Broken Eternity, a x-men: the movie fanfic

disclaimer: i own nothing.

A/N: it's finished now. please feel free to review, pm me to critique, complain, whatever you like.

warnings: some mildly graphic references to the holocaust, some violence, lots of angst, sex

Broken Eternity

Part One: How it All Starts

It starts with being alone. It shouldn't, perhaps, but it does because, of course, alone is what no one ever wishes to be.

We are all born alone; cold and wet and afraid, but most of us don't stay that way. We are picked up and held by our parents, we are loved, we grow up, we find like people to be with, to belong with.

Most of us. Most, but not all.

The boy born Max Eisenhardt is different. It is not obvious to look at him, but he feels it. He is different. He is skinny. He is tall. He is poor. He is Jewish. Given the time frame – he is born in 1928 – one would think that this last would be the defining difference, but it is not.

When Max is three, a noise brings his mother to the bedroom they all share. Max is in his crib, cooing happily as the mobile over his head spins slowly. But she did not push it to spin when she put him down, and Max still cannot balance well enough to do it on his own.

It is not the only time such a strange thing happens either; when Max is seven he falls off a chair in the kitchen and splits his chin open. There's blood everywhere and it really hurts and his mother is upstairs with his little sister so Max simply sits up and wails. His mother hears his cries and comes running to find her son bleeding and crying on the kitchen floor. Every piece of metal ware in the room is shaking.

More strange things occur as Max grows older, all of them involving metal in one form or another, but he cannot control it. He sees that it frightens his parents, and so he does not try, instead chooses to ignore it as best he can, hoping that if he does it will stop; go away.

No one else Max knows can do this; make things move and shake like that. And so Max is unique, different, alone. There are no 'like people' for him to hang out with, to belong with, because Max has no 'like people.' But that's okay. His parents love him. His little sister, Ruth, idolizes him. His uncle, Erich, dotes on him, tells him stories, teaches him things, brings Max and Ruth some little treat, like chocolate, every time he visits. So it's okay; Max is happy.

And then, at first slowly, and then suddenly very quickly, it all goes to hell.

In 1932 the Nazi Party – originally just a small group of nationalists – becomes the largest political party in Germany. President Paul von Hindenburg, an authoritarian and seasoned politician, is now old, and rumored to be going senile and it is through him that the man whose name will one day be feared and reviled worldwide comes to power. By 1934 Adolf Hitler is Chancellor and then President, anti-Semitism is beginning to spread and take hold, and, though he doesn't know it yet, Max's world is beginning to crumble.

That is the slow part.

Then, on November 9, 1938, Max, his mother and father, his sister, his uncle, and nearly every other Jew he knows, are set upon in the night. Some are killed. Most, like Max and his family, are arrested and sent away to live in fenced-in camps surrounded by Nazi soldiers. This is Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass. To historians it is the beginning of the Holocaust, Hitler's "Final Solution." To Max it is the end of happiness. It is the day he is rounded up and penned with his family and neighbors like animals. It is the day he is branded, the day he becomes a number, a file in a catalogue, something no longer a person – the day they all do. Four days later his uncle is shot for 'belligerence.' Five days after that, so is the boy who grew up across the street. After two month, Max thinks he has run out of tears.

He is only ten years old.

They survive because they are useful, Max and his family. The systematic slaughter at the camps does not start until 1941 and Max's father is careful to make sure they stay as strong and as fit for labor as possible. The Nazi's are waging a large campaign, they need the laborers for their war machine; if they stay fit for the work, Max's father says – hopes – then they may be kept alive.

It works. For nearly six years it works. And then, in 1944, they are moved again. This time to Poland. And this time Max, who has started going by Erik in honor of his late uncle, is separated from his family.

He loses control. And this time it is obvious. No one can deny his difference now, not when all the guards saw the gate shudder and bend, not when even six men could not quite hold him fast.

He is alone when they knock him out and drag him away. He is alone as the guards watch him warily and he is alone when they come back for him and drag him before the man who introduces himself as Doctor Klaus Schmidt and says he can help Max/Erik or make use of him because he is special. But he cannot do as the doctor wants; he cannot control his power. And then they bring in his mother. And Max/Erik watches as Doctor Klaus Schmidt shoots her right before his eyes.

After that, he is always alone.

And then, eighteen years later and quite all of a sudden, he is not.

Part Two: Things in the Middle

After eighteen years of perfect solitude, Erik would have thought that he'd welcome any suggestion otherwise, but he doesn't. Not at all. But it is a strange thing, the way it happens. Down there in the water, ice cold and half-drowned to boot, he almost finds himself thinking that it might be okay. That drowning wouldn't be so bad, except for that he still needs to kill his mother's murderer. But if he died, he might get to see her again. And just as he thinks this, something warm touches his mind.

For one wild moment, Erik thinks that he has died. That he is dead and his family has come for him.

Then strong arms close around his chest and someone tries to pull him away.

You can't, says the warmth in his mind. You'll drown. You have to let go. I know what this means to you but you're going to die. Please, Erik, calm your mind.

He is not dead. It is not his family. He should be happy not to be dying, but all Erik can feel is the betrayal. And then the rage.

The submarine vanishes into the dark of the water and the warmth that is not what he wanted drags him up, back to the surface.

"Get off me!" Erik shouts, gasping for breath and half-choking on a mixture of air and water. "Get off me!"

The arms around his chest release.

"Calm down, just breathe," shouts a voice behind him, and then, "We're here!" to the people on the ship. It is the same voice that was in his head just moments ago.

"Who are you?" Erik demands, squinting through the spray and the dark.

"My name's Charles Xavier," answers the shape he can just barely make out, bobbing about next to him.

"Are you in my head?" As if it was really a question. "How did you do that?"

"You have your tricks, I have mine; I'm like you! Just calm your mind."

Erik stares. Like him? What does — but there's really only one thing it can mean.

"I thought I was alone," he gasps, spitting water.

"You're not alone," says the man called Charles Xavier. "Erik, you're not alone."

When he says it, it sounds like a promise.

Erik should be relieved. Or startled. Or happy. Something. Anything. But he isn't.

The searchlights highlight them for the rescue boats and illuminate the face of his rescuer. Charles Xavier has dark hair (currently plastered all over his face), pale, freckly skin, and full lips that are, for the nonce, blue. Erik's first overall impression is that he's insane (who the hell jumps off of ships into water this cold for complete strangers, after all?), but that's fine. Crazy doesn't bother Erik; he is probably more than a bit nuts himself. No, what bothers Erik is what Charles promised. What Erik felt in that warmth that touched him, just for a moment.

Because, in that moment, he wasn't alone. And it felt good, felt safe.

It felt like home.

The rescue boats have reached them now and the crew wastes no time in getting them out of the water. As a man drapes a blanket around Erik's shoulders Charles gives him a smile like sunshine and holds out his hand.

Erik ignores it. "Stay out of my head," he snarls, and then turns his back on the man's surprised face.

Erik has no home. Erik needs no home. He is fine on his own.

He goes with them because they can be useful. The CIA will certainly have a file on Sebastian Shaw, formerly Doctor Klaus Schmidt. Erik will need that file, can put it to far better use than the CIA can, surely.

He admits that it is also partly because he is curious, curious about these people, these mutants, as Charles calls them, that are 'like' him. There don't' seem to be that many of them. The young woman Charles introduces as his sister, Raven, is interesting. She's a human-form shapeshifter with a natural form like nothing Erik has ever seen or even imagined. She's also quite clearly not actually related to Charles, and spends the entire drive to the CIA research base vacillating between trying to get Erik to talk about himself (he doesn't) and being weirdly possessive of Charles (who doesn't seem to notice). The other one, the one they didn't expect, is a scientist. A scientist with weird feet. Frankly, unless he can invent a weapon that will kill Shaw, Erik could care less.

And besides, a mutant scientist who works for the CIA but looks as vulnerable as a teenager is just too many contradictions in one place. Erik wouldn't even know where to begin with something like that so it's probably best to simply not start.

The CIA people he doesn't trust in the slightest, if only because they work for the government, and government bodies are, Erik knows, inherently untrustworthy. The man seems jovial, in a way that Erik has to keep reminding himself he shouldn't automatically read as stupid, while the woman seems intelligent, but a bit naïve. And both of them are just excited enough about this that he can use them, and confident enough in their power to make it easy.

Charles, he decides, is easily the most interesting person in the group. For whatever reason, Erik simply can't get a read on the man. He'd say that he was responding well to the CIA woman's interest in him, except that after ten minutes in his presence, Erik can tell that that's just how Charles is. With everybody. It's as if everything in the world delights and interests this man. The weirdest part is that he seems nearly as naïve as the CIA woman, which Erik simply can't fathom in a mind reader.

None of this matters, though, because he's not staying of course. As soon as night falls he's taking Shaw's file and leaving. Which he does, only —

"From what I know about you, I'm surprised you managed to stay this long."

Erik stops, pictures his head full of sharp, spiky bits in case it helps, then turns to face the telepath.

"What d'you know about me?" he challenges quietly.

When Charles answers, "Everything," it sounds almost like an apology and Erik wants to hit him, though he's not entirely sure why. Instead, he just says, "Then you know to stay out of my head." Like I told you to, he adds silently, just in case the bastard's listening.

"I'm sorry, Erik," Charles says as Erik turns to leave again, "but I've seen what Shaw did to you."

Erik stops. Freezes. Hears the other stop just a few paces behind him.

"I've felt your agony," the telepath continues. "I can help you."

His voice is like a promise again, and thick with something Erik can't name; reminding Erik of a million things he once had. A million things he lost. Things he knows he can never have again, no matter what that voice promises.

He snorts. "I don't need your help."

"Don't kid yourself," says Charles bluntly, "you needed my help last night." He pauses, then says, "It's not just me you're walking away from; here you have a chance to be part of something much bigger than just yourself."

Erik looks back at him. Waits. Says nothing. Eyes an impossible shade of sapphire blue stare straight back into his.

"I won't stop you leaving," he says. "I could. But I won't."

Promises. Again.

Erik doesn't think he could have looked away from those eyes for anything.

And then Charles releases him, turning to go back inside.

"Shaw's got friends," he calls over his shoulder. "You could do with some."

And Erik knows better. Knows not to trust, not to hope. Knows 'friends' are one of those things he can't have. Certainly knows better that to believe in a pair of knowing eyes and a voice like a promise and a feeling like home.

And yet…

The man did have a point about having 'friends.' Erik doesn't need anyone, of course, but some allies could prove useful he supposes. And if there really are others out there, others like him, other mutants, and the government is really about to get involved, then he wants to know about it.

Because he wants to be prepared.

Because he refuses to go through that again.

Because no one should have to go through what he went through.

Because another Holocaust is not an option.

It's frighteningly easy to find Charles in the morning. Not because the facility is small, or because anyone is shouting, but because Erik can feel him, like a bright spot of warm, as if there's simply too much — too much — well, too much whatever it is that makes people all bright and happy like Charles is — to contain.

He's listening as he approaches, and doesn't like what he hears. The CIA wants to find other mutants.

Erik reaches the door. "And what if they don't want to be found by you?"

"Erik! You decided to stay." Charles looks far more please by this than Erik really thinks the situation warrants. That sunshine-smile is truly unfair; it makes it impossible to dislike him, even if Erik does know better. He nods briefly, then turns back to the CIA man.

"If a new species is being discovered," he tells him, "it should be by its own kind. Charles and I find the mutants. No suits."

The man looks startled, protests. "It's Charles's decision," he says, "Charles is fine with the CIA being involved, right?"

Those blue, blue eyes look straight at Erik, and for once Erik doesn't mind what they might see there. He looks right back. If the CIA is involved in the recruiting, he'll leave.

"No," says Charles at last, his gaze flicking to the suit and then quickly back again. "I'm sorry, but . . . I'm with Erik. We'll find them alone."

The CIA man gives them a look like 'oh really?'

"And what if I say no?" he asks.

Charles raises his eyebrows. "Then good luck using your installation without me."

The man hesitates. Erik notices the thing outside that looks a bit like an enormous golf ball and, assuming it's the 'installation,' shrugs.

"Ah well," he says, turning as though to leave. "It certainly makes a nice lawn ornament."

Charles moves to follow him.

"No, wait!"

They both stop. Erik turns, catches Charles's eye, smirks, just a tiny bit. Charles grins at him.

"Fine," CIA man capitulates. "Fine, just you two. Alone."

When they leave the office for real, Charles is still grinning. Erik is surprised when he feels an answering smile tugging at his own lips. It's not an expression he generally shows to other people — or even wears, really — but for some reason he finds he can't quite squash it.

Erik hates that the machine makes him nervous, will never ever admit that the machine makes him nervous, but it does. It doesn't matter that it was built by a fellow mutant, or that everyone promises it will do Charles no harm. It doesn't even matter that Erik knows that logically Charles is far too valuable for the CIA to risk him right now. What matters is that it's a machine built by a scientist in a lab coat at the behest of — or at least with the funding of — the US government expressly for the purpose of finding other mutants.

It has also occurred to Erik that if the machine can get coordinates out of Charles's head then it might also be able to get other things from it as well.

He's honestly not sure which idea worries him more.

Charles, of course, thinks the machine is brilliant, cheerfully waving away Erik's only half-teasing comments about lab rats as he settles the electrode cap over his head. Then Hank, the scientist with the weird feet, turns the thing on.

The sound Charles makes sends Erik's heart leaping most unexpectedly into his throat as a whole new stream of worries suddenly present themselves for his consideration: The CIA would not intentionally harm Charles, not yet, anyway, but that doesn't actually guarantee his safety. What if the machine doesn't work? What if it does, but it's too much? Being a telepath must be maddening even on a good day; why would anyone ever want to hear yet more of the world? And then, worse still, what if the stupid thing backfires somehow and fries Charles's mind?

It becomes clear very quickly that none of these are actually the case, of course; Charles was simply surprised, but that doesn't make Erik feel any better. He still hates the machine. And he hates the fact that he was worried for a man he's known less than forty-eight hours.

And he reminds himself, very firmly, that friends are not something he wants.

Caring about people makes you vulnerable. Makes you weak. Gets them hurt.

Erik glances back at Charles and is very, very glad that the telepath is busy.

The first few trips are possibly the awkwardest moments of Erik's life. Hours upon hours of sitting cooped up in a car with a telepath and though Charles isn't actively in Erik's head, Erik can still feel it. Feel him. Just — just being.

They don't talk much, not at first. Charles tries, but Erik refuses to get involved. For all this was his idea, he didn't actually think much about what it would mean, and now he's trapped like this. Stuck next to the man who pulled his entire life story out of his head, and Erik still hates that he did that, but at the same time, now that Charles already knows, Erik could talk about it. Wants to, almost. And he's almost positive that it would be fine, that Charles would be fine. He seems like the kind of person who Erik could tell anything and it would still be alright.

But he won't talk about it. Not ever. He never does. Doesn't want to, because that's just how it is. Because that's the rules. It happened, it's over, and there's nothing to be done about it, so why bother? Erik doesn't want pity. Doesn't need pity. Doesn't need anything. Except Shaw, dead and buried.

And talking won't get him that. So he says nothing.

Or he doesn't mean to, anyway. But really, there's only so many completely silent long drives one can take, especially when one's travelling companion is actually an interesting person with a decent sense of humor.

It starts with just talk; Charles shares and Erik listens, or pokes fun. They play inane games with road signs to help pass the time. When this gets old, Erik invents a new game and challenges Charles to tell him what the people in the cars around them are listening to on the radio. Then Charles dares Erik to steer the car they're in with only his powers. Erik scares him half to death when he actually tries it.

"Are you completely insane?" Charles bellows, his knuckles stark white on the seat and on the door where he's grab on for purchase.

Erik just laughs. "You're the telepath. Shouldn't you know already?"

"You told me to stay out of your head," Charles mutters. "You bloody bastard."

"Flatterer."

"Nutter."

"Hey, you wanted me to stay, remember?"

"Yes," says Charles quietly. "I did. I remember."

Erik shoots him an odd look. He hadn't meant it as a serious question or anything.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing," says Charles, but his fingers are at his lips and Erik can just tell from his lack of expression that it's definitely something. Erik groans inwardly. This has exactly the feeling like he was trying to avoid: Serious and potentially meaningful. And Erik doesn't want that unless they're discussing strategy, because otherwise it's something you do with friends, and Erik doesn't need any.

Want any. Erik doesn't want any. He reminds himself. Again.

But, unfortunately, Erik can't think of any other way to get rid of the tension now building in the car except to ask.

"Just spit it out, would you?" he says.

"No, really, it's nothing," Charles insists, "I just—" He glances sidelong at Erik, who automatically thinks his head full of spiky bits again, because he can just tell that Charles want to look.

"You're not . . . thinking of leaving again, are you?" Charles asks abruptly.

Spiky bits go straight out of Erik's head; he has absolutely no idea where that came from.

"I mean," Charles continues, a bit fast and not looking at Erik now, "I know we're not really having a lot of success here, but…"

Yes, I am. Of course I am. I'm always thinking of leaving.

"No," he says instead. "I'm not." But Charles keeps going anyway, like he hasn't heard.

