Limbo

With the help of Sean and Alex, Little Ororo is one of the first children Charles, using a recently finished Cerebro, manage to recruit into the newly formed School for Gifted Youngsters. She’s a shy one, inquisitive and sharp, and she’s taken a liking to Hank’s laboratory and Charles’ study as well as the small fountain located down the beaten path leading into the gardens. This is where Charles finds her when she refused, for the third time, to come inside for bed even though it’s far past her usual curfew. He can’t help being too soft.

‘Ororo,’ he tries to chastise but he ends up sounding winded instead - travelling across dirt and grass always takes more effort now that he’s in a wheelchair. ‘What have I told you about coming out without a sweater?’ He asks as he unfolds a wool-knit shawl from his lap and drapes it over her bare shoulders.

She doesn’t take her eyes away from the starry night sky as she says to him, ‘it’s not cold, Professor,’ though she thanks him for the extra protection and pulls it closer to her body. 

‘Of course it’s not,’ he can’t help his chuckle as he sets the brakes on his chair and follows her gaze. It was supposed to rain tonight, or be cloudy at least; it doesn’t take much for him to guess that Ororo’s abilities are involved somehow. ‘What are you looking for, my dear?’

‘Beast introduced Astrology into our discussion today,’ she begins as she rocks back and forth from where she sat, her eyes still glued to the stars hanging above them. ‘He showed me how to find the North Star and how to use it to find my way back home if I ever get lost.’

‘That would be very handy indeed,’ he says in agreement and easily finds it just a bit further to the right of the constellation he’d been staring at previously. ‘But if you ever become lost, I’ll do my very best to find you again and guide you home.’

Ororo smiles as she turns her milky eyes to him and extends a hand to hold onto his. ‘Thank you, Professor.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he says softly and squeezes her hand in return.

They continue to watch the night sky and play a small game of counting the constellations as they did, but then suddenly Ororo gasps as she jumps to her feet, almost taking Charles with her, and points to the sky, ‘there!! There it is; a shooting star!’

Charles can’t help the smile on his face, caught up in the trill of her emotions, as she grins happily and looks at him expectantly. ‘You should make a wish,’ he tells her and gives her an encouraging squeeze of their entwined fingers. But she shakes her head as she lays her other hand above his and says to him, voice sad and full of young hope, ‘I don’t have anything to wish for, Professor; I have everything that I need here - I found it for you.’

He tears his eyes away from her and feels his heart ache just as hers ached for him. ‘Thank you, Ororo,’ he says with a quiet shake in his voice as he stares up into the night sky, ‘but I’m afraid it’ll take more than wishing to get what I want.’

Charles wonders where Raven is; if she’s looking up at the same night sky as him.

—

‘Look, Charles, a wishing star!’

‘You should make a wish, Raven.’

‘I don’t need to wish for anything; I already have all that I want,’ she grins, white teeth stark against the blue of her skin, as she turns to him. ‘What about you?’ She asks as she takes his hand in hers.

He smiles as he squeezes her hand and gazes into her golden eyes, ‘me too.’

—

—

Young Hope.

The clock strikes midnight and, immediately, there’s a click coming from the latch on the windows leading into his study. On the second toll of the old grandfather clock just down the hallway, the windows come open and brings in a fresh breeze.

Charles feels the skin on his arms tingle from the sudden coolness and imagines the little goosebumps dotting across them to complement his considerable amount of freckles.

The fading light from the fireplace flickers and glows brightly, renewed by the breath of fresh air, before the embers settle to pulse delicately in its bed of ashes.

A shadow looms by the windows and by the sixth chime, the windows are closed and the latches keep it shut. There’s a stray leaf, or petal of a flower, inside his study but Charles ignores it in favor of the man who’s come to visit him. He tries to smile but barely manages it as he closes the book he’d been engrossed in earlier and gently lays it on his lap to give his visitor his entire attention.

Charles wishes Erik would do the same.

What was only SUPPOSED to be a simple one-shot turned into a small story that ended up expanding to hit a total of 24 parts. GOODNESS GRACIOUS!

ANYWAY, now that’s over…I can concentrate on my diploma course…MEEP! PROCRASTINATION; I’M GOOD AT IT.

