[For a moment, Charles just stares at him. There's a part of him that wants to believe this interest is progress, that it's Tony laying down his asshole public persona and really caring about someone other than himself, for once, but even as he picks up on bits and pieces of what he's thinking, he's still so, so reluctant to get his hopes up. He's not an idiot, he knows Tony and Erik are never going to be best friends, and all he really wants is for them to just leave each other alone. That's all he wants, because he's so exhausted getting in the middle of things, of feeling like he needs to throw himself in between Tony and Erik to stop things from getting out of control.
But there's a part of him, too, that does want him to understand. There's a decent chance - not a sure one, but a decent one - that there are mutants in Tony's world, just as there had been a Captain America in his, and if Tony understands what it's like to be different and lonely and afraid, maybe he can help them when he goes home. Maybe he can be an ally in this, instead of an obstacle, or not a player at all, because he is a good person, and he's in a position where he could help. He's Tony Stark. He's got wealth and power and reputation, and a good heart, even if he was a massive asshole.
So it's for both reasons - to get Erik and Tony to stop this, and to hopefully protect the mutants that might already exist in Tony's world - that Charles brings his hand to his temple and lets his mind connect with Tony's.
He won't show him everything. There are some things he knows Erik would never be comfortable with people knowing, probably isn't even comfortable with Charles knowing, so he'll leave out the torture at Shaw's hands. But it's impossible to just leave it at the general feeling, that's the whole point. There's no way to succinctly summarize this, the deep, festering wounds left behind by this kind of physical, emotional, psychological trauma, and he's not toning it down for the sake of being succinct. He's not sparing Tony any of it.
He thinks of the sonderkommando, of the gas chambers piled high with bodies. There is a burning in your shoulders as you drag a woman from the pile, and you try not to breathe too deeply, even though you know the gas has dispersed. You know where to go, what to do: you learned quickly, like you learn everything quickly, and that's good. Learning quickly means staying alive. But as you lay the woman's body next to a child's and press them together (they will burn better that way, you learned that too), you wonder if staying alive is what you really want. And then you're angry, but you never let it show on your face, never let them know how much you hate them.
You do hate them, and you want to hurt them. But you can't, because you know how to make a necklace and find money in the street, but you don't know how to move a coin or crush a gun. You're small and getting smaller. When you wrap your hand around your wrist, you know you should be alarmed but how much empty space is between your fingers. Instead, you're glad you saved the heel of bread from two days ago.
Worst of all is the part of you that wants to give up. You think about it, when they march your squad from one building to the next; you know that if you step out of line by the fence, if you walk toward it, they will shoot you, and you will be done. Your anger has kept you from it, but the anger is distant, sometimes - and then you find what else drives you.
There is a girl you knew, once, in the neighboring camp. You made her a necklace; she smiled when she wore it. She was pretty then; she is not pretty now, and you barely recognize her with her shaved head. But she is the most beautiful thing you have seen in weeks, months, have you been here years? And you don't leave your place in line, because you have to save her. You have to find a way out.
Your hands ache and our skin blisters as you dig. Your heart pounds in your throat, and you want to throw up or laugh, because this is not thew ay out you meant, but it's the one you've been expecting. There are dozens of you digging, and they tell you to strip, to fold your clothes and leave them in a pile. They tell you to line up. You do, all of you, and you think you recognize the man you stand beside as your old schoolteacher. He takes your hand, and you hold fast. There is dirt under your finger nails. It's almost supper time. Your mother would give you that look when you don't wash up first.
The guns fire just as you realize how angry you are; you feel as if you watch the guns recoil, watch the bullets leave then, and you wonder if everything has slowed. You remember that your father told you, once, that sometimes -sometimes there is a moment, in life, when things just happen.
There is no pain, but you jerk backwards, dragged into the pit by Herr - Herr - you can't remember his name, but you tell yourself that you are breathing, that the bullet moved at the last instant, that you finally did it (move the coin, Erik), and you're alive. But you can't move, or they will shoot you again. Others fall on top of you, and you bite your tongue bloody to keep from screaming. And you wait there, barely breathing, unable to cry, or they will hear, they will hear you. It feels like hours, or days, until the sky grows dark, and you crawl, push, dig, haul yourself out of the grave. You don't throw up; there is nothing in your stomach.
You find the girl as the camp falls apart. You run with her, hand in hand, then her arm over your shoulders, and you wish you could carry her, but you can barely carry yourself. You feel your heart in your throat, certain they'll notice you, shoot you in the back. You think of the coin, of your mother, of the girl who is with you. You think of the bodies of a woman and a child, and you think you must tell everyone who will listen, and everyone who won't. You think you must not let this happen again.