"And I know you don't really like the government—"

"No, I don't," Erik agrees. "But as long as they're going to do this… I don't trust them. So I have to stay, don't I? To keep an eye on things, right? That's why it's just us doing this, remember?"

"Oh," says Charles. It's quiet and thoughtful and suddenly Erik wishes he were a telepath so he could know what the man is thinking, but they've been serious for long enough now, so instead he says, "Can you read an animal's mind?"

"No idea," says Charles. He looks startled. "I've never tried."

"Oh?" says Erik. "Well, there's a dog going crazy in the car behind us. See if you can figure out why."

He can't, but it gets rid of the serious atmosphere and the remainder of the drive is spent challenging each other to test their abilities. When they hit traffic, Charles puts his foot down, refuses to use his power to make people let them by. He threatens Erik with bodily harm if he forces the cars to move either, then freaks out when Erik wonders aloud about whether he could make the car fly. And Erik sniggers triumphantly at his face while Charles laments his own lack of judgment in ever befriending such a menace to society.

And Erik should tell him. Should correct him. Explain that they're not friends. He should, but he doesn't.

The mutant they're looking for turns out to be older than either of them; a low level telekinetic who has enough control to keep anything from happening and who has a family and a life that she's well pleased with. But she takes Charles's card and promises to give them a call if any of her children or grandchildren ever need their kind of help. They spend the night at a motel and Erik pretends to sleep on the drive home. But really he's listening to Charles humming along quietly to the radio and thinking about that suddenly serious atmosphere yesterday. Wondering why he didn't correct Charles. Wondering what exactly it is that they have. And what it might be turning into.

They have their first success four days later. A young woman called Angel who wanted out of the stripper business. Charles spends the entire, if rather short, drive back asking her questions and filling her in on the details of who they are and what they're trying to do. Erik spends it wondering what on earth Charles showed her that makes her keep giggling every time she looks at him, and suspecting that probably he doesn't actually want to know since it induced Charles to call him beautiful. No matter that he was teasing, Erik still probably doesn't want to know.

They get Angel situated (she and Raven seem to hit it off right away) and then head back out to the machine. Which Erik still hates, but which he also refuses to avoid. If Charles can take it, so can he.

They leave with three more sets of coordinates, one in Boston, one in Vermont, and one in New York City. Charles says they can skip the one in Boston, because he's pretty sure the kid is about three. Erik just rolls his eyes and groans. Vermont is still at least ten hours away.

The nice thing about working with the CIA, Erik decides a short while later, is that travelling long distances suddenly becomes much easier. When he and Charles informed the director that they needed to get to Vermont, the man did not direct them to the parking lot, but instead told them how to requisition a company jet. Which is why they are now sitting the most comfortable airline seats Erik's ever been in, with complementary bags of peanuts, fruit, and champagne.

"This," Erik announces, as he stretches his legs out into what on a normal airplane would be an isle but here is really just space, "is fabulous. We should fly all the time."

"Oh, come on, the car's not that bad," says Charles. He's not really paying attention though, he's reading; some thick, dull looking thing he's nicked off of Hank. Erik finds this both unfair and totally boring.

"How much longer, do you think?" he asks.

Charles looks up at that. "Umm… I don't know… Um, here, hold on —"

"Hey!" Erik yelps, "Don't do that to the pilot. What if you mess something up?"

Charles gives Erik a sharp look. "How did you know—?"

Erik raises his eyebrows. "It was a bit obvious, really."

But Charles is frowning, looking at Erik like he's working through something. And then Erik feels him reaching for Erik's mind.

"How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of my head?" he snaps.

"How are you doing that?" Charles demands. "No one else ever knows when I'm —" and he flutters his fingers to indicate the use of his powers.

Erik shrugs. "I dunno," he says honestly. "I just know. I can feel it." And then, "Really? I'm the only one?"

Charles nods and Erik frowns, confused.

"That doesn't make sense."

"Why not?" says Charles, startled.

Because you're you, Erik thinks at once. Because you are all things bright and warm, like sunlight and hearth-fire and something that still just feels like home all packed into one person, and how anyone could not feel that — But of course, Erik can't say that.

"I mean," Charles continues, "I'm sure I'm not the only one, but there can't be that many telepaths."

"Well, no, of course not," says Erik, picking at a strawberry as he tries to work out how to explain. "But we wouldn't have to be, with you around. You — I don't know, open the door, I guess."

"I'm sorry, I'm still not following you," says Charles, and Erik tries again.

"If minds exist somewhere, which your ability seems to suggest, then we're all already there. You're just the only one who can actually move in it."

Charles still looks confused.

"Imagine a bunch of people all stuck indoors. In little houses all over a neighborhood," Erik says, struck by sudden inspiration. "They're stuck; they can't get out, but if someone were to suddenly come walking down the street or down their driveway they could still see that person coming."

Charles blinks and scratches his chin.

"That . . . might actually make sense," he says after a long moment. "Huh. It never even occurred to me to think of it that way. . . . I wonder if anyone else could. . ."

"I wouldn't advise them to try," says Erik quickly. "Believe me, it's distracting."

He blinks. That isn't what he'd meant to say. Not that it isn't true, but he'd meant to say 'annoying.'

"What's distracting?" Charles wants to know.

Oh well, better run with it.

"You," Erik tells him. "You don't — you never quite turn it off. I mean," he adds quickly, "you're not actively reading my mind, I can tell that, but it's still . . . . I can still feel it. Like you're just there. Like, well, if we go back to the neighborhood metaphor, I guess it would be like your house would be in a permanent state of exploding or something. Not doing anything, just . . . noticeable."

Charles's brows go up. "I'm sorry," he says at once, and he really does look like he feels bad about it. "I didn't know — I can try — I mean, I don't know if I can —"

And Erik can actually feel him trying. Can feel that bright warm spot in his mind shrinking, trying to close in on itself.

And he surprises himself when he realizes that he doesn't actually want it to.

"Stop, don't," he says, watching as Charles's face screws up in effort. "Honestly, you'll probably just give yourself a headache. And me too, knowing my luck."

Charles opens his eyes and peers curiously at Erik. "But you said —"

"I've asked you to keep out of my head and you do," says Erik with a shrug. "The rest of it might be annoying, but I'll get over it." When Charles still doesn't look convinces he says, "Look, what's the point of us finding other mutants if we have to hide from each other? It's not your fault you're a telepath. So long as you don't go messing about in my head I've no more right to complain about it that I do to complain about — I don't know, that Hank's feet are hairy or if someone's taller than me or something."

"Mm, I guess that would be rather ridiculous, wouldn't it," Charles concedes, looking a bit sheepish. "I just — I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable."

Erik waves him off. "I can handle it," he says. Promises. Wonders why.

Charles just nods. Then he says, "That still doesn't explain why no one else can do it. Maybe you have some kind of latent telepathic ability."

"No," says Erik definitively. "No, I really don't." If he had, Shaw would have found it.

"Are you sure?" Charles presses. Because he can't help it. Because he's Mr. Curious, Mr. Interested-in-Everybody. Because he doesn't know what's in Erik's head because Erik told him to stay out.

"Quite sure," Erik assures him flatly. Although . . . now that Charles has brought it up, there is something Erik wonders. He's not sure he really wants to try it though. It's getting harder and harder to keep his distance with this man and this, he suspects, would just make it impossible.

But, it could be useful. If he can do it, it could save his life some day. Could save Charles's life some day. Could save a lot of lives, maybe, some day.

And it would be so, so nice to have an excuse to stop pretending to himself that he doesn't care about Charles.

So Erik gathers his concentration, focuses on that bright spot in his mind, on the warmth like sunshine and the feeling like home, and reaches.

Charles? Can you hear me?

Charles leaps to his feet, shouting and spilling complementary honey-roasted peanuts everywhere.

"What—! Who—! How—!"

Erik roars with laughter, and it nearly surprises him as much as Charles because he doesn't. Laugh. Not like this, all free and open and God! it feels amazing.

"You — you—!" Charles sputters. "Stop laughing, it's not funny!"

But Erik can't stop, the laughter bubbling up out of him like a wellspring. Like it's been hiding somewhere all these years, just waiting to be set free again.

Put out, Charles begins to pelt him with the fallen peanuts. Erik just laughs harder, summoning a metal tray to shield himself with.

"You complete wanker!" Charles exclaims. "You complete and total — you could have said you were going to — how did you even — oh, stop laughing already!"

"Sorry, sorry," Erik gasps, trying and only mostly failing to get a hold of himself. "It's just — your face, Charles! Really."

Charles just glares.

"Sorry," says Erik, more seriously this time. "I couldn't warn you, though. If you'd been listening for me it wouldn't have counted."

"I thought," says Charles, still a bit frosty, "that in this metaphor I was the only one who could leave the houses and move about. You said you have no telepathic ability. You were rather emphatic about it, actually."

"I don't," says Erik. "And I didn't. I just . . . wanted to see if you'd hear me if I shouted. Which, evidently you can," he adds, unable to quite keep the smirk of amusement off his face.

Charles huffs a bit irritably, but he seems calmer now.

"Well," he says, "you'd better not go telling anyone else how to do that. The last thing I want or need is half a dozen people all shouting in my head."

Erik snorts derisively. "Why would I ever do that? Still, don't tell me you can't see the practicality of it."

"Oh, absolutely," Charles agrees seriously, "I just don't want everybody doing it. And you probably don't have to shout so much. I wasn't just surprised there, that was loud."

"Oh, sorry," says Erik, and this time he actually is. He hadn't meant to hurt Charles, after all. He tries again, softer this time. How about now? Is this better?

Charles blinks.

Yes. Much.

Good.

Pardon?

I said 'good.'

Sorry, you're still a bit fuzzy.

Erik curses silently in German. Which apparently goes through loud and clear because Charles laughs.

Not as easy as it looks, is it? he teases.

They keep practicing on and off for the rest of the trip, stopping only when they pick up the NYC mutant (the one in Vermont turned them down), a taxi driver named Armando but who says everyone just calls him Darwin.

Which is good, Erik decides. It gives him time to think about what he's learned. First of all, his range, or perhaps Charles's range for hearing him, doesn't seem to be very big; if he shouts, Erik can get his attention from across a room, but that's about it. Also, (and this is why he thinks it's more based on Charles's hearing range, not that he will ever tell Charles about this) Erik's ability to sense and locate Charles's mind seems to be stronger than Charles's ability to sense and locate Erik, at least without actively using his telepathy. Probably, Erik thinks, this is simply because, going with the metaphor again, Charles is the only one with a house on fire. Erik's mind is just Erik's mind, nothing to make it stand out so spectacularly from everybody else.

Still, he's not going to tell Charles about this, because he has a feeling that it would reveal something, and Erik is very much against revealing any more of himself than he has to, especially when he's not actually sure what he'd be revealing.

The other thing he's discovered is that mind-speaking is the complete opposite of conducive to emotional distance. When you speak out loud with someone, you might be able to hear their tone of voice, but you can't actually know what they are feeling. Talking mind-to-mind with Charles, however, Erik could actually feel what Charles was feeling, at least to a certain extent. And so now he knows that Charles really does like him. Care about him. Really does see Erik as a friend.

Erik gives up. Just this once, just this one time, he's going to care. He's going to let himself care. He doesn't exactly know how to have a friend, but he's going to try, consequences be damned.

Because the only other way out of this is to leave. And Erik can't do that.

They start playing chess as a way to pass the time, on the jet or whenever they aren't out looking for others to join them. Erik is pleased when he learns that Charles is actually quite good at it; he'd wondered if perhaps a telepath would only be good while reading his or her opponent, but Charles never uses his telepathy while playing and he still manages to beat Erik.

Discussion of chess strategy eventually leads to discussion of strategy in general, and then philosophy, the games becoming a way to hash out their ideas and worries about what's going on, sometimes in general, but more usually specifically about mutants and what will happen when the world learns about them. About what the government might do in the long run. About what they can do to try and avoid the things that Erik fears the most.

Sometimes the discussions devolve into arguments, and heated ones at that. The first time it happens, Erik is afraid that it might damage the friendship they've been building, but when they see each other the next day, Charles acts as if nothing even happened. Apparently 'arguing' and 'fighting' are not the same things.

Erik is glad. He's learning that he very much enjoys the debates. And Charles's company. He likes having a friend. But only Charles. For some reason, the others hold no particular interest for him. There's nothing wrong with them, they're just . . . Well, maybe it's just because they're all younger, but Erik just doesn't feel like he has that much in common with any of them.

But since Charles cares too much, Erik figures that's fine. Charles can care about everybody else and he, Erik, will care about Charles.

Somewhere along the way, they start taking bets, placing Charles's machine-enhanced telepathy against Erik's fairly decent ability to make fast character judgments. First, Charles will get in the machine and get a new list of coordinates. Then he will try to guess which ones will or won't come with them based on the sense of them he got while in the machine. Then, when they find the mutant, Erik will observe them for a minute, before deciding whether or not he agrees with Charles. The stakes are never that high; twenty dollars at the most, and usually a good deal less, but that hardly matters. Mostly it's just another game for them to play.

Erik expects Charles to be right more often than he actually is. Charles's faith in people works against him. Erik takes this as a warning that his own cynicism might also get in the way, and so he tries to keep this in mind when he places his bets. But when he sees the man in the bar, all hair and muscle and chomping on a cigar, he's positive that no amount of prejudice or faith in humanity will ever make a difference.

He shoots Charles a look, but they go in anyway.

"Excuse me," Erik says, "I'm Erik Lensherr."

"Charles Xavier," says Charles.

The man doesn't miss a beat. "Go fuck yourself."

Told you so, Erik smirks at Charles as they leave. Honestly, what sort of rubbish telepath are you? Pay up, Charles.

Oh, do shut up, Charles returns, pushing a twenty into Erik's hand.

In the end, after about two months, their group remains rather small. Just Erik, Charles, and Raven, plus Hank, the scientist, and then Angel, Darwin, Alex, and Sean. All of them are Raven's age or younger and Erik just can't quite bring himself to take them seriously, especially not when they try to dub him and Charles 'Magneto' and 'Professor X.' Erik seriously hopes that no one ever actually starts calling him that; it's utterly ridiculous. Even Charles looks at though he'd rather not admit to being associated with any of them just now.

So they leave the children at home and fly off to Russia alone. Or almost alone, anyway, the CIA lady, Moira (Erik actually knows her name now), comes with them, along with another CIA agent who can pass for Russian apparently, though Erik has his doubts. Honestly, though, Erik doesn't much care who comes or doesn't come, just so long as Charles comes and Shaw is there.

Which is when Erik realizes that there are actually two people in the world who matter to him now: Shaw, who has to die, and Charles, who just has to be.

If only it were really that simple.

Once they get into Russia, they have to take a covered truck along bumpy dirt roads all the way to some Russian military retreat. An armed escort joins Erik and Charles in the back and they drive and drive for what feels like hours. It's cold and damp and the seats back here are just wooden benches and it reminds Erik rather strongly of his early days on the run. But Charles sits next to him and even though their shoulders keep bumping into each other and their knees jostle every time they go over a bump at least he is not alone.

Erik never would have imagined that it could make such a difference, but it does.

Then they hit an unexpected checkpoint. Charles tells everyone to act normally, that he'll take care of it. As they roll to a stop and the driver steps out to show one of the Russian soldiers the back — where they all are — Erik thinks that probably if he were a good friend, he'd have more faith in Charles and his ability to do this, because that's what friends do, trust each other, isn't it?

On the other hand, soldiers and people with guns are two things that have always made Erik nervous, and even if Charles can pull this off (and Erik can feel Charles being nervous about this as well) that's still no guarantee that nothing will happen, especially if someone in their armed escort flips out and shoots first.

And if bullets go flying then he and Charles will probably be the first ones to get hit just because of where they are. So even as Charles stands up beside him and prepares to fool the soldiers into thinking that nothing is back here, Erik reaches out his own power, feeling all the guns and any potentially useful bits of metal around them. Just in case.

Because looking out for one another is also something friends do.

The doors to the back of the truck open. Everyone holds perfectly still, barely daring to breathe.

"Anything back there?" calls an officer in Russian.

"No, nothing," replies the soldier staring straight at Erik and seeing nothing. "It's empty."

"Everything okay then?" asks their driver.

"Yes," the soldier replies and motions for the man to shut the doors. As soon as he does everyone breathes a sigh of relief. Charles sits slowly back down beside Erik, like he's afraid if he moves too fast he'll collapse.

Erik claps him on the leg.

Breathe, Charles, he tells his friend. You did good.

Charles nods. Breathes. After a moment he comments, I felt you doing something. Did you think I wouldn't be able to?

Erik shakes his head. I had your back, he corrects. Charles blinks, then smiles, almost shyly, and bumps his shoulder against Erik's.

Mercifully for the nerves of all involved, the rest of the drive is bumpy but uneventful. An hour or so later and Erik, Charles, and the CIA agents are lying at the edge of the forest watching as a helicopter delivers, not Shaw, but Emma Frost to the Russian's front gate.

"Where is Shaw?" Erik mutters urgently.

"I don't know," Charles replies over Moira's head. "But if she's a telepath and I read her she'll know we're here." He bites his lip for a moment then leans forward again and puts two fingers to his temple. "Hold on, let me try something else."

