Archive of Our Own ^beta

February 28, 2004

It was supposed to be an ordinary day, unremarkable in every possible way—a day that should have come and gone without consequence. The kind of day that blended into the fabric of routine, slipping by unnoticed. At least, that was what Erik had expected when he stepped outside for a walk. The air was cool and sharp against his skin, the faint scent of damp earth lingering after last night’s rain. He told himself he needed the fresh air, needed the space.

In truth, he was suffocating.

They argued again. Over the phone, of all things—such a fragile tether to hold their voices, their frustrations, their love and anger all tangled together in brittle wires. What was it about this time? Erik tried to remember as his boots pressed into the gravel path, the rhythmic crunch almost soothing. He searched his memory and came up empty. It was laughable, really. All those words, all that heat, all those curses and now he couldn’t even name the reason.

These days, arguments seemed to bloom out of nowhere like weeds in the ex-neighbor’s neglected garden. One sharp remark, one sigh that lingered too long, and suddenly the air between them would spark and burn. Any little thing, really—a missed call, a careless tone, a forgotten promise—could spiral into a full-blown fight where they would do shouting matches in front of their phones. It didn’t even matter who started it anymore. 

Erik was angry at him, they were both stressed and their stubborn self wasn't helping. And yet, when on the outside people could think their marriage was crumbling, it was still held on by a single rope called denial. Or maybe, just maybe, it's still named love. 

Is being afraid that your other half never wants to come home and crave his affection when he comes back like a starving man in a desert with a bottle of water still considering loving? For Erik, yes. 

But there was frustration in his situation too. He hated feeling dependent on someone else, feeling like an abandoned puppy each time the airplane flew away. Feeling that small in a king sized bed in a master bedroom all alone. 

Erik knew Charles was currently playing his match. The big one. A few years ago he would’ve been glued to his post, looking at the soccer player like some kind of hero with a grin on his face and stars in his eyes–but now he felt like seeing Charles, even through a screen would ruin his mood even more.

Never meet your hero, they say.

It was at this moment, while Erik’s mind was in dark place, his phone started buzzing inside his pocket, he stopped abruptly in his angry speed walk and pulled the device out of the denim.

It wasn’t a number he had in his contacts. 

It could be anyone except the person he wanted to shout at and since he had nothing else to do. Against better judgement he answered.

“Hello?” 

“Mr. Lensherr?” An unfamiliar voice answered, pretty formal at the tone. Erik hummed in confirmation letting a small silence settle while the man on the other end of the phone was looking through papers. 

“We are calling you because you are the only number in Mr. Charles Xavier’s contacts,” the man informed.

Erik was confused by that, why are they calling about Charles? Why does that person have access to Charles’s contacts? “What is it? Some kind of cannula?" he snapped, his voice sharp, suspicious. Maybe it was a scam. Maybe some idiot thought this was funny-

 “I'm afraid not, it’s the emergency department of St. Mary Hospital of LA, California, Sir. Your husband Mr Xavier has been brought in an hour ago. He’s stable now but in a critical condition.”

For a second, Erik couldn’t breathe. The words didn’t make sense—they couldn’t make sense. His stomach dropped, he felt like a bucket of ice just got thrown at him.

“What—what happened?” His voice broke, confusion and fear tangling in his throat.

“An accident on the field.” The man explained, “I can’t give too much detail on the phone…” The man kept talking, giving him the reason and reassurance about Charles' health but Erik was listening with only one ear, his mind already on getting back to the mansion, taking the car and driving to the nearby airport. His heart was beating like drums. His feet carrying him towards the mansion.

“I’ll be there.” Erik rasped, “I don’t know when I will be there, I'm in New York but I’ll be there, I'm coming right now.”

There was a pause on the line, the doctor sounding almost surprised when he said, “Understood, sir. I’ll let the team know you’re on your w-.” Erik hangs up the phone. his pulse hammering in his ears. New York to L.A. didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting to Charles.

It’s when he had the mansion keys in hand that he remembered he’s supposed to pick up the kids from school in four hours.

He called Magda, again and again but each time he was sent to the voicemail.

Damnit. 

He pulled up in front of the school minutes later, hazard lights flashing. He barely threw the car into park before he was out, slamming the door and locking it without thinking. Nothing else mattered—not the stares from passing parents, not the ache in his chest—only getting the kids to Magda and then making it straight to the hospital.

By the time he reached the front office, he was breathless. He hit the counter harder than he meant to and demanded to know where his four children were and to be called over here. The secretary stammered, flipping through papers, and the seconds stretched unbearably. Every vague answer felt like a deliberate attempt to waste his time.

Jean appeared with a backpack in hand, so did Lorna. Wanda arrived a few minutes late guided by a teacher, a confused expression on her face. 

Peter was nowhere to be found. Of course. He went to hide somewhere the moment the aides received the message.

Erik paced the corridor like a caged animal, snapping at anyone who got too close.  

He barked at one of Peter’s teachers for "letting" the boy hide, even though deep down he knew it wasn’t really their fault, or Peter’s.