You run until you can't anymore, and eventually you have to leave the girl. She's safe, and you have things to do, you need to find the man who killed your mother, and for a long time, you're alone. You're Frankenstein's monster, looking for your creator, you're a weapon, you're a freak, she never would have loved you because of what you are.
You're alone until you're trying to raise a submarine from the ocean, because he's getting away again and you can feel yourself running out of oxygen, but you don't care, but then there's a voice in your head, a person in the water with you, dragging you back to the surface, telling you to fight another day and I'm like you and calm down. And, most importantly, because you've been alone for so long and still thought you were you are not alone.
And there are others. You really aren't alone, and for a while, you can see the appeal in having a friend, having a team, and you're not content - you can never shake what happened before, you'll always eat food like you're afraid it will be taken away and startle awake at the slightest noises - but you think you're close to it, almost. There's training, there's camaraderie, there's mastering your abilities, being told that there's so much more to you than you know, and you don't really believe it, but you might start to.
And then there's a beach. You've saved the world, but you know they're not grateful, they don't care. They're afraid of what you're capable of, and they should be, because you aren't a scrawny, starving, filthy little boy who couldn't move a coin or stop a bullet anymore. Charles can't prove you wrong. The humans are firing on the beach, not caring that they owe their small band their lives.
(And here, Charles slips in other pieces of the minds of the sailors he touched - impressions of terror on seeing a man create tornadoes from his hands, from seeing a submarine lift out of the water, kids who have beams of energy coming out of their chests, who are these people what are they doing here. They're afraid of who they are and what they're capable of, and wiping them out seems like the safer option.)
But you stop it. It's easy, after lifting the submarine, and you almost lazily turn the missiles back towards the ships. And that idiot, your friend, the person who stopped you from killing yourself and showed you true control is saying the four words you absolutely could not have a worse reaction to.
They're not any different, these humans. They're afraid, and they don't understand, and they have the power and the authority to stamp us out here and now, without remorse, because we're different. Despite us saving them. Despite most of them being barely more than kids, despite Charles pleading for you to spare them, despite Moira being one of them. Once again, you're seeing humans turn against those that are different, those they fear, despite posing no real threat to them.
And you're never going to let it happen again.
I've been at the mercy of men just following orders. Never again.
Charles cuts it off before it goes any further. His eyes stung and his throat felt tight at the end of it, but he forced it back, swallowing before trying to speak.]
There isn't such thing as a general feel for it. The whole point is that it's personal, Tony.
spam
But there's a part of him, too, that does want him to understand. There's a decent chance - not a sure one, but a decent one - that there are mutants in Tony's world, just as there had been a Captain America in his, and if Tony understands what it's like to be different and lonely and afraid, maybe he can help them when he goes home. Maybe he can be an ally in this, instead of an obstacle, or not a player at all, because he is a good person, and he's in a position where he could help. He's Tony Stark. He's got wealth and power and reputation, and a good heart, even if he was a massive asshole.
So it's for both reasons - to get Erik and Tony to stop this, and to hopefully protect the mutants that might already exist in Tony's world - that Charles brings his hand to his temple and lets his mind connect with Tony's.
He won't show him everything. There are some things he knows Erik would never be comfortable with people knowing, probably isn't even comfortable with Charles knowing, so he'll leave out the torture at Shaw's hands. But it's impossible to just leave it at the general feeling, that's the whole point. There's no way to succinctly summarize this, the deep, festering wounds left behind by this kind of physical, emotional, psychological trauma, and he's not toning it down for the sake of being succinct. He's not sparing Tony any of it.
He thinks of the sonderkommando, of the gas chambers piled high with bodies. There is a burning in your shoulders as you drag a woman from the pile, and you try not to breathe too deeply, even though you know the gas has dispersed. You know where to go, what to do: you learned quickly, like you learn everything quickly, and that's good. Learning quickly means staying alive. But as you lay the woman's body next to a child's and press them together (they will burn better that way, you learned that too), you wonder if staying alive is what you really want. And then you're angry, but you never let it show on your face, never let them know how much you hate them.
You do hate them, and you want to hurt them. But you can't, because you know how to make a necklace and find money in the street, but you don't know how to move a coin or crush a gun. You're small and getting smaller. When you wrap your hand around your wrist, you know you should be alarmed but how much empty space is between your fingers. Instead, you're glad you saved the heel of bread from two days ago.