Erik squints through his binoculars again. He can tell the moment Charles takes control of one the guards because there's just no other reason for the man to have moved; guards guard, they aren't meant to pay attention beyond that.

"Well?" he asks as Frost and the general go inside.

"He's not coming," says Charles, looking disappointed. Then he turns to Moira. "So, what now, boss?"

"Now nothing," she says. "We're here for Shaw; mission aborted."

"The hell it is," Erik growls, moving to get up.

"Erik." Moira actually grabs his arm. Erik freezes. Feels some weird spike of emotion from the ever-present warm that is Charles that he doesn't have time to process. Reminds himself that she doesn't know any better.

"She's his right hand woman," he snaps, pulling his arm from her grip. "That's good enough for me."

"The CIA invading the home of a senior Soviet official?" Moira argues. "Are you crazy?"

Erik smirks at her. "I'm not CIA."

He hears Charles call after him as he runs off towards the gates to the compound, but no matter how much he's come to like and respect the other man, nothing is going to stop him now. If Emma Frost can give him even a single lead on Shaw then it's worth the cost.

Besides, Charles will follow him, never mind what Moira or the CIA might have to say about it. 'I'm with Erik,' Charles had said, and somehow Erik knows that that still holds true. It's a thought that almost has him smiling even as he turns a corner and runs headlong towards the gate.

For the first time ever, he's glad of the militaristic tendency to overuse metals. The guards are easily taken care of, strung up and bound by the barbed wire of the fence, and the ones who come at him from the yard he trips up with their own guns, knocking them out and sending them crashing to the ground. The guards in the house meet similar fates, though he disarms these ones more thoroughly, taking the time to take their weapons apart, just in case they come to later. Charles catches up to him as he looks around, wondering where Frost and the general went.

"What took you so long?" Erik asks, grinning at him.

Charles shoots him a look that Erik suspects is for the guards, then says, "This way. Come on," and leads him around a corner and down a hallway to a pair of giant double doors, which they heave open and then practically tumble inside.

The room is enormous, and very high-class, though in a way that Erik's never really understood; the way that's less about actual comfort or aesthetics, and more about just waving your money-bags around. It is also, evidently, the general's bedroom. Erik can tell this because the general himself is on the bed, muttering in Russian and fondling . . . well, nothing, actually, but he probably thinks it's Emma. The woman herself is stripped down to her bra and panties and sitting on a chair eating crackers with tea. Or it might be brandy.

"Nice trick," says Charles, looking slightly disgusted and confirming Erik's suspicion. Emma Frost shrugs and smirks a little. Then the general notices them, and then, apparently, Emma, who grins and waves. The man's eyes go wide and he opens his mouth.

"Go to sleep," Charles commands, and he collapses back onto the bed, snoring lightly.

Frost stands, shifting into a form like diamonds or ice, all glittery and crystalline. It's beautiful, really, though in a cold, unwelcoming sort of way. Which is maybe the point, as when Charles tries to read her moments later he makes a small, strangled sound and flinches back like it hurt him.

"You can stop trying to read my mind, sugar," Emma tells him. "You're never going to get anything from me while I'm like this."

Erik growls quietly. He doesn't like that she isn't being cooperative and he especially doesn't like that she's hurting Charles.

Erik can feel Charles's eyes on him. They're not connected just now, but they don't need to be for this. When Emma moves to try to run between them, he and Charles move as one to catch her and push her back towards the bed like it's easiest thing in the world. The bed frame is metal; some sort of steel alloy painted to look golden and fancy. Erik makes good use of it binding Emma.

"So then you can just tell us," he says pleasantly as he sends two strands around her wrists and another two to bind her shoulders, "Where's Shaw?"

Emma glares at him and struggles. She's stronger in this form he realizes and Erik sends another two strands to circle around her neck.

"Erik," says Charles uncertainly, but Erik knows what he's doing, for all he has to tap the rage to make the metal hold her.

"Erik, that's enough," Charles whispers as Erik carefully tightens the strands on her, but Erik doesn't let up. He stares straight at Emma, sure she understands him: she will tell them what they want to know, or else shift out of this form and let Charles take what they need, or she can keep struggling and he will shatter her here and now. But he's giving her the choice.

"Erik, that's enough," Charles repeats, louder this time and Erik can feel the tension in his friend, but it's okay. Because Charles is right, it is enough. He can hear Emma's diamond form starting to crack.

He releases her neck as she shifts back. "All yours," he tells Charles, stepping away to pour himself some of whatever turns out to be in the decanter. "She won't be shifting into diamond form again. And if she does, just give her a gentle tap."

It's unnecessary, really. Emma would never risk it, not now. But one of them should at least keep up the pretense of being people worth worrying about.

Charles says nothing, just crouches down in front of her and puts his fingers to his temple once more. Erik waits, sips his drink, which turns out to be bourbon, actually, and not too bad, though it's not really Erik's type of drink. After a moment, Emma smiles, says, "Beautiful, isn't it?" and Charles turns to Erik with a tense expression.

"This is worse than we previously imagined," he says, holding out a hand, offering what he found to Erik. Erik doesn't think twice about it. He lets Charles in and takes all that he just got from Emma.

It's . . . staggering. There's simply no other word for it. Shaw isn't a spy for Russia, he's plotting World War III. And he's playing the Russians against the Americans to do it. And if that's not shocking enough — seriously, what kind of maniac actually plans a war? — then there's why he's doing it. Which is actually maybe the only part of all this that makes any sense at all to Erik.

Shaw thinks that by instigating nuclear war, he will not only destroy the vast majority of humankind, but that he will also create an influx of mutants.

Would it work? Erik asks Charles, not entirely sure he should be asking. Not entirely sure he wants to know the answer.

I don't know, admits Charles. Maybe. Possibly. But even if it did, even if he's right and nuclear war did make the mutant population larger and stronger, it would ruin the planet. In the end we'd all die either way.

Well, says Erik, matter-of-factly, then I guess we'd better stop him.

They give Emma to the CIA then head out, back to the research base where the others are. Charles is uneasy. Emma didn't know any details, but something she said or something she thought has him worried that Shaw is causing trouble back home.

And though Erik would have sworn that he could care less about the others, Charles's anxiety is catching. They can't possibly get back fast enough.

As soon as they reach the American consulate in Turkey (because they certainly couldn't make their presence known in Russia), they receive the news that Emma hinted at. Shaw has attacked the research compound in their absence. In fact, it's probably why he skipped out on the trip to Russia in the first place. Charles and the agents spend the entire flight home trying to make arrangements to keep the kids safe — assuming of course that they're even still there. Or even still alive. Erik sits in a corner, alternately dozing and thinking. There's nothing he can do that isn't already being done, and someone needs to be fresh when they arrive just in case Shaw decided to leave them any nasty surprises.

At some point, about halfway through the flight, Charles comes and sits down next to him. He looks exhausted and strained in a way like Erik's never seen before, and he remembers that Raven, for all she doesn't think of it that way, is Charles's foster-sister.

"Still no details?" he asks. Charles shakes his head.

"No," he says biting his lips again. "We still don't even know if—" He breaks off. Shakes his head. Drags his hands down his face. Erik's never seen him so . . . so un-composed.

It actually hurts Erik, to see his friend like this, and he remembers, vaguely, a time when sympathy – empathy – was not so unfamiliar.

Carefully, not entirely sure the gesture will be welcome, Erik puts a hand on Charles's back.

"I'm sure she'll be alright," he says.

Charles blinks. "God, I hope so."

He doesn't pull away. Erik rubs his back a little, then settles his arm around Charles's shoulders. Charles makes a small, strangled sound, like needing to talk when there aren't any words, like needing to do something but being trapped. It matches perfectly with the look on Charles's face (one part lost, two parts tense frustration) and Erik pulls him in against his side without thinking. For a moment, Charles stiffens and Erik is afraid he did something wrong. But then, abruptly, he turns and presses his face into Erik's shoulder. He's not crying, but his breathing is uneven and Erik can tell how much stress he's trying to contain.

Erik relaxes, squeezes Charles's shoulders.

"You'd know if something had happened to her," he says, putting as much certainty into his voice as he can.

"You can't know that," says Charles quietly, the words muffled by Erik's turtleneck.

"Yes I can," Erik tells him. "She's your sister. You'd know. Actually, probably we'd all know. She'd have come back to haunt us by now."

The joke is a risk, but it gets a small laugh out of Charles so Erik counts it as a win. After a few minutes, one of the agents walks by and Charles takes his head out of Erik's shoulder to ask if there's any new news. There isn't yet. Charles nods, but doesn't pull away from Erik, so he leaves his arm where it is. This might be all he can do for his friend, but at least he can do something.

By the time they touch down at Quantico, they know that, aside from nearly all of the humans who were on the base at the time, the only one they've lost is Darwin. Erik is glad it wasn't Raven for Charles's sake. Charles is also glad. And then he feels guilty for being glad that his foster-sister is still alive, rather than upset that Darwin is not. Erik wants to tell him that that's stupid, but that won't help right now.

Privately, in a very small corner of his mind that isn't occupied with the chaos, he's a bit proud of himself for knowing that. He usually reads people pretty well, but dealing them — other than to terrify them, anyway — isn't really his strong suit.

When they pull up to the facility, Charles rushes out of the car, calling for Raven. Erik follows more slowly, preoccupied by the destruction. There's rubble everywhere. It looks like the place got hit by something half-explosion, half-earthquake. US troops are all over, probably checking security and looking for survivors, and Erik promises himself that if they ask Charles for help he'll pull the rest of the building down around their ears before he lets his friend push himself any further.

Behind him, an argument is brewing. Charles, hands on hips and in top over-protective big brother form, is trying to send the children home, but they don't want to go. Erik is hardly surprised. He knows Charles just wants to keep them all safe, but Erik has lost people before. He knows what it's like to need to do something — anything — to set things right again. What it's like to need to fight.

Charles pulls him aside when he throws in with the young ones.

"Erik, they're just kids," he says.

"No," Erik murmurs back vehemently. "They were kids. Shaw has his army, we need ours."

They need this, Charles, he adds silently. Trust me, I know.

Charles bites the inside of his cheek, then turns to look at the others again. Four pairs of young eyes stare back, determined. He sighs, and Erik knows they've won.

"We'll have to train," Charles cautions them. "All of us."

The kids just nod. They know. They're ready. They know this is for real now. Then Hank sits up.

"We can't stay here," he points out. "Even if they reopen the department it's not safe. We've got nowhere to go."

He doesn't say it like he's complaining. He says it like an adult, like a scientist: find problem, devise solution.

There's silence for a moment, and then Charles almost smiles.

"Yes we do."

The . . . mansion is huge. Enormous. Erik doesn't actually think that 'mansion' is a strong enough word. The place is like a miniature castle. The surrounding grounds – acres and acres of them – are perfectly kept and groomed. There's probably an orchard somewhere, just because.

"This is yours?" says Sean, pretty much summing up everyone's thoughts on the matter.

"No," says Charles fondly, "it's ours."

There's silence for a moment as everyone absorbs this, then Erik says, "Honestly, Charles. I don't know you survived. Living in such hardship."

Charles's lips twitch. Raven's eyes flick between the two.

"Well," she says, moving up to stand in between them, "it was a hardship softened by me."

Erik rolls his eyes, but Charles, still riding the affection-high of relief, gives her a one-armed hug and kisses the side of her head. Raven beams for a moment, then strides ahead.

"Come on, time for the tour."

As they all follow, Moira moves to walk beside Charles, finding an excuse to link her arm through his. Erik purses his lips, annoyed, then starts when Charles reaches back for him, making them a striding threesome. Now Moira looks annoyed. Charles, busy beaming sunlight at everyone and everything, doesn't notice. Erik sighs inwardly.

When he met them all, it took him about all of twenty minutes to realize that Moira was interested, and not much longer to work out that Raven also saw Charles as something more than just a friend or a brother, but Charles doesn't seem to have realized it in either case. Charles, Erik decides, is then either the most clueless person on earth, or just the kindest person Erik's ever met, the latter being the case if Charles actually has noticed but isn't interested and is just too nice to say anything.

Either way, Erik wishes the man would just tell them he's not interested. Or just start something with one of them, if he is. It doesn't really matter — it's nothing to do with Erik, after all — but he's tired of getting caught in the middle of Moira's flirtations and Raven's swings between being possessive of Charles and her attempts to make him jealous.

The 'tour' rapidly dissolves into Charles and Raven organizing everyone into teams to start re-opening the rooms they'll need. No one but the skeleton staff has actually been in the house since Charles and Raven left for England so Charles could attend Oxford, so most of the house resembles a forest of white sheets and plastic covers.

The kitchen, of course, is fine and decently stocked, which is a relief since they'll all be hungry by the end of the day, but the dining room, main living room – which also sort of looks like an office – gym, and all of the family and guest bed rooms all need to be re-opened, dusted, and aired out.

Erik finds himself working with Alex on two of the guest rooms. The boy works hard, but seems subdued somehow. Erik even asks the him if he's alright, but Alex just shrugs and says he's tired. Erik nods and lets it go, but he makes a mental note to ask Charles about it later. Not that everyone doesn't have the right to be tired and a bit off right now, but this feels like something more and if there's something wrong with Alex then they need to know.

He doesn't get a chance until the next day though, when they're finally done with preparing the house and everyone's breaking for lunch. Well, everyone except Hank, who's found the Xavier's laboratory and is in science-geek heaven right now.

Because it's such a nice day out, Charles suggests that they take lunch out on the terrace and as people finish and start exploring the grounds some, Erik manages to catch Charles alone for a moment.

"Something on your mind?" Charles asks, as Alex and Sean wander about and Raven fixes a plate to take down to Hank. Erik nods.

"I think there's something the matter with Alex," he says. "Mind you, I don't really know the boy, but still, he seems awfully . . . quiet."

"Yeah, well," says Raven before Charles can answer, "he and Darwin were . . . close, after all."

The way she says it makes it sound like that's not quite what she means. Apparently Charles thinks so too, because he frowns at her.

"What do you mean, Raven?"

Raven just gives him a look, and for all Erik knows she doesn't see Charles as her brother, it still shows that they grew up together. Charles's brows shoot up.

"Oh," he says. "Oh, I see." He frowns, evidently considering something.

"What?" Erik asks, slightly put out. "I don't speak fluent eyebrow."

Charles and Raven both turn to stare at him, then Raven sniggers a bit.

"It's nothing," says Charles. "Or, well, no, you're right, but — well . . . ." He turns back to Raven. "Should we talk to him, do you think?"

Raven scrunches her mouth for a moment as she thinks then says, "Maybe, but I think mostly he just needs to keep busy right now. If he wants to talk to us he knows we're here."

Charles sighs and says, "Okay, but keep an eye on him for me, will you? Let me know if anything . . . changes."

Raven nods and takes her leave, juice glass in one hand and plate full of sandwiches and fruit in the other.

"Her and Hank," says Charles slowly to Erik. "D'you think—?"

"No idea," says Erik. If Charles isn't aware of his foster-sister's varied and complicated interests then Erik certainly isn't going to be the one to explain. "What about Alex?"

"You heard Raven, just keep him busy."

"But what's wrong with him?" Erik presses.

"He just misses his friend," says Charles, a bit too carefully.

"They're all upset about Darwin," Erik points out, wondering what on earth it is that Charles doesn't feel comfortable sharing. Surely he knows Erik is only concerned.

"Yes," says Charles quietly, "but they didn't all provide the energy blast that Shaw used to destroy him."

"Oh," says Erik. Now he feels like a bit of an idiot. He should have realized. Of course Alex is taking it harder than the others. He thinks it's his fault.

Erik looks across the table at Charles, and wonders how Alex feels. He tries to imagine it, what it would be like if he had been Alex and Charles had been Darwin. To have to watch as someone he cares about is torn apart before his eyes and know that if not for him then it never would have happened.

And then he has to stop thinking about it very fast, because if he doesn't he thinks he might be sick.

"Erik?" Something of his thoughts must have shown in Erik's face because Charles sounds concerned. "Are you all right? You look . . . ."

"I'm fine," Erik manages, pushing the images that make his eyes burn and his gut churn as far away as he possibly can. And though he doesn't push his mind into Charles's the way he's learned he can (the last thing he needs is for Charles to ask why he was imagining Charles dead), he does focus his attention on it, on that bright little sun that hovers on the edges of his awareness, just to reassure himself.

"Are you sure?" asks Charles, peering at him. "It's been a long few days, after all, and you haven't slept much."

"I'm sure," says Erik, shuffling his legs under the table and managing to accidentally on purpose bump his ankle against Charles's leg. It makes the sentence true; Charles is there, solid and present and very much alive, and so Erik is okay. Alex, on the other hand . . .

"We should keep a close eye on him," Erik announces. "If he really — if he thinks it's his fault . . . ." He trails off, but Charles seems to understand anyway.

"Yes," he agrees. "Greif and guilt are not a good combination. I would hate to see him do anything . . . drastic."

Erik nods, though it's not quite the word he would have chosen. Remembering how he felt even just thinking about it, he's far less worried about drastic actions than he is about final ones.

