Chapter Text
X
Rain.
Tiny drops at first, spaced wide enough apart that they’re nearly unnoticeable, before they grow larger in volume and thicker in surface area, splashing down from the stormy grey clouds above the city illuminated by all manner of light pollution. The lightning flashing overhead is nearly swallowed by it.
Charles runs, heedless of the rain and feet slapping loudly on wet pavement as he pushes through the massive, roiling crowds, deaf to the thunder and the screaming. Deaf to the far-off sounds that could be more thunder but Charles knows better. Those are the sounds skyscrapers make while coming down.
Charles runs, but there is nowhere to go.
X
Alex is sitting down for the first time all day when the last person he ever really wants to see again walks around a large pile of rebar.
“No,” he says calmly, and takes a bite out of his sandwich.
“It’s good to see you, son.” Sebastian Shaw still smiles the exact same way he did five years ago: with nearly overwhelming smug self-satisfaction. “You look good.”
“I look done with this conversation,” Alex retorts around a mouthful of turkey. He chews and swallows, before taking a swig of water. “I walked away. Now it’s your turn to do the same.”
Shaw’s expression turns mournful, which is bullshit. The man wouldn’t know how to mourn at his own mother’s funeral. “I’d be perfectly happy to leave you here, building—” he makes a show out of glancing up at the massive, half-built wall still crawling with construction workers, “—little sandcastles on the beach, but really, son, just tell me one thing. Do you honestly believe that a wall will hold them?”
Alex doesn’t answer.
Shaw grins. “I didn’t think so.”
“I’m not coming back, Shaw,” Alex says tersely. “I’m done. I’m done with you, I’m done with the Drift—” His voice cuts out before he can go any further.
“Doesn’t sound like it,” Shaw says softly after a few moments’ pause.
Alex never really does end up finishing that sandwich, which is a shame because it did taste pretty good, for ration food.
X
Erik trains idiots for a living. Absolute, incurable idiots who wouldn’t know the left hemisphere of a Jaeger from its right, even given a diagram with arrows and highlighted labels and all that shit.
That’s only his personal opinion, of course. Charles happens to think that Erik’s recruits are perfectly nice, bright young boys and girls who have the misfortune of always moving one or two steps slower than Erik does, and Erik never did have any patience for those he considers laggards.
Erik’s mind is brimming with frustration now, nearing burnout after a long, fruitless week of weeding out those not fit to be Rangers and trying to match up recruits who have the potential for being Drift-compatible. Charles caresses his ragged thoughts, tempering Erik’s irritation with brushes of affection until the tension releases from Erik’s muscles and he leans his head down against Charles’s shoulder with a sigh.
“Long day?” Charles asks, raising his arm slightly to run his fingers through Erik’s short hair. He’s cut it recently, cropped it a couple of inches until it’s no longer capable of falling into his eyes. Charles thinks about getting himself a haircut, too; he’s getting tired of wrangling with it every morning.
“Just like every day,” Erik grumbles. After a moment, he adds, Don’t cut your hair. I like it this long. Perfect for tugging.
Charles laughs. “Yes, I’ll take your tugging preferences into consideration.” He kisses the crown of Erik’s head and reaches over with his free hand to lace his fingers through Erik’s. Looking out over the docking bay, he says quietly, “She’s getting restless.”
Erik’s hand tightens around his. Charles can feel that he wants to protest, wants to offer the same complaints he’s been harboring for nearly five years now. There’s no one else, his mind says. I’ve tried everyone, and none of them are you.
Aloud, Erik says, “I know.”
They stare out at her, at her dark magenta flanks and wide silver chest-plates, gleaming dully in the dim light of a half-powered bay. Charles knows every inch of her, every scrape of her armor, every battle-earned scar. Erik knows her even better; even now, Charles is distantly aware of Erik running magnetic fingers over their girl, not looking for anything in particular, just using the familiar touch of metal to blunt the edge of his annoyance and bring him some semblance of calm.
