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It’s laughable, really, trying to kill him with a metal projectile.
But Erik doesn’t laugh, because Charles--
Erik starts to run to him, starts to pull his helmet off, but he stops, stops running, leaves the helmet on, stops everything, just stands there because--planes are falling, and he didn’t do it. Some spiraling, some on a long slow trajectory that will send them into the ocean.
The missiles are still coming. He waves at them, sends them down after the planes, runs to Charles’ side.
“Are you—“ he says, patting at Charles’ chest, his sides, looking for the wound. A doctor, he can get Charles to a doctor, he can fix this. And “Did you--” he says, looking at Charles’ face, because if Charles sent the pilots down, then he’s changed his mind, he’s lined up with the mutants where he belongs, they can be a team again, once he’s fixed, once he’s fine.
But all that’s in Charles’ face is pain, and he’s screaming, no words. No answers.
Erik’s forgotten, for a moment, that there’s anyone else here. But now he realizes that not all the screaming is Charles, that they’re all screaming, everyone--in grief, rage?
No. They’re screaming because they’re all dying. All of them, all the beautiful mutants, down on the sand, twitching and bleeding from nose and ears and mouth.
Erik sits, Charles cradled in his arms, watching all the mutants die, and it takes him a minute to work through it.
Charles’ brain is screaming in agony, and for the first time probably in his life he’s sending full strength, can’t hold back. Sending his dying to everyone. Pilots and captains, humans and mutants.
Erik watches his eyelids flutter, wonders how far Charles’ range is. Maybe it’s everywhere. Maybe it’s everyone.
Erik reaches up, slowly, and takes his helmet off.