Cherik AU: After Cuba, a severely depressed Charles Xavier has been kidnapped and brainwashed by a secret CIA unit. Having his legs back, he uses his powers to locate and kill CIA targets. Erik starts looking for him, despite being one of the major targets. [Inspired by POST]
"Charles, what did they do to you?”
"Who the hell is Charles?"
(Okay, so this prompt kind of got under my skin and I decided to write a bit for it; might turn into something more later on. I hope it’s okay!)
The first bullet took Erik by surprise. It sliced clean through his right shoulder, and he managed to move just quick enough for the second bullet to simply slice across his upper arm. The bullets weren’t metal; he couldn’t sense them, and the gun that fired them was as absent in his periphery as the bullets themselves. The conclusion was obvious: someone designed a weapon specifically to counter his control over metal. Whoever it was, they were serious about killing him.
Erik sought the first bit of cover he could, behind a concrete pillar. He clamped a hand as tightly as he could manage over the cut on his arm; he had to find a way to staunch the bleeding. If he had to fight to get away, the injury could prove incredibly detrimental. Erik had no clue who was attacking him, and therefore had no clue as to what was the best way to go about fighting back. He hated fighting blind; that was part of the reason he was here, trying to get a hold of certain sensitive documents that would make his mission much simpler.
His opponent was likely a CIA operative. Handy with a pistol, trained in dealing with him—the only explanation for the non-metal weaponry—but beyond that, Erik didn’t know. The assailant was almost certainly human; the CIA would never employ a mutant. Enslave one, perhaps, but what sort of mutant would go in with something as idiotic as a gun? Unless the mutant in question was some level of telepath or other psionic and therefore had to rely on methods beyond their mutations to take him down. He wasn’t wearing the helmet; it caused too much notice and he needed to be a subtle as he could manage. Raven was his man on the inside, but contact with her had been severed suddenly three hours ago. Aside from the documents, he needed to make sure Raven was okay.
Something brushed against his mind—something so very familiar that Erik felt his heart stop for a brief moment—before another gunshot echoed through the parking garage. Erik threw himself to the floor and scrambled away. He looked around, trying to figure out where his attacker was located.
All he could see was Charles, on his feet and as beautiful as the day he’d broken Erik’s heart. A bit of hope soared in his chest, swiftly followed by concern. He didn’t care at the moment how Charles was walking—or why he was at the CIA—but he was very much aware that someone with a gun was currently attacking him with bullets he couldn’t redirect. And damn him if he let Charles get hurt again.
“Get out of here,” he demanded. Charles would probably insist on helping him—he was a good man like that, selfless and selfish all at once and…he was lifting a gun. A gun Erik couldn’t sense.
Charles aimed and pulled the trigger, Erik barely managing to dodge. Charles, what the hell are you doing?
Just as soon as he projected the thought, he felt Charles reach into his mind and take control. Erik couldn’t move, could barely breathe, and he could hear Charles getting closer. In some ways it felt similar to the first time Charles got into his head: all-consuming, Charles utterly surrounding him—but now Charles’s telepathy was as sharp and painful as Emma’s, perhaps even more so. There was no comfort, there was no warmth—it as though all of Charles’s love and enthusiasm for his mutation had been cut away from him.
The utterly blank look on Charles’s face was severely unsettling; try as he might, he couldn’t find so much as a hint of the cheerful, loving professor he’d once known. What had happened to Charles? How was he still alive? How was he walking? And why hadn’t he reacted to Erik?
A door slammed open, and both Erik and Charles looked to see Raven—gloriously blue and covered in dust—rushing through it. Her cover must have been blown, then. She froze as soon as she saw Charles, her fool’s gold eyes widening in shock.
The reaction was instant: Charles aimed and pulled the trigger with a speed that he honestly shouldn’t have. Erik could rationalize Charles shooting him—retribution for the bullet Erik had redirected into his back—but shooting Raven? What the fuck had happened?
Raven didn’t move, too stunned by Charles and the fact that he’d shot at her to move. A little cry was all that escaped as the bullet slammed into her chest. Erik struggled against Charles’s hold on him. Charles! That’s enough!
“Who the fuck is Charles,” he asked, cold blue eyes locked with Erik’s.
Erik reached out to Emma, demanding she send Azazel to fetch them, all while everything else seemed to crumble around him. Charles…something was seriously wrong with him. Azazel was quick and efficient, first materializing behind Charles and delivering a sharp blow to a particular pressure point, knocking the telepath unconscious and allowing Erik freedom of movement again.
“Get Mystique,” Erik ordered, struggling to his feet. “He landed what I’m sure is a critical injury.”
The teleporter was two steps ahead of him, already at Raven’s side before Erik had finished speaking.
“She needs immediate medical attention,” Azazel reported, gathering her up in his arms. “She probably shouldn’t even be moved.”
“No time for delicacy,” Erik reminded, striding over to his associate. “Get us out of here.”
Sparing a look back at Charles, who was already starting to come out of unconsciousness, and narrowed his eyes. Erik needed answers. He needed to find out what exactly had happened to Charles after Cuba. The Charles he’d known would never have fired a gun at him, and especially not at Raven. And there was what Charles had said: Who the fuck is Charles?
Erik had never been so relieved to see Emma Frost in the entirety of their association.