Training doesn't actually start immediately. This is mainly because Charles has to first think of ways for them to train specific to their mutations and second order the equipment that he and Hank decide they'll need. It only takes two days to arrive though, thanks, Erik is sure, to the copious amounts of money it is now clear Charles possesses. He wonders if maybe Charles never mentioned it because he was afraid that Erik would mind or something, but when he asks about it over one of their evening chess games, Charles comes back with two very logical reasons for not saying anything, the first being that it really shouldn't matter, and the second that really, how on earth does one manage to say something like that without it sounding like totally unnecessary bragging? And the reasoning is so sound and so quintessentially Charles that Erik just has to laugh.

Breakfast the next morning is quieter than usual; Erik, Charles, and Raven are up early, but apparently the others are finally adjusted enough to the new place to sleep in because they don't show up and Charles says to just let them sleep. There's nothing for them to really do now anyway, not until the delivery comes and that probably won't be for another hour or so.

Moira turns up just as Erik is sitting down to his second cup of coffee. She doesn't stay at the house with them, something Erik is glad of, though he's not quite sure why, but she does always turn up during the day. Erik supposes it annoys him because really, except for updating them on the state of things and the CIA's plans for them, there's nothing for her to do. Still she shows up, talking at Charles and pretending like she belongs with them. And distracting Sean, though that at least can be amusing. Poor kid doesn't have a snowball's chance but that doesn't stop him making a fool of himself. There again, not much ever does.

Erik sips his coffee. Predictably, once Moira has grabbed something to eat, she sits herself down next to Charles and starts talking. Charles appears to be listening, nodding at all the right intervals and making thoughtful hmm-ing noises, but Erik can tell that his mind is elsewhere. Not that Erik blames him; he's not paying any attention either, too busy stealing a biscotti off of Charles's plate to go with his coffee.

"Groovy," Charles says absently, smacking at Erik's hand a second too late and glaring.

"Yes, I—"

"Groovy?" Raven echoes, smirking as she cuts Moira off. "Seriously, Charles?"

"What?" says Charles. "What's wrong with groovy?"

"Nothing," says Raven. "You just usually feign attention better than that."

Moira blinks. Charles flushes slightly. "I wasn't — I — I was listening. Honestly, Raven, just because —"

Raven snorts. "Charles, you only say groovy when you're drunk or when you're hustling the co-eds into your bed."

Moira flinches. Raven pretends not to notice, though Erik is pretty sure that's what she was aiming for. Charles's face looks like a complete study in discomfort. The silence stretches on, awkward and somehow very loud. Then Erik stands up. Moira's shattered self-delusions and Raven's cattiness are nothing to do with him.

"Well, we've got an hour to prepare," he says, draining the last of his coffee and putting the mug in the sink. "Charles, you said last night there was something you wanted my help with?"

"Er, yes, right," says Charles, nearly knocking over his chair in his hurry to leave. Practically throws his dishes into the sink with Erik's. Says, "I've been thinking about how to deal with Alex's . . . problem, and I think I might have a solution. Come on."

They exit the kitchen and Erik practically has to jog to keep up, Charles is moving so fast.

Thank you, he sends quietly to Erik as he leads the way outside and across the grounds. Gods, that was mortifying. I don't know what's gotten into Raven these days.

Erik shrugs noncommittally. She's young. Anyway, about this solution to Alex's training problem?

I'm not sure youth is really an excuse, remarks Charles dryly. And it's this way. My stepfather had this thing built ages ago in case of nuclear war. I thought Alex could practice in here and hopefully not endanger anything. Or anyone.

Well, she's also probably not used to sharing your attention so much, Erik explains, following Charles into a large bunker set into the side of a hill.

Hmm, interesting point, muses Charles, flicking on the lights and revealing a good fifty yards of concrete gray. And that is about as far as Erik is willing to get into the matter so out loud he says, "So, what exactly did you want me to do?"

"It should be sturdy," says Charles, frowning at the expanse of space. "But it's old. And Alex's ability is volatile. I was hoping you could check it to make sure it's structurally sound. The concrete is reinforced with steel and the door and ceiling are made of some lead alloy, I think. If nothing else, it'll be good practice for you."

"Alright," says Erik. "Just give me a minute." Stretching out, he finds that Charles is right, there's metal worked almost all the way through the bunker. Focusing, taking the time to be sure, he checks the whole place. He finds precious few flaws in the metal work, and what little he does find is within his ability to correct. When he finishes, he opens his eyes to find Charles studying him closely.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and Erik realizes that he's sweating.

"Fine," he tells his friend. "Small stuff's easier, but I had to fix a few things. Changing metal is hard, especially when I can't actually see it."

"Changing metal?" Charles echoes. "You mean like, making it look different. Like sculpting? You can do that?"

"Some," says Erik. "Like I said, though, it's difficult."

"That's still amazing," says Charles, blue eyes alight with the discovery. Erik laughs and shakes his head.

"You're easily pleased," he says. "The place should be fine, by the way. At least the metalwork is sound; I can't speak to the rest of it."

"That's fine," says Charles, "I'm going to have Alex be aiming at the ends anyway. I just wanted to make sure that nothing would melt or fall on us if he misses."

Erik nods; the ends of the bunker are stone. The builders probably would have had to blast in order to make this place.

"The statue Alex destroyed back at the CIA base was a much softer metal than what you have here," he says. "It should be okay, but I'll check it regularly if you like."

"I'd appreciate that," says Charles seriously. "Though, I'll be honest, I'm not sure we'll have enough time to do that much damage. It's looking like we'll only have a week or so to prepare."

Erik studies his friend as he leads the way back out of the bunker and shuts the door. Charles looks worried and it occurs to Erik that all this is just as new to the telepath as it is to the rest of them. And yet everyone still expects him to have all the answers.

"It'll be alright," Erik says. Promises. Tries to reassure. "They may only be a bunch of kids, but Shaw killed their friend. They're angry now. They'll work hard for this."

Charles pauses, bracing his hands against the metal of the bunker door. When he turns to face Erik, he doesn't look like the calm, knowing professor that he's been showing to the rest of the world, he looks young and lost. He looks exactly the way Erik felt the first time he realized just how hard going after Shaw was going to be. And Charles doesn't even have the rage to help him.

"Erik, Shaw's the one who destroyed the CIA research base," he says, blue eyes wide. "I know you know that, but you didn't see — there were a few men there, still alive, when we got back. Dying, obviously, but I saw — God, Erik, it was so easy for him. They shot him with everything, even some kind of explosive device — I think it was a bazooka — and he just, just absorbed it all. And then sent it back. In their minds, those men, it looked like some sort of wave, like he could not only send it back but control it. And when I look for him with Cerebro, I can't find him. Frost is still being held by the CIA. It doesn't make any sense. Shaw would never be so foolish as to get close and she's not strong enough to block me from there but I still can't find him! I don't understand."

And now Charles looks almost as frustrated and helpless as he did on the plane back from Russia while they waited to hear who was dead. And Erik knows it's not fair of him, knows that Charles is only one man, but it still scares him, seeing Charles lose it like this. He's so used to Charles being the sane one, the one who's in control, that he's not sure what to do when suddenly he's just not.

But he also knows that there's no one else Charles will ever say all this to, no one else he can talk to about this, and maybe just listening is enough. Just listening and letting it be okay.

"It's not all up to you," he says. "You told me I wasn't alone. Well, neither are you. The rest of us may not be quite as practiced as you are, but we're not useless. The CIA has plenty of resources; let them worry about finding Shaw."

"And then what?" asks Charles miserably. "They aren't equipped to handle him, you know that."

And Erik hesitates, just for a moment. Because there's a conversation here that will have to happen at some point. And he's almost sure that Charles already knows, knows what the solution is. What it has to be. But he also knows that Charles won't like it. Won't be able to do it. Which is why dealing with Shaw will ultimately fall to Erik.

And at any other point in time, that would probably be an okay conversation to have. Charles wouldn't like it, wouldn't want to agree with it, but he'd handle it. But not right now.

"That," says Erik instead, "is what we're for. That's why we're here training, right? Besides, all we have to do is stop the Americans and the Russians starting a nuclear war. Whatever's protecting Shaw – Frost, another telepath, whatever – I doubt it's protecting all the soldiers. Shaw wouldn't bother."

Charles blinks, and then stares at Erik like he's never seen him before.

"I hadn't even thought of that," he admits. "God, could it really be that simple?"

Erik shrugs. "It's an option, certainly." If nothing else it would buy them time to find and eliminate Shaw.

"It's not very ethical . . ." Charles muses, sounding much more like his usual self and Erik snorts.

"Stopping World War III is unethical? Charles, I think you've got some priorities wrong there."

Charles actually laughs now. "Alright," he says, "Maybe it'd be excusable under the circumstances."

"One man's sanctity of mind for millions of lives?" says Erik. "I think the world will forgive you."

"Would you?" Charles asks him suddenly and Erik raises an eyebrow.

"I'm hardly one to judge," he says. Especially considering he's killed people for less, though he's not entirely sure that that's what Charles means. "Besides, you've already been all through my mind and I'm still here, aren't I?"

And just like that, Charles smiles again, all the doubt and worry gone from his eyes. Blue skies. Bright sun.

And somehow, Erik helped do that.

"Thank you," says Charles. Then he pushes off the door where he's been leaning and starts back towards the house.

"Come on," he calls. "There's one more thing you could help me with. I want to pull some windows for Sean."

And Erik, smiling, follows.

After two or three days of training, Erik decides that Charles was simply born to do this. In just that short a time, the kids are all making visible progress. Alex no longer sets the bunker on fire every time he tries to hit the target, Hank, though still embarrassed by the appearance of his feet, is running around barefoot and outpacing everyone, and Sean has started breaking individual panes in his windows, rather than the window as a whole.

Raven Charles ignores, trusting her to train on her own. Erik can't help feeling a bit bad for her, and tries, once or twice, to get her to accept herself for who and what she really is. Charles may not have noticed, but Erik can tell that at least half of her problems stem from her inability to do so.

Mostly, though, Erik works alone, floating whatever bits of metal he can find, testing his control and practicing controlling multiple objects. On a whim, he tries his hand at sculpting, trying to reshape a bit of junk metal, first into a sun and then a three-dimensional, multi-pointed star, and then finally the old apple tree he can see from his bedroom window. The tree is a lot harder to get right than the others.

On the fourth day, Charles decides that Sean needs more height than he can get from the mansion windows in order to make the flying contraption Hank has invented work, so that afternoon everyone hikes out to the satellite dish just off the edge of the Xavier property, Sean with a look of great trepidation and everyone else with varying levels of excitement and anticipation.

Alex stays on the ground, so does Moira, who prefers to avoid heights when she can. Eric, Charles, Hank, Raven, and Sean, however, climb all the way up the satellite to a small open platform at the top.

"Are you sure about this?" Sean wants to know as he climbs up to sit on the railing.

"Absolutely," says Charles.

"I trust you," says Sean.

"Good," says Charles.

"I don't trust him," Sean gestures to Hank.

"Say nothing," Charles instructs Hank. Erik snorts softly. Sean hesitates.

"Look," says Charles reassuringly, "I'm not going to make you do this if—"

"Here, let me help." Impatient, Erik reaches out and pushes Sean off the edge.

"Erik!" Charles half-shouts, leaning over to watch as Sean falls, screams, and then suddenly hits the right pitch and takes off.

"What?" says Erik. "You know you were thinking the same."

The look Charles gives him, indignation mixed with denial, tells him he's right. Erik grins.

Shut up, Charles thinks at him. I wouldn't have done it. You shouldn't have done it.

Oh, come on, Erik replies. It's like birds; the babies only learn to fly when their parents push them from the nest.

Charles shoots him a sideways look, and his voice sounds/feels weird when he remarks, You realize that that makes us the parents here. His expression is weird too, like he's waiting for something to happen, something maybe not good. But Erik just laughs.

I guess it does, he agrees, then snorts and puts a hand to his head. And I pushed him. Guess that makes me the abusive father.

He waits for Charles to laugh with him, to make some come back about Erik's people skills or social services or something, but instead Charles is just staring at him, his face, usually so expressive, now oddly blank.

Charles? Erik asks. Charles, are you alright?

"Hmm?" says Charles out loud, seeming to come back to himself. "Oh, yes, I'm fine." He turns away to watch as Sean screams and soars over some pine trees. Fidgets, jittering one leg like Erik's seen him do once or twice before. "Did anyone teach him how to land?" he wonders, then adds, without looking at Erik, "And you're not — you wouldn't. We knew he'd be okay; you wouldn't hurt an innocent."

Erik stares, wondering what on earth is going on. Below them there's a thud as Sean does something evidently wrong and crashes into a tree, then plummets to the ground.

"Oh dear — Sean!" And before Erik can say anything Charles is scrambling back down the ladder to check on the boy.

"What was that all about?" asks Raven, looking from Erik to Charles's vanishing head and then back again. "Is — did you — is he alright?"

"I don't know," Erik replies. "I thought so, but then. . ."

"Well, what did you say?"

Erik hesitates, but Raven is Charles's oldest friend. She might have some insight.

"Nothing, really. He was, sort of, pointedly not saying anything about me pushing Sean," and the look on Raven's face tells him she knows exactly what he means, "and so I said it was like parent birds pushing the babies out of the nest, but of course then that made me the abusive father, and then, then —" Erik shrugs, gestures rather helplessly after Charles.

"Huh," says Raven, chewing her lip.

"Did I say something wrong?" Erik asks.

"No, not — well, maybe," says Raven, like there's something she knows but she's not totally sure she should share.

"What?" says Erik. Raven sighs and turns to look back at the mansion.

"It's beautiful," she says, gesturing to the estate. "The house, I mean. This place. It looks perfect. It is perfect. But —" she pauses, puts her head to one side. "But the people who lived there weren't."

"Your parents —" Erik starts.

"They weren't my parents," says Raven. "Kurt wasn't even his. But . . . it wasn't perfect, okay? It's not my place to say, and I'm not saying that that's what . . . but you might want to ask about it. Don't push, but you could ask."

Erik nods, and Raven moves to head back down to the others as well, quickly followed by Hank. Erik stays on the platform, looking out over the land and thinking. Because she's right; he met Charles and he met Raven, his foster-sister, and then he never thought any further than that. Even coming to this place didn't bring it home to him that Charles had a family besides Raven. He'd simply seen the mansion, assumed he'd been spoiled as a child and then — and then — and then somehow simply just become the amazing person Erik knew today.

Which was stupid, Erik can see that now. Spoiled pampered children don't just grow up to be incredible, generous people; there has to be something else, someone or something to affect them. Something in Charles's life has made him determined not only to believe in people, but to care about and try to help every single person he meets.

And Erik has never even asked. Charles knows everything about him, has seen it all, pulled directly from Erik's head, so he knows exactly what Erik is. And he still cares. Still wants to know Erik. Is still Erik's friend. And Erik's never even tried to return the favor.

When Erik returns to the house, everyone else is already scattered for the day. As he makes his way through the house, he spots Moira in the kitchen making a sandwich.

"Feeling extra hungry, are you?" he asks, eyeing the rather large amount of deli meat she's adding.

"What? Oh, no, this is for Charles," she says, finishing the sandwich off with a few slices of tomato and cheese. "He missed lunch today since he was working with Alex."

Erik snorts and crosses the room, pulling open the fridge and grabbing the jar of pickles.

"I'll take it to him," he says, adding a few, surprised Moira doesn't know Charles likes them. "I need to talk to him anyway."

"Oh, but—" Moira starts, but Erik cuts her off.

"What about Alex? Could you make sure he eats something too?"

"Well, I —"

"I'm sure Charles would appreciate it," Erik adds, firmly quashing the urge to roll his eyes. "We're a little worried about the kids. You know, after Darwin."

It's probably an unfair thing to say, but it works. Moira's protests die on her lips and she nods, promising to take Alex something as Erik picks up Charles's plate. As he leaves, she calls after him, asking if he doesn't need her to tell him where Charles is, but Erik ignores her. He hasn't needed anyone to tell him where Charles is since the day he met the man.

He finds Charles at his desk in the study. He's reading something, probably some reports from Hank, but he looks up when Erik enters. Erik holds up the plate.

"Moira sent this. She said you hadn't eaten." He really should have thought this through more; he has no idea how to do this.

"Excellent," says Charles, happily accepting the sandwich and taking an enormous bite out of it. His brows shoot up. "Moira made this?"

Erik laughs. "Most of it," he says. "I added the pickles."

Charles grins and tips the sandwich at him. "Thank you, my friend. I've missed them, but I hate to complain when she's just being nice. I don't know why she keeps making me food."

Erik stares at him; maybe Charles really is that oblivious. Charles takes another bite of his sandwich then looks back up at Erik.

"Did you want something?"

And Erik still isn't sure how to do this, so he just picks a place and charges.

"I wanted to apologize," he tells Charles. "It seemed like I said something that upset you earlier."

"What?" says Charles, seeming genuinely surprised.

"Earlier," says Erik, "at the satellite dish, you —" and he lets an image of Charles's expression slide between them. "I thought maybe I said something wrong."

