"

He can feel Charles smile, a tickle like bubbles in the back of his mind. "I don't know. Did you like it?"

He nods, it's a distraction, and an absurd one at that. When Charles was reading, he can focus on the motorcycle and the sun beating down on the shields in their minds, it's so easy to just freeze the moment and let it stretch on forever, endlessly reflected, until the past is drowned out by sunlight on sand and metal. There is nothing beyond this moment, and Erik does not want there to be.

Charles puts the books down and slides closer, putting an arm around Erik's shoulders. "You've got oil in your hair."

Erik's fringe is long enough to start getting in his eyes now, he's been brushing it back impatiently all day. Haircut. He sends with a smirk.

Never. I'll wash the oil off myself. An image of the two of them in the spare tub they have upstairs.

Erik sends back a unshaped thought, the gist of it being that Charles cannot win every argument with sex.

The only way I ever win arguments with you. Charles kisses the back of his neck.

Erik relaxes, and Charles runs the knuckles of one hand down his spine. His back has been bothering him less now. He's spent so much time lifting patients, groceries and the Ariel that perhaps his muscles have finally gotten used to it.

It's getting dark, although neither of them are tired. It's such a good feeling, not feeling tired all the time. The evening looks like it will be a pleasant one. Can I tear you away from your debauchery to go for a walk first?

"Say that in English." Charles gets up and hold out his hand to help Erik up.

Erik snorts, wiping his grubby hands on an old rag. His spoken English is stammered and still uncertain, although he's fluent in his own head. He lets Charles pull him to his feet. Another few days and they'd be able to drive out of a evening. They could go out of the city and along the coast, where they'd meet no one and spend an evening completely alone.

"I'm looking forward to that." Charles puts a hand to his head. It would be nice to have some peace. Although the patients are no longer a problem, when they go out Charles still needs to touch Erik to drown out the outside world before it overwhelms him.

Luckily, at this time the streets are quiet. They've gotten into the habit of going out around this time, when Allens and Gunther are doing their evening rounds and don't need their help. It's still warm, it's dark, and it's quiet. A way of exploring the city without testing Charles' still fragile shields.

"The seafront?" Charles suggests. An image of a moonlit night over the sea, and the two of them on the beach.

Romantic. Erik smiles, not trusting his tongue with the syllables.

More images, a jumble of them. Candlelit dinners, roses, bad poetry. Erik's laugh is as rusty as the carburettor he was cleaning.

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The beach is thoroughly romantic, even Erik had to admit it as they walk along the boulevard. It's almost a full moon, larger than Charles has ever seen it, and so bright it almost drowns out the stars. The sea reflects silver, only small waves in the still evening, and they walk along in silence, hand in hand, heads full of the warm burr of each other, and the sounds of the sea. Late as it is, there's hardly anyone around.

They walk a little further than they're used to, leaving the walkway and going down to the beach, their shoes scuffing sand as they walk. There are a few cheap bars at this end of the beach, their lights shining grimy gold in the near-darkness.

"Do you want to go in?"

Charles grimaces at the thought. If only out of some last gasp of upper-class pride he'd thought died long ago. "We don't have any money." Allens has been considering paying them, but the last check has been delayed, and they're are penniless as ever.

"You could make them buy you drinks." It's more of a tease than a suggestion.

"I'd hate to think what they'd serve there."

Erik shrugs. He's about to turn around when a sort of madness suddenly hits Charles. He doesn't want to go in because there will be people, there will be noise, and he is so sick of being scared all the time. It's just a bar, and even if they don't buy anything, Charles refuses to be afraid of a bar of all things. "Oh, damn it. Come on." He tugs at Erik's sleeve.

Erik grins, and Charles gets a flash that if anyone bothered them, Erik would pull out all the nails holding the bar together and the shack would fall in. Charles grins back.

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The bar is dark and dusty, but not as sordid as Charles obviously thought. Most of the people here are around their age - which makes it even stranger. The only people of their age they know are the patients - and there's something approximating jazz being played by a man sitting on the floor, with a flute. At least Erik thinks he's sitting on the floor, but a second look reveals the old British uniform, the scars, the wheeled board, the missing legs. He flinches away and mentally kicks himself, when it comes to war wounds this man's probably in a better state than they are.

No one pays any notice to them, other than a quick glance to see who's come in. It's ridiculously pleasant not to stand out any more, to know that the marks of their shared past are no longer visible to all. They're still underfed and dressed poorly, but then the war's just finished and who isn't? They sit, not in a corner, because Charles seems to want to prove something to himself and Erik is happy to let him, but along the wall beside the bar, close to the flute-player.

Charles gives him a somewhat shy smile, and rubs the side of his face. "I would never have been allowed in places like this."

Erik glances around again, it is hardly classy, and more than a little noisy with the flute music and the loud talking of a lot of drunken young people, but it is quite pleasant. More than you would expect from the beach. "A bad influence?"

Charles twists a little in his chair, comfortable while being uncomfortable but he's enjoying this and that's the important part. Not the places I am used to. Flashes of bars, mostly those in Oxford, all smoke and polished wood.

You will have to take me there someday.

