Summary: Erik ruminates on Charles' visits to his cell after he's taken into custody. Warning for implications of physical/psychological harm, and one reference to suicide. Title is from Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game." Somebody suggested it as an Erik/Charles song the other day over at erik_charles or oldfriends, and ... they're right, it's kind of perfect.

No One Could Save Me But You

You can hear the procession that accompanies his visit well before he's actually there with you; the clean slide of plastic, the various non-metal devices all carefully put in place to keep you where you are. It's a laughable amount of effort, you think, especially considering how easy it would be to circumvent all of it the moment somebody is the least bit careless, but for now, it is your prison, and the man being put through a series of metal detection devices at the moment is your only visitor, and the only person you both love and loathe to see.

The first time he came, he brought gifts, a small paper bag that he then unloaded meticulously in various locations around the small room. You finger the dog-eared copy of 'The Once and Future King' from that visit now, smoothing your hand over the page before carefully inserting the bit of paper you've been using as a bookmark between the pages. When he finally does arrive, you offer the same greeting you have at the beginning of every visit, and he returns it with his own well-practiced rejoinder: "Charles Xavier. Have you come to rescue me?"

"Sorry, Erik, not today." There's always a sadness to these exchanges; Charles pities you, you can see it in his soft gaze, in the way he seems to be cataloguing the graying of your hair, the lines in your face. He knows, or thinks he knows, how cut off you must feel from yourself without metal constantly at your fingertips, the way you'd have it if you were free, and you can see it etched into his expression as his eyes sweep over you and his fingertips drum softly against the arms of his chair. He's uncomfortable seeing you like this, you know. His concern annoys you; at the same time, you ache for these too-short visits, for the way a mere hour in Charles' presence can make you feel like the past weeks, months, years never happened. Sometimes, when it's time for him to leave, you have to physically restrain yourself from reaching out to him and pleading for his help. It wouldn't take much, you know: The visits from William Stryker, and the increasingly liberal verbal and physical abuse from Laurio would be enough to horrify Charles' bleeding heart.

'I'd do whatever you want,' you think before you bite down on your tongue, hard enough to make it bleed, in order to recant. 'You could lock me up in that big house of yours, strip me of my memories, make me your docile puppet, and let me know that that's exactly what you plan to do, and I would go with you willingly, because at least then, I know you would care about me as something more than a number, a name that you spit as part of your daily rounds.' What stops you from throwing yourself on Charles' mercy, of course, is pride. You've been through worse, you rationalize, than the business end of some thug's prison weapon; and you can play William Stryker's game, even though the helplessness you feel in the aftermath of each injection to the back of your neck makes you curl up into a ball in the corner of your cell for hours, willing yourself to just die. It hurts; but, you remind yourself, you haven't exactly made an effort to endear yourself to these homo sapiens. If this is the only recourse they have, you pity them, really.

Charles smiles at you now, the same soft, lovely pressing together of lips that you've always been taken by, and you frown grumpily at him. Charles huffs a laugh and wheels himself - in his ugly, temporary plastic chair, of course - towards the small table set up in the center of the room. "Shall we pick up where we left off the last time, then?" he asks, and you slink down in your own seat across from him, willing the hour to be over quickly, and then simultaneously, wishing it would never end.

When it is over, you can't help but be smug when you notice Charles' own distaste for Laurio. You're sure the feeling is mutual - it's fairly common knowledge to your captors at this point that Charles is a terribly powerful telepath, a fact which intrigues and concerns you - but you nonetheless enjoy the way Charles raises an aristocratic eyebrow, just enough for it to be recognizable as disdain, as Laurio grips his chair and whisks him away. After he's well and truly gone, for however long until he decides to grace you with his presence again, you turn on the small radio - another of Charles' thoughtful little gifts, so perfect and obvious that it makes you a bit ill - and try to surround yourself with the soft tinkling of the classical music you both enjoy, as though it is any sort of substitute for him.

He senses your scattered thoughts, your jumpy demeanor immediately the next time he arrives, the same way that you can tell this isn't just a courtesy visit. Charles needs something from you, and in return, you are going to betray him. In fact, you already have.

The mention of Stryker puts him immediately on the defensive. After that, it doesn't take much for the story to unravel; to get everything out in the open, you let him into your mind, leading him to your latest encounter with Stryker. "It's not just a school, though, is it, Erik?" he asks, and his voice is pleasant enough, but you know that one finger crook will have Laurio bearing down on you with his heavy plastic club again, and you're so tired. The back of your neck itches and you resist the urge to raise your hand; you won't give him that.

"I don't know," you tell him coolly, and you see his eyes flash to ice. Laurio swings and hits you between the shoulder blades, and your stomach churns.

"We'll try this again," Stryker says tersely, and Laurio smirks. "Tell me why there's a launch pad for a jet that comes out of the basketball court."

Charles gapes at you pityingly, and also with something akin to terror in his eyes as the memory peters off, the gist more than well conveyed. "Erik, what did you do?" he asks you brokenly, and you bite back a sob. This isn't the first time you've done something terrible to this man, but the stakes have never been so high before. 'Forgive me,' you think. Outwardly, however, you clutch at your throat as the gas begins to seep through strategically placed holes in the plastic walls of the cell, your voice rasping, angry. "You should have killed me when you had the chance!" you yell, and Charles conveys wordless pain through your brief telepathic bond before everything goes dark.

When you wake up anew, he's gone. Briefly, you're terrified that Stryker has killed him, but, you think, he's too valuable, too powerful to simply be wiped out altogether. You try to contact him with your mind, but even though you suspect Charles is closer to you currently than he would be in Westchester, you receive no reply. Still, you hope, and vow, and plot.

It's not until Laurio returns with your breakfast the next morning - you don't know if you've simply been out long enough to warrant skipping dinner, or if it was an intentional lapse, nor do you care; you can play whatever game they use to try and break you - that the immensity of what you've done truly sets in, however. "Your friend's mind tricks were no match for knock-out gas," Laurio tells you smugly, plunking your food tray down with no small amount of animosity. His eyes are cruel, but you meet his gaze head-on, refusing to bend, even a little. His next words, however, make you flinch: "I guess even mutants aren't invincible," he insinuates, and then he's gone.

'I'm sorry,' you think desperately, and suddenly, you feel incredibly trapped, a wild animal in a cage that has been created specifically for your torment. 'I'm so sorry, Charles. I'm going to get you out of there, whatever it takes,' you think. Then you start pacing, and then, when it's not enough, you begin tearing up the room within your limited means. You upend the breakfast tray, even though you're technically hungry, chuck the radio with all your might, tear up the thin bed coverings, rip pages from your book. When your rage peters off, you sit in 'your' seat at the small table in the center of the room. You've left the chess board untouched, and when Laurio deigns to grace you with his presence several hours from now, this is where he'll find you sitting, looking vacant and vulnerable, before he wrenches your arm behind your back and shoves you to the cold concrete on your knees, yelling at you to clean up your own mess. When his stick purposefully scatters the chess pieces across the cell, each one making a soft 'plink' sound as it bounces and rolls, you grit your teeth and think of vengeance and freedom and Charles, and then you do as he asks.