"Oh," says Charles. He looks down at his desk and shuffles some papers. "Oh, no. No, nothing like that. I just —"

"Just what?" asks Erik, taking a seat in a nearby armchair. "You seemed pretty out of it all of a sudden."

"It was nothing, really," says Charles, still fiddling with the papers on the desk. "I just—"

He stops again, chews the inside of his cheek. Erik waits. After a moment, Charles seems to come to a decision.

"What you said, it made me think — do you think it would ever work? I mean, it's a nice idea, I think."

"What is?" says Erik.

"We could do it," says Charles. "This place, I mean. If we can show them, show the humans that we're all right, that they don't have to be afraid, then we could do it. Turn this place into a school of sorts. A place for mutant children to come and learn and practice using their abilities like they should. No fear or hatred, no need to hide. And we could teach them, you and me and maybe Hank or Raven."

Charles's eyes are bright with this vision and Erik laughs.

"I'm no professor," he says teasingly. "That's you, X."

And Charles laughs, just a little, and shuffles the papers on the desk again.

"But would you stay?" he asks, glancing almost shyly at Erik out of the corner of his eye.

Erik frowns. He has the sudden and distinct impression that they are having two conversations. And that might be a problem because he still sometimes has trouble with just single-layered conversations.

"Well," he says slowly, still trying to suss out what Charles is asking, "I'm not sure anyone would approve of my teaching methods, but I suppose you could take care of any complaints the parents might have. So, yeah, I'd stay."

It must have been the right answer, because Charles is beaming at him, that smile he has that's like sunlight. The one that makes it next to impossible not to smile back, even for Erik.

"Erik," Charles scolds lightly, "altering parents' minds? That would be unethical."

Erik grins at him. "True, but you'd do it for me."

Charles actually blushes. "No I wouldn't," he says quickly, scowling.

Erik laughs. "Well, no, maybe not," he concedes. "But admit it, you'd at least think about it."

Charles shoots him another sideways glance. "Maybe," he says. "But more likely I'd end up forcing you to go to sensitivity training."

Erik pulls a face. "Hmm, maybe we should think of a different job for me than teaching."

Charles laughs. "Maybe. Just in case."

And, of course, Erik thinks, the whole thing is really 'just in case' because there's no way it'll ever happen. Erik knows it. Probably Charles knows it too. The humans will never really be able to accept them. Fear is a powerful thing and people almost always fear what they don't or can't understand.

But, just this once, Erik will let it be. Because Charles needs a break. And because maybe that's not really the point, anyway.

"Mm," he says instead, "Speaking of teaching, though, what are we doing tomorrow?"

"Ugh, everything," says Charles, running his hands through his hair and taking a deep breath. "Can you recheck the bunker at some point? Alex set it mostly on fire again, I'm afraid."

"Yeah, sure," says Erik. "Although, it hardly seems necessary, really. Almost nothing ever so much as cracks in there. Your father really made that place to last."

"Stepfather," Charles corrects. "And, yes, he really did. Never thought I'd actually thank that man for anything, but I have to admit, the bunker's come in handy."

And this, Erik knows, is his opening to ask, and even though it seems as though that wasn't what was on Charles's mind, he still feels like he should, so Erik spares a moment to pray to whatever deity might be listening that Raven's advice is sound, and then says, "What was he like?"

"Who, Kurt?" says Charles, looking over at him and grimacing. "Arrogant prat. Married my mother for her money. Wasn't around much, thank god. They always argued when they were together."

"Did they divorce?" Erik asks curiously.

"Oh no," says Charles, a trace bitterly. "No, my mother was a drunk. She was okay before my father died, but then after that . . . I don't know, I guess it was her way of coping. She died about a year before I went to Oxford — drunk driver, ironically enough — but I'd fixed the will so that Raven and I inherited almost everything. Well, I had to; Kurt never cared about us any. Afterwards, Kurt moved out, went to Philadelphia, I think. We haven't heard from him since."

"I'm sorry," says Erik, because he can't think of anything else to say to all that. Charles looks at him, startled.

"You don't have to be," he says. "I don't mind. Besides, it wasn't all bad. I had Raven, after all, and there was a nanny who was very nice for a while. And my mother, well, I know she cared, even if she wasn't very good at it. It really counts for something, you know, knowing that for sure. Really, compared to — to some, I really can't complain."

And Erik knows that he's thinking of Erik's own childhood. Of his time spent first at the hands of the Nazis and then in those of Shaw and his scientists. And a month ago, two months ago, Erik would have agreed with Charles that he has no right to complain, but now . . .

"Sure you can," he says.

Charles shoots him a questioning look. Erik sighs.

"Maybe it wasn't as bad as — as some," he says quietly, "but I'm not sure that really makes it any better."

For a moment, Charles just stares at Erik, his expression far too complicated for Erik to read. Then he turns away, closes his eyes. His breath, when he inhales, shudders a bit; a lot like pain and a little like relief. Like no one's ever said it before. Like no one's ever told him that it's okay for it not to be okay, for it to hurt.

After a moment, he opens his eyes again. "Can I show you something?"

"If you want," Erik says, curious, but not wanting to push his friend.

Charles nods. "I do. Come on."

He leads the way out of the study and down the hall a ways, then turns a corner. At the very end of this corridor, he opens a dark hewn wooden door and gestures for Erik to go inside.

The room is beautiful, a medium-sized library all of the same dark wood as the door. Books cover every wall, every shelf packed tight. There's a small fireplace set into the north wall, logs still neatly stacked in the woodbasket. A small table and a pair of comfortable looking armchairs sit before it, and there's a couch for reading as well. The carpet on the floor looks plush and expensive and Erik almost wants to take off his shoes to see if he can dig his toes into it.

Then Charles steps in behind him and closes the door and Erik stops thinking about the rug.

Normally, his awareness of Charles's mind is minimal, just a bright little spot of warm in his head, but now . . . Now that spot seems to have expanded somehow, bringing Erik within its edges, as if before he could just see the ocean and now suddenly he's ankle-deep in it. And he understands, without knowing the reason why, that it's because of this room. In this room, something relaxes inside Charles the same way sometimes something relaxes inside Erik when he's with Charles. Because to Charles, more than any other part of Westchester, this room is home.

Charles glances at him, a small, slightly awed smile on his face.

"You can tell that?" he asks, then, before Erik can say anything, he explains, "This was my father's library. The office study was his too, of course, but this — this was always his favorite place in the house."

He turns, walks along the shelves trailing his fingers along the spines of the many books.

"He was a scholar, my father. A scientist — nuclear physicist, actually. He was very clever, well respected in his field, you know, but to me . . . . I don't remember much. I was still very young when he died. But I do remember this. This was his room, the place where I'd always find him. The place where he'd read with me, teach me things, the basic principles of scientific investigation, the basic laws of physics. He loved to tell me about his work. I loved to listen, even though I didn't understand much of it. I thought he was the most amazing man. When — when he died, he left the house to my mother, but this room, and everything in it, this he left just to me. Since then, no one else but me has been in here."

Erik doesn't know what to say. He feels incredibly honored, and more than a bit undeserving. Why Charles would choose him, of all people, to share this with—

His eyes catch on something, tucked away into a shelf. He steps towards it, lays his fingers on the wood. It's a very old, very elegant chess set. Carefully, Erik pulls it out.

"Was this his, too?"

A smile blooms on Charles's face. "Yes, it was. He taught me to play."

"Then he taught you well," says Erik, still examining the box. Though it's old and worn, it's been well cared-for and the craftsmanship is excellent. Touching it feels like touching some fine piece of history.

"He did," agrees Charles warmly. "I mean, obviously, I've learned a lot since then — mostly out of other people's heads, I'll admit — but I'll still use strategies I remember him teaching me."

Erik hesitates; the chess set is made almost entirely of wood, but there are tiny nails in the box and the pieces have been weighted with metal at their bases. He can work with that. A wave of his hand sends the box open, a flick of his fingers and the pieces arrange themselves on the board. Then, gently, he floats the board over to where Charles is standing, watching him with round eyes.

"How did you—?"

"Nails," says Erik quietly. "So, fancy a match?"

Charles stares at the board for a moment, and Erik can almost see the memories chasing themselves around on his face. Then he smiles, lifts his hands. Grasps the board and sets it down on the table between the two chairs and sits.

Erik slides into the chair opposite.

They play.

They do the same thing the night after that and the night after that as well. It feels right. Safe. Charles's father's library becoming a sort of private sanctum for the just the pair of them. No matter what else is going on, what disasters might await them outside, in this place they are secure. Nothing and no one disturbs them. Charles tells Erik about his childhood, about what he remembers of his father, of his mother before she started drinking all the time. Erik doesn't like to talk about his family much, but he tells Charles about his uncle some, and his sister. And he shows Charles the little metal tree he's been working on, tells Charles he can have it; the sculpting was his idea, after all.

"You made me a tree?" Charles says when Erik tells him this, and there's something in those sapphire eyes when he says it that Erik doesn't quite understand.

"I made a tree," he says shrugging. "You may have it, if you want it. It's not really very good, mind—" But Charles is already reaching to curl his fingers around it, beaming like it's the best thing anyone's ever given him. And Erik smiles, something warm and pleasant in his chest, and it reminds him of the fireplace.

"Does that work?" he asks.

Charles, still apparently enraptured by the little tree, starts and has to look around the room before he realizes what Erik's talking about.

"Oh," he says, blinking. "I — I suppose. I know it did when I was a boy, so I suppose it still ought to."

"You don't know?" says Erik, surprised by this.

"If you're trying to distract me from the fact that you're losing," says Charles, "it's not going to work."

"Who says I'm losing?" Erik retorts, grinning at his friend. "And I think it's you who's trying to distract me; stop changing the subject."

Charles sighs. "I've never actually used it," he admits, and then, in response to Erik's raised brows, says, "If you must know, I don't actually know how."

Now Erik really is surprised. "You've never used a fireplace?"

Charles scowls at him. "I was still too young to learn when my father was still alive," he sniffs. "And, anyway, we had a maid."

It's the first time Erik's ever really heard Charles say anything primly and he has to bite his lips very hard to stop himself laughing. And he has to stop himself, otherwise he might never stop and then Charles will get offended.

"Well," he says finally, when he can breathe without dying, "high time you learned then."

In a small box by the fireplace, he finds the stash of newspapers, most from over fifteen years ago, and hands some to Charles.

"Tear that into strips," he instructs, "while I check the flue."

He manually tries the flue handle, but it sticks. Probably something has been nesting in the chimney. Stretching out with his power, Erik finds the flap and forces it open and shut a few times until whatever was blocking it is dislodged, then he locks it open and turns back to Charles, who has amassed a considerable amount of shredded newspaper by now.

"Good," he says. "Now, that goes there in the bottom of the grate —" Charles complies, "— and then you stack the wood like this. Small pieces first or it won't stay lit. And now, uh, huh. Where'd your dad keep the matches?"

"Hidden," Charles informs him. "Rather well, I'm afraid. Otherwise I'd have found them and probably destroyed a whole wing of the house or accidentally blown something up, for sure."

Erik laughs. "That, I can understand," he says. "My parents used to have to hide the matches, the knives, the nails, and all the tools like hammers and saws. I started moving things pretty early. Well, we'll improvise, I guess. Here."

He crumples and rolls a length of newspaper, pulls a lighter from his jacket pocket, and uses it to light one end of the roll. Then he hands it to Charles.

"You light the newspaper," he says. "And start with the back so you don't burn yourself."

"Makes sense," says Charles with a bit of a wry smile. "Really, this whole process is embarrassingly simple not to have been able to work out."

Erik chuckles. "Nice to know something you don't for a change," he teases, then adds, "Just don't forget about the flue. It's that pull there. If it's back, your okay, if it's forward, closer to you, then you need to open it, otherwise, you'll end up with a room full of smoke."

"Good to know," says Charles, finishing and dropping the impromptu lighter into the center of the woodpile. Then he leans back and surveys their handiwork. "Not bad. So, how do you know when to add more wood?"

"Er—" says Erik, and that part's much harder to explain. "It's when — because it'll look like — you know what? Can you just take that bit directly from the source? Because I don't think I can explain it."

Charles shoots him a startled look. "I thought you didn't want me in your head."

Erik waves a hand. "You've already seen everything, so what's the point?" he says. "Besides, this isn't you just invading because you can. This is me telling you it's okay."

Charles blinks slowly, then nods, and puts his fingers to his temple. Erik can feel it as soon as Charles enters his mind, and he stiffens without meaning to.

"Are you alright?" asks Charles a half-second later when he withdraws again.

"What? Oh, yes, of course. Just thinking," says Erik. "Get what you need?"

"I think so," says Charles, eyeballing the small fire. "That needs a log now, doesn't it?"

"Yes," says Erik, handing him two of the smaller ones. "Here, put these on, and then let's get back to that game you were losing."

Charles snorts and puts the logs on the fire, then joins Erik back at the table.

"That's what you think," he says, grinning.

Erik is distracted and Charles beats him very soundly. Twice. When Charles asks again if he's alright, Erik tells his friend he's just tired. Charles believes him and they part for the night, Charles yawning and mumbling about things to remember for tomorrow.

And it wasn't precisely a lie; Erik is fine, really. It's just that when Charles was in his head it felt so much less like an invasion and more just like something missing coming back. Like there's just a Charles-shaped space in his life now. That frightens him a little, actually, and he really, really hopes that Charles didn't pick up on it.

Because Erik needs to be okay being alone. He has to be, because, because, because that's what he always is, isn't it? Except, he isn't. Not anymore. He hasn't been really, not since he met Charles.

And Erik isn't sure what's bothering him more; the fact that he's grown so used to it, or the idea that one day he might need to get un-used to it again.

There are enough empty spaces already.

All through the next day, Erik is plagued by a pressing need to do things. It doesn't matter what those things are, he just has to be doing them. So he checks and rechecks the bunker for Alex. He pulls and rigs more windowpanes for Sean. He goes to the weight room and does bench presses while simultaneously making the smaller hand weights waltz about the room. He even runs laps around the mansion with Hank. And then he runs out of things to do so he goes around the house and tries to make note of every piece of metal in the place.

Which is how he finds the gun.

And Charles can't possibly have known about it because if Charles knew about it, it wouldn't be here. But it is here. And Erik stands there in the corner, staring at the gun resting on his palm, and feeling the weight of it, the steel tang of the bullets inside, each one crafted perfectly to the art of death-dealing, and all he can think is that somehow it was left there for him.

It's a completely ridiculous and irrational thought, but it feels true. Because each bullet is death fashioned in metal. And Erik is the one thing metal will never kill.

His smile, in the mirror, looks crazy, even to himself, but that's not about to stop him.

Erik's fingers curl tight. He hears his own blood rushing in his ears.

Erik takes the gun to Charles.

"You cannot be serious," Charles says when Erik explains what he wants. "No, really, Erik, you cannot—"

"But I am," says Erik, pushing the gun into Charles's hands. "Come on, you've been testing everyone else."

And he knows that he probably still looks a bit mad, probably sounds a bit mad, but he wants this. For some reason, this, the idea of being shot, of Charles shooting him, satisfies his sudden, insatiable need for stimulus.

Charles's fingers close on the grip as he weighs the weapon in his hand. He glances up at Erik, chewing the inside of his cheek, torn.

"Come on," says Erik, goading, wanting. "Test me."

Charles swallows, brings the gun up, aims at Erik's head. His hand trembles, just a tiny bit, as he cocks it.

"You're sure?" he asks, and Erik steps in, his forehead nearly touching the muzzle. Adrenaline fizzes through his veins like a drug. Like exactly what he needs.

"I'm sure," he says. Grins so hard his face hurts.

"Alright," Charles says. Braces. Closes his eyes. Breathes. Opens his eyes. Looks at Erik.

Then he shakes his head. Lowers the gun. "No. No, I can't, I'm sorry. I can't shoot anyone point blank, let alone my friend."

And Erik very nearly growls at him.

"Oh, come on," he says again, grabbing Charles's hand and pulling it back up, pressing the muzzle right to his head this time. "You know I can deflect it. You're always telling me I should push myself."

"If you know you can deflect it then you're not challenging yourself," Charles argues, almost desperately, pulling the gun away again. And Erik can hear genuine fear in his voice and he realizes that it's not the gun or even the shooting that Charles can't deal with. It's the idea of 'what if?' What if Erik can't or doesn't deflect it and Charles has to live like Alex; feeling responsible for the death of a friend. Probably worse than Alex, actually, because it's Charles, and because Erik has actually put the gun into his hands. There's nothing indirect about it, if he shoots.

Erik sighs and gives up. Charles waves the gun and makes a sound halfway between disgust and dismissal, as though words aren't enough to express his distaste for the thing. Then he looks back up at Erik.

"What ever happened to the man who was trying to raise a submarine?" he says.

"What? I can't," says Erik, taking the gun back from Charles and feeling weirdly dejected. "Something that big? I-I need the situation, the anger."

"No, the anger's not enough," Charles cuts in, shaking his head.

And Erik looks at him. Raises his eyebrows. Says very quietly, "Well, it's gotten the job done all this time." Because this man has been in his head. Knows firsthand that Erik's whole life since the time he was sixteen has run on nothing but the anger.