Worst of all is the part of you that wants to give up. You think about it, when they march your squad from one building to the next; you know that if you step out of line by the fence, if you walk toward it, they will shoot you, and you will be done. Your anger has kept you from it, but the anger is distant, sometimes - and then you find what else drives you.
There is a girl you knew, once, in the neighboring camp. You made her a necklace; she smiled when she wore it. She was pretty then; she is not pretty now, and you barely recognize her with her shaved head. But she is the most beautiful thing you have seen in weeks, months, have you been here years? And you don't leave your place in line, because you have to save her. You have to find a way out.
Your hands ache and our skin blisters as you dig. Your heart pounds in your throat, and you want to throw up or laugh, because this is not thew ay out you meant, but it's the one you've been expecting. There are dozens of you digging, and they tell you to strip, to fold your clothes and leave them in a pile. They tell you to line up. You do, all of you, and you think you recognize the man you stand beside as your old schoolteacher. He takes your hand, and you hold fast. There is dirt under your finger nails. It's almost supper time. Your mother would give you that look when you don't wash up first.
The guns fire just as you realize how angry you are; you feel as if you watch the guns recoil, watch the bullets leave then, and you wonder if everything has slowed. You remember that your father told you, once, that sometimes -sometimes there is a moment, in life, when things just happen.
There is no pain, but you jerk backwards, dragged into the pit by Herr - Herr - you can't remember his name, but you tell yourself that you are breathing, that the bullet moved at the last instant, that you finally did it (move the coin, Erik), and you're alive. But you can't move, or they will shoot you again. Others fall on top of you, and you bite your tongue bloody to keep from screaming. And you wait there, barely breathing, unable to cry, or they will hear, they will hear you. It feels like hours, or days, until the sky grows dark, and you crawl, push, dig, haul yourself out of the grave. You don't throw up; there is nothing in your stomach.
You find the girl as the camp falls apart. You run with her, hand in hand, then her arm over your shoulders, and you wish you could carry her, but you can barely carry yourself. You feel your heart in your throat, certain they'll notice you, shoot you in the back. You think of the coin, of your mother, of the girl who is with you. You think of the bodies of a woman and a child, and you think you must tell everyone who will listen, and everyone who won't. You think you must not let this happen again.
You run until you can't anymore, and eventually you have to leave the girl. She's safe, and you have things to do, you need to find the man who killed your mother, and for a long time, you're alone. You're Frankenstein's monster, looking for your creator, you're a weapon, you're a freak, she never would have loved you because of what you are.
You're alone until you're trying to raise a submarine from the ocean, because he's getting away again and you can feel yourself running out of oxygen, but you don't care, but then there's a voice in your head, a person in the water with you, dragging you back to the surface, telling you to fight another day and I'm like you and calm down. And, most importantly, because you've been alone for so long and still thought you were you are not alone.
And there are others. You really aren't alone, and for a while, you can see the appeal in having a friend, having a team, and you're not content - you can never shake what happened before, you'll always eat food like you're afraid it will be taken away and startle awake at the slightest noises - but you think you're close to it, almost. There's training, there's camaraderie, there's mastering your abilities, being told that there's so much more to you than you know, and you don't really believe it, but you might start to.
And then there's a beach. You've saved the world, but you know they're not grateful, they don't care. They're afraid of what you're capable of, and they should be, because you aren't a scrawny, starving, filthy little boy who couldn't move a coin or stop a bullet anymore. Charles can't prove you wrong. The humans are firing on the beach, not caring that they owe their small band their lives.
(And here, Charles slips in other pieces of the minds of the sailors he touched - impressions of terror on seeing a man create tornadoes from his hands, from seeing a submarine lift out of the water, kids who have beams of energy coming out of their chests, who are these people what are they doing here. They're afraid of who they are and what they're capable of, and wiping them out seems like the safer option.)
But you stop it. It's easy, after lifting the submarine, and you almost lazily turn the missiles back towards the ships. And that idiot, your friend, the person who stopped you from killing yourself and showed you true control is saying the four words you absolutely could not have a worse reaction to.
They're not any different, these humans. They're afraid, and they don't understand, and they have the power and the authority to stamp us out here and now, without remorse, because we're different. Despite us saving them. Despite most of them being barely more than kids, despite Charles pleading for you to spare them, despite Moira being one of them. Once again, you're seeing humans turn against those that are different, those they fear, despite posing no real threat to them.
And you're never going to let it happen again.
I've been at the mercy of men just following orders. Never again.
Charles cuts it off before it goes any further. His eyes stung and his throat felt tight at the end of it, but he forced it back, swallowing before trying to speak.]
There isn't such thing as a general feel for it. The whole point is that it's personal, Tony.