As always, it feels good to be here in this abandoned bay, sitting on the side platform nearly a hundred yards in the air, their legs dangling through the railings, their lunches left half-finished by their sides. Charles likes it best when it’s just him and Erik and Onslaught, just like it used to be. He won’t lie, he misses it a lot. And he knows, from the sharp pang of longing that runs like a current through Erik’s mind every time he looks out at Onslaught or at Charles, that Erik misses it, too.
But there’s no going back. Charles says musingly, “You haven’t tried to match yourself in a couple of months.”
Erik snorts. “There’s no point. You and I, we’re as Drift-compatible as it comes. I can’t find that again.”
“Maybe you just don’t want to find it again,” Charles says, trying to sound more innocently inquisitive than accusatory. He knows Erik’s reluctant to find a new partner. Erik still blames himself for what happened, and he’s still got enough anger left in him to blind him to the fact that, subconsciously or not, he hasn’t made much effort to get back into a Jaeger in years. He’s right; he and Charles were more Drift-compatible than almost any other partnership, so strongly bound that even outside of the Jaeger, there’s a link in the back of their minds, faint and largely imperceptible but present. Ghost-Drifting, they call it. But in their case, it’s mostly a byproduct of Charles’s telepathy. Telepathic pilots are prone to forming more solid bonds than psi-null ones, but psi-null pilots form workable Drifts all the time. It’ll be nearly impossible to find another partner for Erik as Drift-compatible with him as Charles, of course. But he can find one that’s Drift-compatible enough. The problem is that he’s not looking.
Erik scowls as he picks up that thought. “I’m looking. Don’t think I’m not. I won’t spend the rest of my career watching over a bunch of incompetent recruits bumbling around in their simulators. I’m a pilot, not a goddamn instructor.”
Charles grins. “That’s the spirit.”
Footsteps echo up the walkway toward them, and they both turn, curious because no one visits this bay except them. Charles reads the familiar thought signature and stands, reaching down a hand to help Erik to his feet, too. “Hank,” he says, before anyone’s even materialized on the platform.
A moment later, Hank rounds the corner of the stairs and hops up onto the platform with them. His eyes are alight with excitement. He spares Charles a quick “hello” before turning his attention to Erik. “The Marshall wants to see you.”
Erik’s scowl deepens automatically at the mention of Shaw. “What for?”
“He’s coming back from Alaska,” Hank replies eagerly. “He’s found you a co-pilot.”
X
"She's getting restless."
X
There is an entire manual on the rules and regulations of Drifting and the operation of a Jaeger, which of course there is; they’re shoving two people into each other’s minds and handing them a large, expensive robot with enough firepower to capture a small country and set up a new regime. It’s standard.
It’s mandatory reading for all Rangers before they even set foot within a five-mile radius of a Jaeger, and they’re expected to know the manual front to back, no exceptions.
Everyone agrees, though, that there’s really only one thing you need to know about Drifting—whatever you do, protect your partner at all costs. It sounds romantic, in a way, but the reality could be no further from the fact of the matter.
You don’t want to experience them dying in your head.
X
The tea steeps slowly, discoloration from the leaves swirling up through the clear water as a rich, organic smell Charles usually associates with his childhood fills the air. The cup is fine china, inlaid with gold. He fears that he should have washed his hands before even touching it in the first place.
“Walk me through this one more time,” Lady Frost says. She sits in a high-backed chair as if it were a sofa, her crossed legs hanging over one of the delicately carved armrests. Instead of using the spoon beside her saucer she takes out a gleaming silver knife that would probably make Erik go cross-eyed and prods gently at the teabag in the bottom of her cup. “You want a Kaiju brain.”
“Yes,” Charles says calmly. Unlike her, he’s quite alright with just using the spoon. He stirs until the tea is less water and more infused with the spices, and takes a sip. It’s hard to decide whether or not looking at Lady Frost head-on is appropriate. The eyepatch is rather distracting. “As I explained previously, I’ve developed a method to Drift with a Kaiju mind.”
Emma studies him, her face a mask and her mind a cold, motionless pond. Not a single ripple here, even as she takes a sip from her own cup.