But Charles is still shaking his head. "You mean it's nearly gotten you killed all this time," he says, taking a step closer, wearing that same frank-but-somehow-more-complicated look that he had on that first night when he told Erik not to kid himself, that he had needed Charles's help.

And for some reason, Erik can't think of anything to say.

Charles bites his cheek again, looking around, then says, "Here, come here. Let's try something a bit more challenging," and leads Erik over to the terrace rail.

"See that?" he says, pointing to the satellite they threw Sean from just a few days ago. "Try turning it to face us."

Erik moves to stand at the stone rail. Stares at the giant dish. Gives Charles an 'are you serious' look over his shoulder. But he knows he is serious, and Charles has managed to help the others, so he supposes he better try.

Bracing himself lightly, Erik reaches up both hands. Stretches out for the satellite, feels for it. Really tries; feels the effort all the way to his bones and then keeps trying. Pulls and strains til it hurts.

But he can't do it.

Giving up, he collapses, panting, against the rail.

"You know," says Charles from behind him, "I believe that true focus lies somewhere between the rage and serenity."

Erik turns to look back at him. He's fidgeting again, shifting his weight around, jittering one leg just enough for Erik to notice. And when Charles speaks next, asking Erik's permission to fiddle with his head, Erik suddenly understands.

It's a tell, that jitteriness. A tiny but necessary outlet for nervous energy when they talk about things that really mean something to Charles, really matter. Like asking Erik to look, or shuffling papers on a desk, asking Erik if he'd stay.

Like waiting in the dark to confess to knowing everything. To having seen everything. And asking him to stay anyway.

Always, always asking Erik to stay.

Erik swallows, and nods. Consents. And Charles slides right back into his mind, right back into that space, like he belongs there.

And then he moves. Tugs gently at something and suddenly Erik is not there at Westchester on the lawn staring at Charles anymore. He's nine. His mother sits with him at the table, the lit menorah set between them as she smiles and sings for him.

And then he is back at the Xavier mansion watching as Charles's hand falls away from his temple. Moves to wipe the single tear from his cheek, the one that echoes Erik's own, falling from his face to splatter on his wrist; a single point of cool wet grounding him in reality.

"What did you just do to me?" His voice is so soft he hardly recognizes it.

"I accessed the brightest corner of your memory system," says Charles, equally quiet as he comes to stand beside Erik, the quiver in his body, in his voice, more pronounced than ever, as if he felt exactly what Erik felt. Felt it so hard that he can't physically contain it. "It's a very beautiful memory, Erik, thank you."

"I didn't know I still had that," Erik murmurs, almost to himself. Realizes that he's shaking a bit too. And it's not with anger. Not now, not this time.

And Charles looks at him and his voice is thick with emotion and a certainty that Erik's never had when he says, "There's so much more to you than you know. Not just pain, and anger, there's good, too, I've felt it. When you can access all that, you'll possess a power no one can match. Not even me."

And when he says it, Erik can almost believe it. And he stares and stares at Charles, wanting to believe it. Wanting to hear it again, just one more time, so it can be true for just a little longer.

Charles holds his gaze, sapphire on storm-gray, then blinks and says, "So come on. Try again?" and Erik takes a shaky breath. Turns back towards the satellite.

And he doesn't brace. Doesn't hold his breath. Doesn't strain. Reaches out a single hand. Breathes in the smell of home and hears his mother's voice. Remembers love. Feels the rage and the loss and the pain. Feels it all, and just lets it be.

The satellite turns and Erik is laughing, feeling everything as the tears slip down over his cheeks and into his smile as he turns to share the triumph with Charles, catching the expression like sunlight and giving it right back even as Charles returns the laughter, clapping Erik on the back.

And then there's a moment when they're both trying to get their breath back, still looking at one another, Charles's hand still on Erik's shoulder, and something changes. Something tiny and indefinable. Something that makes Charles's breath hitch, makes his eyes go wider. And Erik stares into those depths, as entranced now as on the night he first asked Erik to stay, the sapphire pools drowning him more thoroughly than any ocean.

Something warm and almost fizzy awakens in Erik's chest, right under where Charles's hand still rests against his back. It slithers down his spine to pool in his belly. As if the quiver that is no longer in Charles has moved inside of Erik somehow.

Charles breathes. Licks his lips. Opens his mouth.

"Hey!"

They both start and turn to see Moira hanging out a window to call to them.

"Wash up and get changed. Dinner's in five."

"Oh," says Charles, a very odd expression on his face, something almost like fear, but not quite. "I – I guess we'd better go then."

He heads inside, walking too fast, and Erik jogs a few steps to catch up.

"Why is she here?" he demands angrily. "There's nothing for her to do anyway. Does she think we can't fix our own food?"

"Erik, she's just being nice," says Charles quietly. "She wants to help. She's on our side, remember?"

Erik snorts, feeling weirdly aggressive all of a sudden.

"Don't kid yourself," he snaps. "She's only here because of you."

Charles stops. Stares at Erik. "What?" he says, sounding for all the world as though he really doesn't know what Erik's talking about. "You think—"

"What are you, blind?" says Erik. "And I don't think, I know. Why do you think she and Raven never get along?"

"Raven?" Charles stammers, now looking utterly bewildered. "What's Raven got to do with it?"

Erik gapes at him. "God, you really are blind," he says. "You know what? Never mind. I'm not explaining something this obvious."

He starts back towards the house again and Charles follows.

"What's the matter with you?" he demands. "What is this, some kind of emotional recoil?"

Erik refuses to dignify this with a response.

"Anyway, what does it matter if Moira's here? She's not in the way, and she wants to help —"

"It matters, Charles," Erik all but snarls, "because she's a human. She doesn't belong here. She's not one of us. And I don't care if you like her, or if she wants to help, no good can come of it. At worst she'll betray us, at best the government will use her against us when they turn on us. And they will turn on us, Charles. I know it. I've seen it."

And he turns and starts stomping up the stairs.

"Erik! Erik, wait!" Charles calls, moving like he wants to follow but stopping at the foot of the stairs. "Where are you going?"

"To change," Erik snaps. [Thinks, Go eat with your harem, loudly, angrily.] And he leaves Charles there, gaping, at the bottom of the stairs. Storms to his bedroom and shuts the door. Collapses on the bed.

He doesn't know why he's so angry, he just is. Like it's a living creature inside of him, ripping across his gut and burning holes in his chest. Exhausting in a way he's never felt before.

It burns out fast, this feeling, like it was only there to get him here, to be seen; dissipating almost the moment he's alone, leaving him with a strange dragged-empty feeling. Like it's burned away everything inside him and now there's just this awful hollowness.

And Erik lies on the bed and thinks about how just moments ago, he had a breakthrough. How he'd moved the biggest thing he'd ever moved and with far less effort than he'd put into smaller things in the past. He thinks about how he'd laughed and Charles laughed with him.

And he wonders how he went from so triumphant, so happy, to now simply feeling like he wants to cry.

In the end, Erik doesn't go down to dinner. Or change. Or even move. He just stays on the bed, staring at the ceiling and hoping, in an abstract sort of way, that no one comes looking for him.

No one does. No one except for Charles, of course, who, after some indeterminate period of time, reaches out to him cautiously; the barest brush of mind against mind. But Erik knows how to close his mind to this now, how to make it so that Charles would have to push to get in. Knows too that Charles won't push, will respect his privacy.

Erik's glad; the things in his head would upset Charles. And even in his black mood Erik still cares about him. Still wants to protect him. And he knows that Charles will probably blame himself; think that he did something wrong or that Erik is reacting on some level to what Charles did to his mind. Feels guilty for knowing that his silence is probably making Charles feel guilty. And worried. But that's still better than being in Erik's head right now.

Because it's not just emotional whiplash from the memories, or even just regular emotional issues stemming from memories; it's everything. It's the laughter and camaraderie, it's a face full of colors (too-red lips, too-blue eyes) and a smile like the sun, it's shared meals and shared thoughts and shared lives and everything Erik finds he wants but knows he can't have.

It's feeling like he could belong, and remembering that he doesn't.

Because even though they are like him, even though they are different like him, they still aren't really like him.

Erik knows what he is, a creature born of pain and anger and his mother's blood staining the carpet as Shaw/Schmidt smiles like it's Hanukkah. A vengeance-seeker, blood on his hands and pain in his steps. A pitiful child. A tainted man.

Erik has spent so much time chasing after darkness and cruelty that somewhere along the way they became a part of him as well. Where Erik goes, there pain and suffering will be. And whatever good Charles might think he sees in Erik, it seems unlikely that it will ever outweigh the rest.

So Erik must be more careful. Must remember what he is, and what it means. And he will stay here, in this room, and wait out the storm. Will protect the brightness of Charles from the darkness in Erik. Even if that means hurting him a little.

In the morning, Erik will go downstairs. He'll smile and apologize and give some vaguely plausible reason to make Charles feel better. Make sure he doesn't think it's his fault. And Charles will be relieved, will smile, and everything will go on as it has. Erik will protect him, will remind himself not to get too close, not to get used to it.

He promises himself not to ever let the darkness within him touch Charles.

So he stays in his room. Showers. Puts on the loose lounge pants and tank top that constitute his pajamas and crawls into bed. In the morning everything will look better.

Erik closes his eyes, and lets sleep take him.

The nightmares come. He's had them before, of course, his one other constant companion all this time. But since meeting Charles they have become far fewer and further between.

He should have realized that would only make it worse when they came back.

It's like the old friend who's missed you so much they can't help but overwhelm you when you finally see them again. Except that the nightmares, though familiar, are hardly friendly, crashing into Erik with teeth and claws and a hundred shreds of memory and an intensity, a vividness, that's never been there before, snatching his breath away and tossing it to the wind and the cold as he runs and runs and runs.

And then someone grabs Erik's arm, shakes him, and when his eyes fly open the first thing he sees is a large, looming shadow. Fear blends waking and dreaming; if the darkness does not swallow him whole then the fires most certainly will. Erik moves without conscious thought, his body bolting to sit upright, his right hand grasping, seizing at the arm of his assailant even as his breath seizes in his throat.

The fires move closer, resolving themselves into a single flame and illuminating the familiar, freckled face and drown-you-blue eyes.

Charles's gaze is worried, focused and intense and boring into Erik's and after the nightmare Erik has to remind himself that with this man concern is still genuine. That for all Charles is a telepath, the world has not yet made a stone of him, hardened and indifferent to the sufferings of others. The candle hangs between them, the flame flickering with each of Erik's panting breaths and Erik can hear his mother singing to him and smell the sulfur from the match she used to light the candles and the sweet, musty, earthen smell that was home and knows that it is nothing more than a memory but that doesn't help.

Almost as if he knows — telepath that he is, maybe he does — Charles places the candle to one side. Brings his hand back up to hold Erik's head. Brings his mind up, like an apology and a calm that does not reach Charles's eyes.

And Erik knows it is not Charles's fault. Knows that his friend could not have known that by dredging up one he might be opening the door to thousands. Knows, too, that the forced calm is meant for him, meant to help, but Erik's mind seems to have a will of its own. His subconscious surges like a perverse ocean, catching them both up in the rising tide and dashing that tentative calm all to pieces on the hard, desolate shoals of memory.

Erik hears Charles gasp as his control vanishes, feels his friend shudder and press their foreheads together as if the contact might somehow help to bring it back but all it seems to do is push Charles in deeper and Erik cannot help him. He cannot help himself. It is as though Charles's previous intrusion into his mind has knocked something loose, like metal cracking glass, and now the floodgates are open. Memories — things Erik didn't know he still had, things he doesn't want to still have — rise from the deepest corners of his mind hard and fast, like water coming to a boil and suddenly Erik can smell the ghettos and the gunpowder. Can feel the mud soaking through his shoes and freezing his feet. Corpses dance in his vision like the flames in the death chambers which are better only in comparison to the gas chambers since at least the fire claims its victims whole, saving them from the horror that is a bulldozer's push into the pits of the dead where they lie rotting and emaciated, not even safe from the scavengers' touch.

Erik's free hand jumps to Charles's collar, fingers knotting in the thin fabric of his pajamas.

'Help me!' he wants to say, to yell, to scream, but his throat has locked itself and the words catch there against his vocal cords, hard and lumpy like vomit. 'Make it stop!'

The stench of death is all around him, choking him far faster than the memories can drown him but he supposes that at least it will be over —

And Charles leans in further.

Erik had not thought that there was anywhere further to lean but apparently there is because that is Charles's nose bumping against his and Charles's cheek for a moment after and Charles's lips brushing Erik's.

Charles is kissing him.

The shock of this realization is enough to stop Erik's twisting trains of thought; derailing them as completely as an atomic bomb, for indeed it's as though they never existed. There is only Charles and Charles's hands and Charles's mind and Charles's lips and Erik's eyes opening wide to the reality of his bedroom and Charles's floppy-soft hair blurring his vision.

And then Charles gasps; a sharp little intake of breath that Erik can feel whisper on his skin as Charles pulls away, breaking the mental connection and staring at Erik as though only just understanding what he is doing. What he has done.

Charles tries to stand up, and Erik thinks he might have bolted from the room, but Erik's hands are still clinging to Charles's arm and fisted in his shirt and Erik is too busy absorbing what just happened to let him go.

"I — I'm — I —"

Words don't seem to be working for Charles and that is very strange. Erik doesn't think he's ever met a person better with words than Charles. And there's something else too.

Charles's eyes are afraid. And worry — concern — is one thing, but fear — insecurity — is another.

Someone like Charles should never be afraid like that. And it is this, more than anything else, that makes Erik move, stretching up his neck to press their mouths together again.

Charles's lips are full and soft, and warm against Erik's and fear and pain are changing, morphing into something else. Something just as strong, just as intense. Something that drives Erik up, onto his knees, makes him pull Charles down, closer to him. And Charles seems to feel it too because he is moving forward; Erik feels the hand on his shoulder press down as Charles leans his weight there for balance as he climbs onto the bed to kneel there with Erik. And it is better, but not enough. Erik wants. Needs. Pulls Charles closer just to feel more of him and Charles's fingers are twining into his hair, pulling them closer still.

There is a small voice in the back of Erik's mind that is protesting, saying that this can't possibly be right, but so very little in Erik's life has ever been right so he's hardly about to let that stop him now. How could he when it feels like this? Feels right. Feels right like nothing else ever has. God, is this what it's supposed to be like? What it's all about?

Charles's lips part beneath his and Erik plunges in without hesitation, sweeping his tongue along the cavern of Charles's mouth and it feels so good it makes Erik's teeth ache. Charles moans softly and shuffles his knees, moving closer, kissing Erik like no one ever has before; fierce and desperate, like he's trying to win something.

Erik's hand slides down Charles's back, feeling, stroking, pulling their hips together and now there is nothing left between them but their nightclothes and Charles's fingers are scrabbling at Erik's hair, at Erik's back, desperate for purchase and it should probably hurt but Erik hardly cares because all he wants is to be closer somehow.

One of Charles's arms is wrapped around Erik's back, the hand clinging to his shoulder. Erik is taller than Charles but he has never been one for self-delusions and the tiny part of his brain that is still anything like functional notes with mild interest that despite his height it is always he who is left dangling; hanging on Charles's every word, every thought, and now hanging from Charles's lips as though they are the only things keeping him alive.

And to someone, somewhere, this is probably very ironic. But Erik doesn't care because Charles is here and solid and kissing him and all Erik can feel is Charles's mouth on his and Charles's hips churning frantically against Erik's hips and Charles's mind wide open and twining with his own until Erik can't tell which way is up anymore, can't even tell where Erik ends and Charles begins and it doesn't even matter (as if any of that matters now) as they kisspullclingGod!Oh—

He thinks maybe one of them shouts. Hears his own name (Is it his?) echoing around somewhere in that white-hot blaze. Erik isn't actually sure whose thought it was, but at this point it hardly matters (joined now as they are it's really all one and the same). And then they are falling, collapsing in a tangled heap on the bed, panting and covered in more than just sweat, still half-tangled in Charles's mind.

Charles is staring at Erik, bringing up a hand to touch his face. He looks awed, mesmerized, as if he's never seen anything quite like him before. Erik stares back, understanding the feeling. Or he will in a moment. For now he's still waiting for thought to return. To tell him which one of them is Erik and which one of them is Charles.

Moving of its own accord, Erik's hand skates up Charles' arm to stroke his face, his hair, to trace the curved shell of his ear. Charles makes a soft 'hmmm' sound through his nose, a happy sound, his eyes already half-closed and Erik can't understand how he can be asleep already — can't think how he himself isn't.

Erik has had lovers before this — women, all of them — but nothing ever felt like this; wild and desperate and intoxicating. Leaving him boneless and giddy, rather like the people he saw in the opium dens that he hid in during his flight from Shaw, and he wonders for a moment if the difference is simply that before he was always looking in the wrong gender.

After a minute's sleepy consideration, however, Erik rejects this idea, for he has certainly met more than a few men who would be considered attractive and he does not find the idea of any of them the least bit arousing, nor does it seem to him that women have lost any particular appeal.

It is Charles, then. Because Charles is special. And Erik finds this conclusion singularly appropriate, because Charles has always been special.