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine - Part Ten - Part Eleven - Part Twelve - Part Thirteen - Part Fourteen - Part Fifteen - Part Sixteen - Part Seventeen - Part Eighteen - Part Nineteen - Part Twenty - Part Twenty-One - Part Twenty-Two - Part Twenty-three - Part Twenty-Four (End)

He wakes up with a start, feeling his heart pound furiously in his chest and with the sound of gunshots still echoing in his ear. The muscles in his arms and legs twitch erratically and his body shivers against the feeling of straps, belts and buckles ghosting on his skin. Erik forces himself to breathe, to calm, to take it one step at a time.

One step at a time.

—

He takes Alex’s advice and buys a Wii console because apparently it’s ‘good fun’. By the end of the day, after acing through most of the two games it came with, Erik thinks about returning it.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he buys a black wiitmote and nunchuck to complement the white set.

—

He wakes up with a start, feeling breathless and heaving up lungfuls of air as he stares at his hands and notes they’re not actually covered in blood. He can’t get rid of the slick feeling between his fingers or the weight of clenching them tightly together as his mind continues to count from 1 to 30, 1 to 30. Erik forces himself to breathe, to calm, to take it one step at a time.

One step at a time.

—

He takes Moira’s and Angel’s advice and cleans up his apartment, rearranging the furniture for better ergonomics, putting away items and equipment he doesn’t need into storage and throwing away things he hasn’t used or thought about using or will ever use again into the rubbish chute.

Erik is halfway through his room when he pulls out an old, graying journal with worn edges from his desk drawer. The faded red elastic holding it together snaps from disuse and a stack of papers and photos fall out from within its crinkled pages and flutter to the floor. One photo stands out amongst the rest and it’s a snapshot of his family, whole and intact, taken two days after his eighth birthday.

They’re all smiling in his one and he feels an old, familiar ache in his chest as he bends his knees to pick up the pieces. He runs a finger along the photo’s edge, reverently, as he takes in his mama and his papa, so happy together, and a younger version of himself standing between them with both hands on his shoulders where his parents are holding him close.

He swallows a lump in his throat as he goes to pick up an old photo-frame he meant to throw away, stuffed halfway down a box for later disposal, and slides in the picture of his family between the wood and the glass and leaves it on the shelf in his living room.

Breathe.

—

He wakes up with a start and stumbles to grapple the blinds and bring light into his world. The reflection of the sun is harsh against his eyes but it’s better than the dark, better than the shadows and the swaying light bulb hanging above his head. There are goosebumps dotting across his skin and he furiously rubs a hand behind his neck, on his shoulders and the side of his face to get rid of the shadow’s lingering caress on his skin. Erik forces himself to breathe, to calm, to take it one step at a time.

One step at a time.

—

He takes Oliver’s advice and goes to the driving range, using the given coupon to get him a two-for-one deal for a bucket of (approximately) 100 golf balls. He doesn’t really know how to play golf but he knows his basics - arms straight, knees bent, feet evenly spaced apart. He grabs two golf clubs, a 6-iron and a 7-iron, and hires a driver from the man behind the counter for an extra $5, not including the extra $5 deposit.

Erik uses the first 50 of 200 golf balls as practice; to swing for the sake of swinging and to relieve some extra tension from his body. He uses the next 50 to see how far he can hit them and estimates the yards with each knock, averaging a distance of 125 yards with the 6 and 7-iron, and getting a considerable distance of 200 yards using the driver. He uses the next 50 to practice on his aim and tries to hit the advertisement board sitting up in the middle of the range at around 100 yards in. Out of 50, he only manages to hit it 4 times, overshooting with the rest. He takes his time with the last 50, which actually turns out to be 36, and uses it as a cool-down session.

Erik forces himself to breathe, to calm, to take it one step at a time.

—

It’s all he can do. And he’s OK with that.

—

He’s expecting more paperwork on his table when he returns to work, which doesn’t surprise him because he’s been on enforced leave for 2 weeks and it was bound to pile up eventually. What does surprise him instead is the brunet sitting on a chair right by his desk, his hands lying calmly on his lap and one leg crossed over the knee of his other. Erik pauses two steps into the building, then continues after a skip of his furiously beating heart.