“And what did you discover in your first attempt?”
Charles nearly blinks. She doesn’t believe him. “Not enough,” he admits, dreadfully aware of how little this is going to help his case. Were Erik here, he’d be putting holes in Charles’ persuasion methods just because how thin it is. “The Kaiju mind I initiated a Drift with was unfortunately very close to complete decomposition, so not much was left regarding thoughts or memories.”
He pauses, hesitant to go on. This is highly sensitive information. Emma continues to watch him, still inscrutable. If she weren’t a telepath, Charles would already be trying to get a read on her if only for the sake of knowing whether or not he’s about to be shot.
As it is, attempting to get a read on her anyway will get him shot.
“The Kaiju are being cloned and grown for the sole purpose of exterminating the population of planet Earth,” he says bluntly, “I need to find out who is doing the cloning and why, as well as how to stop them.”
Silence. Charles could hear a pin drop in this golden, gilded hall, even with the thick oriental rugs serving as floor cover.
“You do realize how hard it is to extract a Kaiju brain,” Emma drawls after a few moments where Charles pointedly does not fidget at all, “as in, it’s impossible if you want something that’s still functional.”
“I’d only need the second brain,” Charles answers pleasantly, pasting a smile on his face while ignoring the dull throb steadily growing stronger in the back of his mind.
He can block Erik out of his mind completely with his telepathy but there is nothing he can do about the bond between them born from their Drifting. He and Erik are practically a case study when it comes to determining the long-term side effects Drifting has on the human mind, what with their off-the-charts compatibility and Charles’ telepathy only heightening the effects. It has been found that when one Drifts enough with the same person, the mind link shared in the Drift eventually follows one back into reality—this has been proven even for pairs not including a telepath; Logan and Kitty are a prime example of that. The bond between Charles and Erik, however, evolved much faster and remains the most potent out of all the Ranger pairs, and it does not like physical distance.
The further Charles is from Erik and the longer he stays there, the more the bond tugs on his mind, pulling him back home. Charles estimates that he has less than an hour before Erik figures things out and comes looking for him. He always was stubborn about pain—mind over matter, Charles—but this is something he will be unable to ignore.
“The second brain is easier to reach,” Emma acknowledges, unaware for now of Charles’ mental rift, “but still a hassle. A rather large one, too, especially if you don’t have the means to pay.” She blows on her cup, sending a small wisp of steam at Charles from across the table. “I don’t do charity.”
“I am prepared to pay whatever you require,” Charles informs her calmly, “just get me a Kaiju brain.”
She arches her brow. “You’ll have to wait for now, sugar, I don’t just keep Kaiju brains lying around, despite how I keep stock of all the other parts. If you want a brain, you’re going to have to bring me a Kaiju.”
The heavy oak doors burst open, and one of Emma’s thugs enters the room, bowing low. “Forgive the interruption, my lady,” he says, “but we’ve received incoming reports that two Kaiju are approaching the city. Both Category IV.”
“Well well,” Emma says over the rim of her cup, one icy blue eye glinting at Charles, “it looks like you’re in luck, Dr. Xavier.”
X
Alex peers around the cramped office curiously, making a slow round of the room as Shaw stands by his desk and watches him silently. Probably making sure he doesn’t palm anything, even if Alex’s days as a street rat and a thief are long since over. He remembers the Marshall’s old office, back at the Anchorage Shatterdome. It had been three times as big as this one, grand and spacious and impeccably well-kept, with not a spot of rust in sight. This room has seen better days: the iron rafters are corroded at the edges, the carpet underfoot threadbare, the furniture sparse and clashing. Times are rough, Alex thinks, if Shaw’s allowing his personal spaces to fall into disarray like this. The Marshall Alex remembers wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere that even hinted at the presence of mothballs.
“Seen enough?” Shaw asks eventually, examining his nails in disinterest. “Are you done trying to gain some leverage over me by looking through my possessions or can we get to business?”
“Not everyone’s trying to get dirt on you,” Alex mutters.