As Erik drifts off, it occurs to him that there will be some very difficult questions in the morning, should anyone find them like this, but he dismisses the thought. Erik has always been an early riser and the soft hum of Charles's mind, drifting almost like a song on the very edges of Erik's consciousness, seems to promise at least one night without dreams.

Fingers still tangled in Charles's hair, Erik lets his eyes close and sleeps.

Charles isn't there when Erik opens his eyes in the morning. And when Erik slips down the hall to the bathroom for a shower, Charles isn't there either. Walking down the hall the other way to the stairs, Erik checks Charles's bedroom.

Charles isn't there.

It's the first time since they met that Erik has really lost track of him. Charles isn't in the kitchen for breakfast, isn't outside running with Hank, isn't in the office-study with his papers. Erik even checks the library, but Charles isn't there either.

Maybe it was all just a dream. (Except that how could Erik ever dream something like that? Something so vivid, so real, that he woke to sweat and stickiness all down his front? To Charles's scent still wreathed all around him?)

Slightly panicked now, Erik goes in search of the others. When he runs into Raven, she gives him a slightly startled look.

"There you are," she says. "We were starting to wonder if you were coming down at all, especially since you missed dinner last night. Sean wondered if maybe you were sick but Charles said to leave you alone…"

"Charles?" Erik echoes. "Where is he?" And then, "What time is it?"

"Nearly eleven," Raven tells him, peering at him with apparent concern. "Everyone's out on the patio for tea and lemonade and stuff. Are you alright?"

"Yes, of course. I'm fine," Erik says, and he walks as quick as he dares out to the patio.

Raven was right; everyone really is there. Alex is busy teasing Hank over some new thing Hank's invented, while Sean tosses bits of deconstructed windows into the air and tries to shatter them as they fall, shooting furtive glances at Moira all the while, clearly hoping to impress her. It's a completely useless endeavor; Moira's attention, as is usual during these quiet moments, is focused entirely on Charles.

And Charles — Charles is sitting there. Just sitting there, right there where Erik can clearly see him, and the sight is so disorientating that for a moment Erik feels dizzy. And when he realizes why it's like a punch to the gut.

He can see Charles, but he can't feel him. Because Charles is blocking him out.

Erik sits down hard in an empty chair. He doesn't know what he expected, but it certainly wasn't this.

Raven comes back, carrying a tray of fruit and biscuits. Erik grabs a biscuit just to have something to do, and she pours him a cup of tea without being asked, the way he's seen her do for Charles sometimes.

"Thanks," he mumbles.

"No problem," Raven shrugs. "Are you sure you're alright, Erik?"

Erik nods vaguely. At the sound of his name, Charles looks over, and Erik immediately knows two things. One: it was not just a dream. Whatever happened last night was real, at least in the only way that matters. Whether it happened physically or only in their minds, it happened to both of them, and that makes it real. And two: as right as it all felt, Erik is no longer sure that it was right.

Because, from the looks of it, neither is Charles.

Erik isn't sure it it's better or worse that they're each doubting that all on their own. He swallows and shifts uncomfortably. His leg hits one of Charles's, and for one startled second, Charles drops his guard. And it's definitely worse together Erik decides, as he feels every fear and every doubt and every little nagging worry that he's felt since waking pouring through the connection between them, circling back from one to the other until Erik is no longer sure whose worries are which, and escalating all the while into a mad, swirling panic. Then Charles moves his leg and the connection is shot.

But Erik understands now. Understands that Charles is just as confused and unsure as he is. That what felt so natural and perfect in the darkness now seems strange and unfathomable by the harsh light of day. Like something secret. Something to hide.

Like Erik's mother telling him his ability was something that other people wouldn't understand.

Like something that maybe is a bit dangerous. A bit wrong.

And Erik remembers his childhood; uncertain, afraid. Ashamed.

God, is Charles ashamed of what happened? Is Erik? Should they be?

Sexual orientation isn't something Erik's ever really considered before, never really needed to. He slept with people when he needed something from them, to sweeten them if he was tired of threatening, or sometimes when he simply needed an outlet. It was never about anything else. But he's met men who went with other men before – hell, he's fairly sure his uncle and that one friend of his weren't just friends, come to think of it – and it's never really bothered him. Erik's always just assumed that people want who and what they want and as long as everything is consensual then it's really nobody else's place to complain.

But he's well aware that the vast majority of the world would not see it this way. And he's also never considered it in terms of himself.

And Charles is a telepath. Whatever his own feelings on the subject, Erik is sure that he would feel the judgments and prejudices of the world in a way Erik never would. And Erik is suddenly intensely glad that it was he, and not Charles, who was born onto the hands of the Nazis, because no one, no one, could possibly live for that long feeling the hatred and the fear all around them and not go insane. Erik knows this because he only just barely managed it.

Across from him, Charles is talking to Moira and not looking at Erik, who drinks his tea and eats his biscuit in silence, thinking. He could try to talk to Charles, get him alone and try and sort through all this. But maybe that's a bad idea. Because the moment that they do talk about this, then it's really happening, and whatever they say can't be unsaid.

And Erik's not even sure what he wants anymore.

They both need time to think, he decides. So he stands and goes to check the bunker again without saying a word.

He can feel Charles's eyes on him all the way across the lawn.

When Erik comes back to the house, no one seems to be there. Which is to say that everyone has scattered to the four corners to work on whatever they're working on and Charles's mind is still closed to him.

It hurts. Far more than he'd ever imagined it might.

Erik goes to the weight room. He stands in the middle of the room and lifts his arms. Every single piece of metal in the room leaps up and begins to move, whirling around Erik in a complex dance, spinning and spinning like the thoughts in his head, and it's nothing like serenity because there is no serenity to be found now.

Memories unfold in his head, flower after blooming flower; a pair of too-blue eyes, soft lips, hard chest, candlelight, flames, want, fear, everything merging and churning until Erik falls to one knee, the metal flying faster and faster and out of control, spiraling in tight around him like a metal tornado, a few of the smaller pieces clipping his arms and he doesn't even notice, doesn't stop. Can't stop. Not until Raven screams, breaking his concentration.

Weights and benches and a stray silver tea set drop all around him. Charles and Hank appear in the doorway as Raven rushes forward, eyes wide and yellow-gold in her fear. She drops down beside Erik and yanks a twenty-pound barbell weight off of his leg. Erik blinks; he hadn't even felt it land.

"Oh my god," says Raven. "Oh my god, are you okay?"

Erik stands. He very carefully does not look at Charles. He says, "I'm fine, Raven." Says, "I just wanted to try something." Surveys the room, assesses the damage. Supposes he'd better clean up.

He sighs. "Give me a few minutes to straighten this out," he tells her. "I'll let you know when I'm done so you can work out."

"I can help, if you want," she starts but Erik shakes his head.

"No."

She leaves. Erik hears extra footsteps and assumes the others have left too. Carefully, slowly, he begins to put the room back together, moving only a single piece at a time.

By the time he gets to the small hand weights he is shaking, and so is the metal.

"Erik."

If he weren't so tired he'd jump. As it is, he doesn't move, or turn to look, just keeps steadily floating weights back into place.

"It's fine, Charles," he says quietly, not actually sure what he's talking about; what unspoken question he's trying to answer. "I'm okay, you don't have to worry."

"Erik," Charles tries again, "Erik, I—"

The telltale quiver is in his voice again but Erik pretends not to hear him. He sets the last two weights into place and leaves via the other door. He can't, he can't talk about this right now. Not when he doesn't know what he wants or what he feels. Not when Charles's mind is still closed to him.

He's not sure why that last part is so important to him, but it is. Nothing has ever made Charles guard himself around Erik before, nothing. And Charles knows everything. So until this newest thing no longer bothers Charles more than the knowledge of the men Erik has killed, Erik won't talk about it.

He takes another piece of junk-metal and goes outside. Climbs the tree that he modeled Charles's first little sculpture on. Crushes the scrap of metal into a fluid mass, floating it before him and staring and staring at it, as if somehow he could craft the answers he needs out of it.

Charles does not guard himself at night. Possibly because it's too hard to keep up, or possibly just because he thinks Erik is asleep, but either way, Erik can feel him again.

Erik is not asleep. He can't sleep. Sleep is impossible when his mind is this full. So instead he sits on his bed, moving the shapeless scrap of metal through his fingers as he so often used to move the old German coin and staring at nothing and feeling the whirling of his own thoughts, perfectly in time with the whirling of another's, and wondering, if everything else fits so perfectly, then why are they each keeping their own vigil at opposite ends of the house.

When they hear the president's announcement the next day, Erik looks instinctively at Charles, and is startled to find him looking back. The guards on his mind are still there, but for a moment it almost doesn't matter; whatever else is going on with them, there is still this, Shaw and a purpose, holding them together.

Erik suggests that everyone get a good night's rest and Moira leaves to go back to the CIA to plan for tomorrow and as Raven and the others slowly make their way upstairs Erik's feet find their way to the library.

Charles is already there, taking out the chess set. They play in silence for a while, then Charles sighs.

"This is a mess," he murmurs, moving a bishop to take one of Erik's pawns.

"It was always going to be a mess," says Erik. He's not sure if Charles means them, or Shaw, or the likely happenings tomorrow, but the answer is the same for any of them.

Charles shakes his head. "Not like this," he says. "Not like —" He pauses, bites the inside of his cheek, the expression so familiar and endearing, and something pulls tight in Erik's chest, a sensation unfamiliar and full of a million memories and a feeling like magnets. It's exquisite. And terrifying.

"Cuba, Russia, America," says Charles slowly, blissfully unaware of this thing inside Erik, "it makes no difference. Shaw's declared war on all of mankind — on all of us. He has to be stopped."

The last is added almost like an afterthought, and Erik looks up at him, raises his eyebrows.

"I'm not going to stop Shaw," he says bluntly. "I'm going to kill him."

He reaches down, moves a piece, takes one of Charles's.

"Do you have it in you to allow that?"

His eyes never leave Charles's. He's always known that this conversation was coming, but this is not how he pictured it going. They should be united, together on this; it's the only way they'll ever pull it off, Erik is sure. But instead they sit here at opposite ends of the chessboard, waging a smaller, private sort of war between them, with far too many sides and too many things unsaid.

Charles's blue eyes search his, then Charles makes a huffing sound almost like laughter and looks away. He leans forward, studying the board, ignoring the question.

"You've known all along why I was here, Charles," says Erik. Charles doesn't look at him, the lines of his face seeming to harden as if to protect himself from the words. And Erik doesn't understand why they should hurt though he can tell that they do and he is sorry for that, but he has to say this.

"Things have changed," he tells Charles. "What started as a covert mission — tomorrow mankind will know that mutants exist. Shaw, us, they won't differentiate. They'll fear us. And that fear will turn to hatred."

And now Charles is looking at him, brows raises as if he's actually surprised by this bleak picture of reality that Erik is drawing out for him.

"Not if we can stop a war," he says, "not if we can prevent Shaw — not if we risk our lives doing so."

"Would they do the same for us?" Erik challenges, knowing the answer. Of course they wouldn't. The humans at the research base in Virginia wouldn't — didn't — when Shaw attacked them, and neither will the rest of humanity. Not now, and probably not ever.

"We have it in us to be the better men," Charles insists, like this means something, and Erik wishes that he were not still closed off, that he could feel what it is that Charles isn't saying.

"We already are," he says. "We're the next stage of human evolution, you said it yourself—"

"No— no." Charles shakes his head, closes his eyes like he's frustrated. Like something hurts. Erik plunges on.

"Are you really so naïve," he asks, "as to think that they won't battle their own extinction?"

Charles doesn't look at him.

"Or is it arrogance?"

Now he does. Startled, again.

"I'm sorry?" And Erik knows that he's hurt him saying that, but he doesn't care. He needs to drive this home for Charles. If they can't find a way to be on the same page about this then they will never succeed. Shaw will win for no better reason than Charles's inability to do what must be done. To accept what needs to be.

"After tomorrow they're going to turn on us, but you're blind to it, because you believe they're all like Moira."

Charles's expression changes, just a little bit, like something closing, shutting down.

"And you believe they're all like Shaw," he says.

Erik says nothing. Maybe Charles is right, who knows, but Erik's way keeps them safe while Charles's could get them all killed.

And then Charles leans forward, his expression intense.

"Listen to me very carefully, my friend," he says, and Erik can hear the quiver that he now recognizes but does not fully understand. "Killing Shaw will not bring you peace."

"Peace," says Erik quietly, "was never an option."

The words seem to echo around the room, heavy and ominous in the sudden silence. A shiver runs up Erik's spine; he's not sure why but the words sounded so final somehow, like they mean more than just that. Like something he should know but can't quite grasp, the knowledge slipping like water through his fingers.

Charles goes perfectly still, and Erik thinks maybe he feels it too. And he wishes again that Charles would just stop guarding his mind. Feels that somehow everything would work, would make so much more sense if he could just feel him again.

The game is a draw, ending as silently as it began and Erik puts away their drinks as Charles puts away the chess set. Then there is an awkward moment where they stare at each other and Erik can feel a million things unsaid dancing on his tongue, just waiting to get out, but he can't seem to say any of them so they stay trapped behind his teeth and he simply nods to Charles and leaves.

When he finds Raven in his bed his heart nearly stops. And she is Charles's sister and at least ten years younger than he is and none of this should so definitively trump the fact that she is beautiful and naked and in his bed and Erik stands there staring and wondering why he just isn't interested.

"Get out, Raven," he tells her. "I want to go to bed."

But that's a lie. He doesn't want to go to bed. He doesn't want to sleep. Feels as restless now as the day he found the gun.

"Maybe in a few years."

Behind him, Raven changes. "How 'bout now?"

Erik turns and she looks older but that still isn't fixing the problem. What does he want?

"I prefer the real Raven," he tells her, because it's the only thing he can think of. She changes back, but she's still hiding. "I said the real Raven."

Slowly, uncertainly, she changes again, blue scales overtaking pink human skin, blond hair shortening, becoming an impossible garnet red. Erik blinks. She is beautiful. She is exquisite. There is nothing about her in this form that is unappealing. But still he does not want her.

She could be anyone, look like anyone, Erik thinks. So what would she have to look like for him to—

An image blooms in his mind and he should have known all along.

He looks at Raven, and he is sorry. He cannot want her, though she deserves to be wanted. But maybe he can still give her what she needs.

She is watching him, waiting for his reaction. He lets his eyes take her in, then smiles slightly.

"Perfection," he says. And he does mean it. She is perfect. There is nothing wrong with her.

"You don't have to hide," he tells her. Moves to sit on the bed beside her. And he knows the look in her eyes, knows it as surely as he knows his own name, because she is just as desperate to believe him as he was – is – to believe Charles.

"Have you ever looked at a tiger and thought you ought to cover it up?" he asks and Raven smiles. And he knows she will never accept herself until someone else does first, so he leans down and kisses her, because he wants her to be okay. Because it's not her that's the problem.

"Come," he says, pulling back and standing up. Raven stands and he leads her around and opens the door to the closet, setting her in front of the full-length mirror there.

"Look," he tells her, meeting those striking yellow eyes in the mirror over her shoulder. "This is who you are. You are exactly who you're supposed to be. Don't ever let anyone tell you to be otherwise."

And he can see it, the moment she starts believing it on her own. A smile curls her lips and she doesn't flinch from the sight of her own reflection. When she turns to kiss him again he lets her do it, and for just one moment, just one, he almost does want her. Not so much because of who she is as because of what she represents.

Her natural form is the most obvious mutation he's ever seen, and yet she can blend in anywhere. And it is perfection, in a way; the perfect extreme of physical mutation, while her brother is the perfect extreme of the mental.

And he, Erik, could have them both.

And the thought is intoxicating. Intoxicating, and wrong. Because you shouldn't be with someone because it's a power trip. You should be with them because that's where you want to be.

So Erik pulls back. Sends Raven away, off to bed, as gently as he can, and then leaves himself. Because he now knows where he wants to be. And it isn't here.

Charles isn't there when Erik reaches his room, but that's okay. Erik can wait. He sits down on Charles's bed and considers for the first time that Charles is not the only one who is blind. Erik has been blind too. He prides himself on being honest about himself (if only to himself) and yet somehow he managed not to see this. Not to realize — no, to deliberately ignore, even. Because he was fool enough to confuse wanting with needing. And stubborn enough to only ever see the weakness in either.

Now he knows better. Knows that they are better together; stronger. And he wants all of that combined strength, for both of them, though not because either of them needs it — Erik needs Charles for the mission, but he wants so much more than that.

Erik always assumed that he was good at going after what he wanted; he's been going after Shaw for years. But the truth is, he's spent so long chasing the man that he'd forgotten how to want anything else. How to want anything for himself. But now there is Charles and chess matches and laughter and those damnably blue eyes that see so much more then Erik ever could and Erik wants. Wants more than he has in years.

And that should be terrifying. It really should. Instead, after days of confusion floating through fog, Erik feels grounded. Directed. Sure. Because he suddenly knows the difference between surviving and living.

And Erik doesn't want to just survive anymore.