After reaching out, Jean explained that Peter was hiding in the toilets because he thought Erik was there to pick him up for a dentist appointment. She then proposed to go fetch him, Erik nodded briefly. 

At last—after what felt like an eternity—Jean appeared at the end of the hallway, one hand holding Peter’s. The boy trailed beside her, head down, his steps slow and reluctant. His eyes were red and puffy, his nose raw from rubbing.

Erik seized Peter by the wrist—too roughly, though he didn’t realize it until later—and dragged him toward the car. The girls trailed behind in silence, their small footsteps quick to keep up. He didn’t speak, couldn’t speak; the only sound was the pounding in his ears and the scuff of shoes on the floor. Ignoring the stare and glares of parents.

Once the doors slammed shut and the car swallowed them in tense silence, he saw it—the angry red marks blooming against Peter’s slightly tanned skin. A curse slipped from his lips, low and sharp, guilt flashing hot in his chest. But there was no time to apologize.

He jammed the keys into the ignition, hands shaking so hard it took three tries and five big swear words before the engine roared to life. Then he was tearing out of the parking lot, tires squealing, heart hammering like a war drum, dread sitting heavy and bitter at the back of his throat.

Hours passed. The kids, sensing the heavy mood, stayed quiet in the backseat. Jean pressed her forehead against the window, watching the city lights blur by. Lorna sat stiffly beside her, hands folded in her lap.

Only Peter broke the silence.

"Where are we going?" he asked, kicking his feet against the seat. "Is it a surprise? Are we going on a trip?"

Erik didn’t answer. He couldn't. His throat felt tight, his mind too full. 

Peter kept going, undeterred. "Is it the airport? Are we picking up someone? Is it for Charles? Did he win the game? Can we have ice cream?"

Thankfully Lorna gave him a sharp kick of elbow in his ribs and threatened to ‘spit on him if he didn’t shut up’. Erik kept stabbing at his phone, calling Magda again and again—once, twice, ten times—but every attempt went to voicemail. Each unanswered ring tightened the vise around his chest. It felt like drowning, like the world had decided to watch him sink. Damn it all.

Someone up there had to be laughing at him.

By the time they hit the airport doors, he had the kids practically glued to his sides, herding them through the crowds with sharp, hurried motions. Every second bled away too fast. Every delay tasted like failure.

At the ticket counter, he didn’t waste a breath on politeness. “Four tickets,” he snapped, voice raw. “The next flight to Los Angeles.”

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and old cold coffee.

Erik paced the corridor outside the emergency wing, the soles of his boots squeaking faintly against the linoleum floor. The kids sat huddled together on a row of hard plastic chairs, silent, their faces pale under the flickering fluorescent lights. Jean fidgeted restlessly on her bracelet, Peter swinging his legs and gripping a Pokémon book he found, Lorna stayed perfectly still on her chair, no bratty comment.

No one said anything. There was nothing left to say.

Every few seconds, Erik's head snapped toward the double doors at the end of the hall, waiting for a doctor, a nurse, someone to come through. Each time, it was someone else. A janitor. A woman in scrubs carrying files. An elderly man shuffling along with a cane.

Not Charles.

Not anyone who mattered.

He wanted to tear the whole place apart with his mutation. Break every clock, every metallic chair, every smugly silent wall until someone gives him an answer.

But he couldn’t.

Not with the kids watching.

Erik raked a hand through his white hair, tugging hard at the roots. His chest felt tight, every breath a shallow, painful drag. His mind raced with all the worst-case scenarios, each one darker than the last.

Maybe he was still too late. Maybe Charles was—

No.

He shut the thought down viciously. No.

Hours ticked by and the waiting was slowly killing him, just staying in a hospital like that was giving him goosebumps. It’s reminded him of his mom, it’s reminded him of Suzanne-

He aggressively blinked the tears that were coming out, stinging his eyes like wasps, but he knew they would come out anyway.

At last, the double doors swung open with a quiet hiss.

A doctor stepped out. A woman this time, maybe late thirties, her scrubs wrinkled and her hair tucked under a cap. She spotted them immediately and started toward them, clipboard pressed tight against her chest.

Erik froze.

Something in the way she walked—too slow, too careful—sent ice straight down his spine.

He glanced at Jean. She must have seen it too, because she tightened her grip on Lorna’s hand until the little green haired girl winced. Peter’s restless feet finally stilled. The whole corridor seemed to hold its breath.

The doctor stopped a few feet away.
She didn’t speak right away.
Instead, she gave them that look—that soft, terrible look Erik knew too well, the one people wear when they're about to say something that will break you.

“No,” Erik said sharply, before she could open her mouth. His voice echoed too loudly against the sterile walls. "No. He's stable. You said he was stable."

The doctor’s mouth tightened, as if she could feel the words cutting through her too. She glanced down at the clipboard, then back up, her face a portrait of practiced sorrow.

"I’m sorry," she said gently. "We did everything we could. His condition worsened suddenly. A massive internal bleeding from his brain. We tried to revive him, but..."

She didn’t have to finish.
She didn’t need to say the word.
The silence left in its place was loud enough.