“My policy is to believe that everyone is,” Shaw replies coolly. “It saves me from wasting time deciding who to trust and who to watch.”
Alex snorts. “So you just don’t trust anybody. Healthy way to live.”
“A way to live,” the Marshall says, taking a seat behind his desk in a high-backed office chair with faded leather and scuffed wheels. He gestures to the armchair across from him, but Alex remains standing, his shoulders slightly hunched, his posture drawn in—a reminder of his teenage years. Even the Jaeger Academy, with all its militant strictness and instructors who exacted punishment for stances that were a scant few degrees off regulation perfect, hadn’t been able to straighten him out completely. Once he’d quit piloting, he’d fallen back into the habit of making himself look smaller, less of a threat and easier to sneak around without being noticed. Maybe it’s habit now that keeps him slouched in front of the man who runs the entire Hong Kong Shatterdome, the largest of any Jaeger base in the PPDC. Maybe it’s just the instinctive urge to piss Shaw off.
“What am I even doing here?” Alex asks, when it’s clear Shaw won’t be the one to break the silence. “I heard the news. The Jaeger Program’s been axed.”
Shaw’s answering smile is frosty. “We’re being de-funded,” he corrects. “Gradually.”
Euphemisms. Alex has seen the reports just like everyone else. “This is the only Shatterdome left, isn’t it? Hate to say it, but it looks like a program being axed to me.”
A flicker of annoyance crosses Shaw’s normally-unruffled features. “The work of human governments,” he sniffs, aligning the folders on his desk at precise right angles to the desk corners. “They never seem to understand what is necessary. Their timing is, as usual, abysmal.” The door chimes to announce an arrival, and Shaw’s smile curves lazily upwards. “But his timing is, as usual, faultless.”
“His...?” Alex echoes, turning toward the door as it slides open with a hiss of disengaging locks and a slow screech of old machinery.
“His,” Shaw confirms, standing as a familiar figure steps into the room, his posture ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back, his stride measured and quick.
Surprise ripples down Alex’s spine. Now there’s a face Alex hasn’t seen in person in five years, not since he’d fucked off to build the world’s tallest and least useful wall. Erik Lehnsherr looks stern and serious as ever, his mouth drawn into a tight line, his brow furrowed. His steely gaze locks onto Alex and widens fractionally. He looks older, Alex notes. He has more lines around his eyes, and there’s a heavy weight behind his gaze that Alex doesn’t remember. Erik has always looked composed and alert, but right then, he looks more tired than anything else. Tired and wary.
“Alex Summers,” he says, a hint of confusion to his words. “I thought you were gone for good.”
Alex nods. “I was. Then the Marshall found me, brought me back.”
Erik’s eyes narrow as they drift over to Shaw. “What’s this?” he asks, his tone going hard. There’s always been bad blood between Erik and Shaw, but Alex and the others have never figured out what happened. All they know is that both of them were stationed at the same Shatterdome in Vladivostok before transferring to Alaska, Erik first and then Shaw a couple of years later. There’s a history there to be uncovered, but Alex figures that he isn’t going to be the one doing the uncovering, as curious as he is. Erik and Shaw are both secretive types, and Alex doesn’t have the time, patience, or motivation to pry up their pasts, as much as he wishes he could understand what makes the two of them so cold and closed-off and generally unpleasant to be around. They’re excellent soldiers and leaders, Alex will admit to that. And maybe that’s all he needs to know, in the end.
“This,” Shaw replies, appearing to take great pleasure in the growing consternation on Erik’s face, “is your new copilot.”
Alex wheels around in shock. “What?”
“What?” Erik echoes, sounding outraged. “You don’t pick my copilots for me, Shaw. I pick them myself.”
Shaw looks unconcerned in the face of his anger. “Seeing as how you’ve failed to accept a new copilot in five years, Erik, I took it upon myself to find you one. Alex Summers here is one of the finest pilots of the program. Or he was.” He glances at Alex, scanning him over from head to toe. “Might be again. One can only hope.”
“Summers hasn’t jockeyed in five years either,” Erik says flatly. “A lot has changed since then.”