"Maybe I will." They've shifted together until their shoulders are rubbing. They're not really talking. Just doing something to fill the time here. We might even have money for a drink then. Slightly wistful, it's been a long walk.

Well, in that case... Erik hesitates, then smiles, and a few coins slide along the floor into his hand.

Charles hasn't even begun to frown before he sends. Just off the floor. People always drop things. Allens found his stethoscope in the potato bucket after three days of looking. No one knows how it got there.

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There's enough for two glasses of lemonade, and they drink, mentally talking about nothing in particular when the soldier finishes his rather odd jazz rendition and offer his hat for coins. Charles reaches a hand over the little change they got back, sending a mental '?' to Erik for confirmation. Erik shrugs. It's not enough to buy anything anyway.

He turns to drop the coins in the man's hat, trying not to wince at picking up notmuchohwell-betterthanbeinghome-crippleuselessdeadweightshametothefamily- a glimmer of a farm never to be seen again. Charles slides a hand under the table to take Erik's and the echoes stop.

Even Erik's thoughts can't drown out the snickers of the people around them. He still can't understand most of it, but the mockery in their voices is obvious.

He is British, one of the occupying forces. He is the symbol of everything standing between them and homeland/holyland/freedom/justice/safety. He is crippled. He is weak. They are strong. Their voices roar in his head and it's everything Charles can do not to make them stop like he had the patients.

He doubles over, head on the table, hands at his temples to stop his head splitting. Erik's hand tightens and he puts an arm around Charles, and even that can't stop the noise.

The crowd - he can't even pick out individuals, it's just The Crowd - snicker and jeer in languages Charles still can't understand, and toss coins around the old soldier, making him crawl on the floor to reach them. There's a juddering spike of pain that brings tears to his eyes, and it's from the soldier - pleasepleasepleasedon'tlaughpleasedon't.

Erik has had enough and it trying to get Charles to his feet, wanting to get them out. His mind is an island of quiet in the malicious din, images of the night-dark sea, the sand, the moon, the two of them alone on the beach far from this place.

Charles pushes him off, shaking his head, trying to clear it from the noise, trying to breathe. A fat man pushes past him, stinking of whiskey and empties a glass of beer over the soldier's head. That brief touch is enough to push a hoard of vile thoughts into Charles's head, and he staggers again, blinded with the man's eagerness to hurt and images of a dark corner far from anywhere, and the stupidweakcripple, and then boots, good hard working boots with steel tips to teach him a lesson.

Charles wants to run, to run and hide and probably be sick at some point. He does none of these things because something inside him Charles didn't even know was there just snaps and the world is suddenly encased in ice, cold and clear and still.

The heavy brute is still standing above the soldier, holding his empty glass of beer, the soldier is still on the floor, soaked through and trying to hold back tears of frustration and anger, The Crowd are still around them, laughing. Erik is still at his shoulder, reaching to pull him away before the mob turns on them. There's no sound but a dull roar in his ears and the thoughts have finally been tuned out to static.

He takes two steps towards the big man, who turns to face him, face already twisting up in a sneer whatyougonnadobaldfreak, and Erik is starting to move behind him, whether to drag Charles away or attack the man not even Erik knows. The Crowd is laughing, laughing because the man tops even him by two inches and outweighs him ten times over. Charles just reaches out a hand, not even sure what he's doing himself, and grabs hold of the man's hand, the hand holding the mug.

And instead of the man's revolting thoughts pouring into him, they pour out instead. All the soldier's pain, all The Crowd's mockery, all the man's lust for violence for no other reason than he's strong and they're weak. It pours out of him in a flood, and Charles blinks, suddenly feeling empty, as though surfacing from far underwater.

The man goes down and doesn't move. Charles doesn't feel anything from him now, just a burnt empty whiteness. The soldier scoots back from the still bulk, his horror red hot knives in Charles' raw mind. The Crowd are staring at him, disbelief a mottled sheet hanging between them. The bartender, who hadn't said a word or made a move to stop the exchange, has dropped his glass. It shatters on the wooden boards.

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Erik is no mind reader like Charles, but he can read violence when he sees it. The brute is out cold - or whatever Charles did to him - and he can see several well-built men starting to advance on them, probably friends of said brute. Erik grabs Charles, who seems too shell-shocked to move, and drags him towards the door, throwing out his mind as he does so.

It's not particularly focused on anything, but it's enough to throw the scattered coins in the faces of their aggressors and drag down a fair chunk of the roof as the nails are ripped out and everyone is showered with pits of wood and tar paper.

It's a distraction, and they run. Charles stumbles, then seems to come to himself and races out, their shoes kicking up sand as they race. The world's blur and Erik doesn't think he's ever moved this fast, then crash up to the road overlooking the beach and down the streets into the town going anywhere but here. They could have outrun their pursuers long ago or they could be just behind them or they could be being chased by guards and Charles's dogs for all they know-

They are finally forced to stop when they race down a blind alley and plough into a dead end. Erik's shoulder hits the brick and he spins around, breath screaming in his lungs. The moonlit street sways dangerously under his feet and black dots blink in front of his eyes. He slides to the ground and Charles collapsed beside him, both gasping and panting and almost sobbing from shock. They are completely alone.