For a moment, nobody moved.
The kids just stared, blank-faced, too young to fully understand, too old to not feel the air shift around them.

Erik's knees nearly buckled. He gripped the back of a chair to steady himself, his breath rattling in and out of his lungs like a broken machinery. “No,” he rasped.

Peter tugged at Jean's sleeve, voice curious and confused. "What does she mean? Where's Dad?"

Jean didn’t answer, her mouth agape. Wanda just pulled Peter closer, her eyes shining with tears she refused to shed in front of her innocent, confused twin. Even Lorna was mute staring into nothing. 

Erik didn't realize he was shaking until he tried to stand and almost stumbled like his legs were two shaking sticks. His whole body was vibrating with it, rage and grief crashing together in brutal waves in a way that left him hollow. Denial was scrambling his thoughts in a way to protect himself. No he can’t be, Charles is fine and they are all overreacting, Charles was just pulling on his leg, making a very bad joke to make him the one apologizing again. Charles played an actress, a hidden camera, SOMETHING. 

He pushed forward, his legs controlling him more than he was controlling them. “I have to see him,” he called hoarsely, already walking fast towards the room, the doctor at his heels.

“Sir! Sir it’s not a good idea-”

Erik didn’t hear her.

Or maybe he did, but he didn’t care. Everything was too blurry in his mind to care about his surroundings. 

The hallways blurred around him as he barreled forward, his legs moving too fast, too clumsily, barely connected to his mind. He slammed through the next set of doors, the crash echoing through the sterile air.

Nurses looked up from their stations. A security guard said something sharp and loud, but Erik kept going, heart pounding against his ribs so violently it hurt.

He found the right room by sheer instinct. Or by that familiar pull towards the golden ring he made himself.

And then—he stopped. Frozen in the doorway.

Charles lay motionless on the hospital bed, surrounded by machines that had already been turned off. Tubes had been pulled out. Monitors dark, silent. A thin, white sheet covered him up to the chest. His face was too pale, too still, almost like he was sleeping.

But he wasn’t. Not really, not anymore.

Even in this moment Erik’s brain found the force to denial, his hand came to shake the corpse gently.

He’s asleep, Erik told himself. He’s just asleep. He’ll wake up any second now and call me an idiot and laugh at me. Erik stumbled forward, his hands trembling violently.

“Charles, wake up…” He croaked that order. He reached out and touched Charles' hand.

Cold. So cold it burned.

Erik flinched back like he’d been electrocuted, shaking his head fiercely. "No. No, get up," he muttered, grabbing Charles' hand again, squeezing it hard enough to hurt. "Charles, get up. Stop messing around. I’m not mad anymore, just—just wake up."

Silence.

The monitors had already been turned off. There was no beeping, no fluttering line on a screen to give him hope. Only the brutal, immovable stillness of death. 

"No," Erik breathed out, a shaky, broken sound, stumbling even closer like a drunk man. "No, no, no—"

His whole body recoiled in horror, but then he lunged again, gripping Charles' shoulders, shaking him hard enough to jostle the whole bed.

"Get up! Get up, Charles!" he barked, voice raw, panicked. "You're not funny, do you hear me?! Enough! Wake the fuck up!"

Charles didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch.

Erik slapped his cheek, not hard but sharp, desperate to provoke some reaction.
Nothing. There was barely the mark of his palm on his pallid cheek. He half-sobbed, half-screamed and shook him harder, wild, frantic. The scalpel blades, syringes and other metallic objects started to shook just as wildly.

"You stubborn bastard! You can’t do this—you don’t get to do this!" His voice cracked, high and ragged. "You can’t leave! You can’t leave me!Not you too!”

Footsteps rushed in behind him—the doctor, a nurse—but Erik didn’t hear them, didn’t see them.

He dropped down over Charles, clutching him against his chest, rocking him like a child, like if he just held him tightly enough, he could pull him back from wherever he was gone.

"Please," he gasped against Charles’ hair, his voice infinitely softer now. "Please, Liebeling, please just wake up. Yell at me, argue with me, anything. Just open your eyes. Please—"

Strong hands tried to pull him away, gentle at first. "Sir—you need to—please, come with us—"

Erik snarled, twisting violently out of their grasp. "Don’t touch me! Don't touch him!" He yelled. The metal around twisted violently, wheeling table violently bumping into the staff members, making them recoil away from him.

He buried his face in Charles' cold chest again, shuddering with the force of the sobs he couldn’t control anymore. His hands fisted helplessly into the hospital gown, into the fabric, into anything he could hold onto.

This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real.

But the body in his arms was cold, and heavy, and so terribly, terribly still. Why does it have to happen to them, to him? What are the chances to end up double widowed, divorced and orphans before he even reaches his forty? That wasn't fair, it wasn’t fair at all.

"Wake up," he pleaded again, his voice collapsing into a whisper. "Please, Charles. Please, I love you, I always loved you."

The only sound was Erik’s broken breathing and the soft whimpering of his children just outside the door.

But Charles stayed still.

Silent.

And gone.

(Write chapter two if not flopped)