“He’ll adapt. Won’t you, boy?”
Shaw has an irritating manner of insisting on being hailed by his proper title and then turning around and calling everyone boy in a patronizing tone that makes Alex want to snap back at him. But he bites back his annoyance and says, “Sure,” because he didn’t come all the way out here from Alaska for nothing.
Then a thought strikes him. Spinning on his heel, he shoots Erik a baffled look. “But—wait. Where’s Charles?”
Erik’s expression shutters so quickly it’s as if a stoic faceplate has slammed into place, rapid and seamless as well-oiled machinery. The only hints of his discomposure are the minute clench of his jaw and the way he presses his lips so tightly together that they go white.
For a second, Alex is afraid Charles is dead. He has never seen Erik go blank like this, not even at the mention of his parents, not even at the mention of Shaw. But then, before his fear can fully take shape, the Marshall explains, his voice clinically detached, like reading from a report. “Kaiju attack, April of 2022. Codename Knifehead. You remember.”
Alex feels as if he’s been punched in the gut. Knifehead. Not a name he’ll ever forget.
Shaw continues, ignoring the way Alex sways a bit on his feet. “Onslaught was heavily damaged by the attack. Both pilots were injured, Xavier badly enough that he was deemed no longer fit to pilot a Jaeger. He hasn’t entered one since, hence the search for Erik’s new copilot. A search, I might add, that he has not been particularly cooperative in.”
Alex gapes at both of them in disbelief. He remembers that battle vividly—or the parts of it where he was conscious at least. He knows Onslaught went out after them, and he knows Charles and Erik were wounded in the pursuit. Onslaught had had to be dragged back to the Shatterdome in pieces, almost as ripped up as Red Darwin had been. And he knows that Charles spent almost two weeks in the hospital, comatose for a good part of it. But as soon as the doctors had said Charles would be okay, Alex had taken off, unable to remain for another minute in a place that had been a home to him and Armando. But without Armando, it had been nothing.
He’d always thought Charles had healed up properly and gotten back into Onslaught within a few weeks. Maybe he’d taken a couple of months or so off to recuperate. But injured badly enough that he was deemed unfit to pilot? No way.
“I’ve been cooperative,” Erik grinds out through his teeth, oblivious to Alex’s shock. “But I’m not Drift-compatible with anyone. Not anymore. I’ve tried.”
“You keep telling me that.” Shaw smiles and points at Alex, his eyes calculating and cold enough to make Alex shiver. “But you haven’t tried him.”
X
Erik remembers their first Drift perfectly. Raven’s slow countdown in their ears. The pinch of the spinal clamp along his back. The quick, furtive look Charles shot him just as Raven reached one.
The split-second of breathless anticipation as he braced himself for the punch-to-the-gut feeling of being wrenched into a bridge, into a place where he and Charles were subsumed into a collective them.
He felt the impact. His mind spun out, no longer under his complete control, leaving him disoriented and dizzy as expected, and he struggled to keep his breathing even as memories and information and thoughts bombarded him—now a shot of a blue-eyed child crying in his bedroom, now a boy standing on the steps of Oxford college, now a flash of blue-scaled skin and laughing yellow eyes, now Charles lying in bed reading a book, now Charles in the Kwoon Combat Room sparring, now Charles sitting in the labs of the research division of the Alaskan Shatterdome, now Charles smiling wide and happy and young—
Then everything wrenched back into focus, and Charles’ voice said in his head, Hello, Erik.
He had never felt this before. This...wholeness.
We’re Drift-compatible, he thought, awed. They had tried him with a dozen different partners, but this was the first time he had ever reached the Drift. So this was how it felt. He hadn’t imagined it being so warm.
Yes, we are, Charles thought back, his own mind a burst of joy. He held out his left arm and Erik extended his right. Beneath them, responding with perfect fluidity, Onslaught did the same.
Erik couldn’t help it. He laughed, low and eager. Finally. Then let’s go.
Charles laughed, too, the sort of ringing, bright laughter that stuck in your ears forever. Yes, let’s.