Charles actually freezes when he comes in and sees Erik sitting there, his eyes going wide like a spooked horse. The shielding on his mind comes right back up and Erik can't believe how much he hates it. Long seconds tick past in silence, Charles staring, Erik waiting. Then, finally, Charles shakes himself, looks away. Moves over to the dresser and deposits his armload of books and files on it.

"Go away, Erik," he says to the dresser. "I'm not having this argument again."

Erik blinks. Argument? Oh, he means about Shaw.

"That's not why I'm here, Charles." His voice comes out shockingly calm, betraying nothing of his sudden uncertainty. "We need to talk."

Charles stiffens, his knuckles whitening on the book he's holding.

"No we don't," he says, and the words come just the tiniest bit too fast.

"Charles—"

"No," says Charles, still not looking at Erik. "No, we don't. I'll be— It's fine, Erik. It won't get in the way of stopping Shaw, I promise."

"What?" says Erik blankly. What won't get in the way?

"Stopping Shaw," Charles repeats, voice carefully toneless. Still blocking Erik. Still radiating tension like nobody's business. "I won't— It's fine. It won't get in the way. You can fulfill your mission."

Erik stares at Charles's back, thoroughly confused. What does Charles mean 'it' won't get in the way? What's fine?

"Charles—"

"It's fine, Erik," says Charles again, his voice clipped now. "I can handle it."

Handle what? Erik wants to yell, cursing yet again the blocks that are in the way and his horribly rusty social skills and the fact that Charles won't just come out and say whatever it is he's so carefully not saying.

His mouth is open, the demand right on the tip of his tongue, but then he stops. Closes it again. Lets a thought tease itself out.

I. I won't. I'll be. I can handle it. Things unsaid. Layers in the conversation.

And it occurs to Erik that they're having two conversations at once again. And that they seem to do that a lot lately. And every time they do, Charles speaks or moves with that little quiver, the jitter that gives him away.

Oh. Oh.

The world tilts, shifts, then falls silently back into place. And though nothing has actually changed, suddenly everything is different. Because suddenly Erik understands. He understands the jitter and asking for permission, understands asking him to stay and the extra layer in discussions he could never quite identify, and the sudden blocks on Charles's mind.

It was never about keeping Erik out. It was about holding something in.

Oh.

And suddenly Erik is every bit as calm as his voice sounds as he says, "Tell me something. You said that there was good in me. That you could see it."

"Erik—"

"Will you still see it after tomorrow?" Erik asks quietly. "If I stop Shaw — If I kill him — will you still see it?"

"I—"

And Charles still isn't facing him so Erik says, "Look at me. Look at me and tell me, Charles. Will you still see good in me after tomorrow?"

Charles turns, slowly, to face him, and for a moment Erik is sure that he can see his own heart breaking all over Charles's face. But then Charles nods – just the tiniest duck of his head, like he wishes he could deny it. His eyes squeeze shut.

"Yes," he breathes, and Erik can hear so much, in just that one word. Blue eyes open, flicker up to Erik's face and then down again. "Yes, Erik, I will. I will never not see good in you."

It's an admission, and Erik doesn't know what to call the emotion on Charles's face but it doesn't matter. Erik stands. Walks right up to Charles. Takes Charles's face in his hands, privately, distantly awed when the action gets a small but sharp gasp out of Charles.

Gently, he tips Charles's head up, til he can look right into the sapphire eyes that have become so central to Erik's world.

He smiles.

"Then that," he says, quietly, calmly, "is all I need to know."

Because it is.

Charles's eyes go wide and surprised and hopeful. And afraid. And Erik still can't stand to see him look like that. Will probably never be able to stand him looking like that. So he leans right down and seals Charles's lips with his own.

For one, horrifying moment, nothing happens and Erik is suddenly terrified that he got it wrong. But then Charles gasps, a hungry, almost desperate little sound, and twists up into Erik, into the kiss. His hands come up, seizing in Erik's hair and at his shoulder. And just like that, the walls that have been cordoning off his mind, keeping Erik so firmly out, are gone, crumbled and scattered like so much debris; the hallmark of Erik's life.

Erik drops a hand down to Charles's back, pulling him closer, tilting his head to deepen the kiss and Charles nips and then licks at his lower lip. Erik's breath hitches and he chases Charles's tongue with his own, wanting and hungry for that feeling of so good and never enough.

The feeling echoes right back to him and Erik nearly shouts with it as he surges into the connection, reveling in the feel and the knowledge that this is his, that he alone can do this.

Shock and confusion pulse through Charles and he pulls away. Says, "But — I thought—"

He stops talking as Erik claims his mouth for his own again, but the memory flows between them: Stay out of my head. Words snarled forever ago. Words borne of ignorance and denial; an unnecessary preemptive strike that never would have worked anyway.

But Erik is too busy to explain all that just now so he mumbles, "Changed my mind," and then shoves his tongue back inside Charles's mouth – relearning the feel of his teeth, the sweep of his pallet, the velvety feel of his gums – and anything Charles might have said gets lost, coming out as a muffled 'mmph' as his fingers tug at Erik's hair, trying to get closer, his mind swirling through Erik's and feeling like the most welcome thing ever.

Erik hums contentedly into the kiss, pulls Charles closer, one hand skimming low over his back to dip into the incredible heat that is the small strip of exposed skin between rumpled cardigan and belted trouser. It feels amazing so Erik doesn't stop himself from sliding his hand up underneath, palming Charles's side, his fingertips just brushing the underside of his ribs.

A thought flashes through Charles's mind, too strong for Erik not to hear yet too fast and unformed for actual words, but which seems to be mostly focused on the comparative cool of Erik's hand against his back and the realization that clothing is now optional. Apparently it's a welcome thought because a split second later Erik finds himself shoved back against the dresser, Charles's tongue thrusting into his mouth and Charles's fingers yanking insistently at his hemline.

Erik almost laughs as his turtleneck tangles around his elbows, but Charles growls and something about the sound of it stops him. Because it sounds like a growl, but it feels like a whimper; some raw edge of emotion cutting into the desire. Carefully, Erik untangles himself from his hem and catches Charles's hands in his own.

"Slow down," he murmurs, leaning his forehead against Charles's, his breath coming a bit harder than it ought to (two parts desire, one part telepathic echo of Charles's sudden spike of panic). "'M not going anywhere."

Charles blinks, then relaxes. He tugs his hands gently from Erik's grasp and threads his fingers through Erik's hair once more, one hand seizing there, the other stroking down and along his neck to his shoulder.

"This is real, isn't it?" he asks, quietly. Almost tentative. Like anything at all might break the moment.

"God, I hope so," Erik says. It could almost be a joke. The words are right. So is his tone. It could be.

But it's not.

As if to prove it — that it's not a joke; that it is real — Erik wraps his arms around Charles and leans down again, kissing him soft and sweet. Because he can. Because he wants to, wants this. Wants to enjoy it. Wants them both to. So he goes slow, working his lips over Charles's, a slow, sensual slide, until Charles hangs breathless in his arms.

"Still want this off," Charles mumbles, plucking at Erik's sweater and ducking his head.

And, oh god, if Charles embarrassed isn't the cutest thing Erik's ever seen.

Distantly, Erik is surprised by his own thoughts. 'Cute' isn't something he notices. Neither is 'beautiful,' but that's what Charles is. Cute, and beautiful, and amazing, and everything Erik wants — maybe has ever wanted — and for the first time ever, wanting doesn't seem so dangerous because having is actually possible. Is, in fact, sitting right there waiting for him.

Erik pulls back a bit. Lets go. Pulls his turtleneck off over his head and deposits it on the floor beside them. Then reaches back out, places his hands on Charles's waist and pulls him close, leaning in to kiss his mouth, then working his way up Charles's jaw line. Reaches his ear. Mouths his earlobe before gently sucking at the soft skin just beneath.

Charles shivers and Erik can feel his breath hitch. Feel the pulse of desire as Charles arches, contorting his body to press as much of them together as possible while still leaving room for one of his hands to explore Erik's chest. His thumb grazes one of Erik's nipples and Erik groans and tries to pull Charles closer, nipping at his collarbone. Charles makes a sound halfway between a gasp and a whimper and hitches one of his legs up around Erik's, rolling their hips together and for all Erik is the one who said 'slow down,' slow is suddenly just not an option.

Erik scoops Charles up, whirls them around, swallowing Charles's startled yelp as he slams him back against the wall, one hand curled around Charles's ass while the other fumbles at his clothes, desperate for the feel of skin-on-skin.

He is impeded by buttons. Far more of them than any one person should ever reasonably be allowed to wear. Erik growls; clothing not made out of metal, or at least without metal fastenings, should definitely be illegal, practical issues of moving be damned, because, really, whoever invented buttons and tiny button holes ought to be shot, and this would be so much easier if he could just use his powers rather than his shaking hand. Fortunately, Charles seems to have taken up the cause and, working together, they manage to strip him of his cardigan and button-up.

Why the hell do you wear so many damned clothes! Erik demands when his eager fingers encounter not skin, but the soft material of Charles's undershirt.

Not relevant, Charles manages, his thoughts even more lust-hazed than Erik's and he wiggles his hips, his erection pressing against Erik's stomach and Erik's knees almost give out. He steadies himself, then presses his mouth to Charles's again, wet and messy, teeth clashing a bit by accident when he overshoots a little, not that either of them minds. Then he pulls back and puts Charles down.

Charles whines at the loss of contact and steps forward, chasing Erik's mouth, fumbling at Erik's belt.

Erik groans. "Bed," he grits out, stumbling backwards and undoing their belts with his ability. Charles keeps following him, this time mouthing at his chest, teeth closing gently on a nipple. Erik hisses, loses control. Both belts go flying off to crash unceremoniously into walls.

The back of one leg hits the edge of the bed and Erik spins them around to push Charles down into the coverlet, one hand slipping beneath the undershirt to palm Charles's stomach as Charles moans and tugs at Erik's hair – hard – demanding the attention of his mouth. Erik kisses him fiercely; pulling his tongue into his mouth and sucking greedily and clothing in any capacity is no longer acceptable so he pulls back and strips himself of his pants and socks as fast as humanly possible.

On the bed, Charles sits up and peels off his undershirt but when he gets to his own trousers he hesitates and Erik can feel his friend's tiny, lingering fear that this can't quite be real. That something will go wrong.

That Erik will take one look at him naked and suddenly change his mind. Remember that he likes girls.

Erik stares at him for a moment, thoroughly startled, then huffs out a breath half laughter, half sigh. Leans forward, one knee coming to rest on the bed between Charles's legs. Presses their mouths together again.

"Idiot," he murmurs. "I don't like anyone. Just you." And then his hands are at Charles's hips, undoing his fly and tugging at the waistband of his slacks and boxers, pulling them down and off.

And now they're both completely naked and Erik pauses for a moment because somehow that changes things. Makes this truly real, truly happening in a way it wasn't just moments before.

He meets Charles's eyes, the sapphire blue only standing out more against lust-blown black, and feels his breath catch in his chest. Feels it catch in his whole body really, like a hiccup or tripping up the stairs. And it's never been about physical bodies, Erik knows, but now, standing here staring and staring at Charles, at moon-pale skin and golden freckles everywhere and Charles's tongue flicking out to wet his lips — there literally aren't words for it.

He had likened Charles to sunlight before, but sunlight has never rendered anyone incapable of breathing.

Erik? The thought is tentative, nervous, and Erik realizes that he's been standing there completely poleaxed for several seconds. He shakes his head. Leans forward and climbs onto the bed. Reaches out and strokes his fingers down Charles's face.

God, you have no idea, do you? he thinks, except of course the moment he thinks it Charles suddenly does have an idea. Sees, for a moment, with Erik's eyes. His jaw drops.

But — but I'm not—

You see good in me, Erik cuts in. He doesn't know how else to explain it, the way Charles is perfect even thought Erik knows he has flaws. Charles sees good in Erik even though he knows the things Erik has done. And Erik looks at Charles, a telepath who still believes in humanity, in spite of everything, and in this sees a miracle. Sees hope. Feels awe.

Gently, Erik strokes Charles's face again, and then freezes when he feels fingers on his own cheek. Freezes because Charles's hands are still on the bedcovers.

What is it? Charles wants to know as Erik moves his hand slowly to Charles's arm, trailing his fingers lightly down his bicep. Shivering when he feels the ghost of the caress on his own arm.

I can feel that, he states, his mind filling with wonder.

Charles frowns, not understanding.

Touch me, Erik says.

Charles reaches up, splays his palm over Erik's chest, fingers stroking softly. Then he gasps, sharp with a shock that Erik feels and blue eyes meet Erik's and Erik doesn't need him to say it or think it to know that this has never happened before.

How—? Charles begins, and Erik shakes his head. He has no idea why the connection between them is suddenly so strong, he really doesn't. But he can't help feeling that it's right. That this is how it's supposed to be. That maybe Charles belonged here, right here in Erik's head, all along.

Charles is still running his hands over Erik's chest, marveling at this new development. Erik can hardly blame him though, the effect is intense, making him shiver and gasp right along with Charles as he runs a hand down his thigh, nips gently at his neck. Making them both cry out a little when Charles's squirming suddenly brings their cocks together, the friction delicious, too much and too little all at once, and Erik knows that if they stay like this then it will never last long.

And Erik wants it to last. Wants this to last forever. So he slides down slowly, mouth exploring the planes of Charles's chest, tongue flicking into the hollows between his ribs, feeling through their connection for all the places that are sensitive. Shamelessly using the information to drive Charles crazy, turning him into a quivering, writhing mess beneath Erik's touch until Erik doesn't know what he's more drunk on; the echoes of pleasure or the heady power of it all.

Halfway down Charles's stomach Erik's chin bumps into Charles's head. He pulls back some, cocking his head to one side as he considers, fingers running over the soft flesh where thigh meets groin as Charles pants and stares at him, hanging in limbo as he waits for Erik to decide what to do next.

Erik leans in, licks a stripe up Charles, base to tip, less a conscious decision and more simply because it seems the thing to do. Apparently he's right, because the sound Charles makes, like trying to scream but without enough air, is one he's never heard before. One he definitely wants to hear again. So he wraps his hand around Charles, swirls his tongue around the head, lapping up slightly salty precome from the slit, watching with delight as Charles groans, deep and guttural, then wraps his lips around Charles and pulls him in as far as he can without gagging.

Lick, suck, pull. Charles's hips jerk then still and something almost a coherent apology floats into Erik's head, but Erik hardly cares. In this moment, watching Charles out of the corner of his eye, watching him slowly come apart for Erik, he finally understands why people are willing to do this. Erik's never been so hard in his life he pulls away from the mental connection a bit. Has to. Will come otherwise, and it's still far too soon.

Using one hand to grip Charles's hips lightly, Erik slides the other down between them, seeking out Charles's balls. Rolls them gently in his palm, then fumbles slightly, fingers accidentally hitting the soft skin behind. Above him, Charles hisses and yanks at Erik's hair, pulling him up.

Sorry, sorry, he thinks, sliding obligingly up Charles's body, but Charles shakes his head.

Not — that's —

Even in his head Charles sounds like he's panting and Erik can feel how close he is. And it's confusing because isn't that the whole point? He waits, eyes on Charles, not sure what to do next, what Charles wants. Then Charles's fingers curl around Erik's right wrist and tug. Erik frowns, but lets Charles have his hand, watching curiously as Charles brings it to his face, kisses the palm, then, without warning or explanation, sucks two of Erik's fingers into his mouth.

It's far more arousing than it should be; Charles's mouth wet and hot, his tongue sucking, rasping against the pads of Erik's fingers, then moving to lave at the webbing between them. Erik's breath catches and he pushes his hips down, practically rutting against Charles, who moans around his fingers and rocks against him. Then he releases Erik's fingers, spit-covered, practically dripping, and guides Erik's hand downwards, shifting his legs further apart as he does.

For a moment Erik doesn't understand, and then he does and his eyes go wide.

"Charles," he breathes, but his lungs aren't working properly so he stops there.

Charles meets his gaze steadily. Want this, he thinks. Reassures. Promises. Want you.

I — I don't — And now Erik's mind is stuttering. He swallows. Remembers to breathe. Tries again. I don't want to hurt you.

I trust you.

And now Erik can't breathe again. But this time it's not from shock. It's because his heart's in the way.

Three little words. Three little words he's never heard in his life and they make all the difference in the world.

Erik nods; he can do this. He leans down, kisses Charles, gentle, tender, and carefully pushes a finger inside.

It seems to take a long time, but Erik doesn't mind. He works his fingers, gently massaging the tight ring of muscle, opening up Charles's body, determined to get this right. Not to hurt Charles. To be worthy of that trust. Then, with two fingers in to the knuckle, he brushes against something that makes Charles cry out and arch beneath him. And if Erik's mind reels from the echoes, then Charles is probably seeing stars. So Erik does it again.

And suddenly his head is full of Charles and he can't actually tell what's said aloud and what's not.

Dear god, what was that? God, Erik! That. What—? Oh god, do that again, again — SHIT!

And Erik has never heard Charles really swear before. And the fact that it's him, that it's Erik, driving him to it is the most intoxicating experience Erik's ever known and he moves his fingers again and again, curling up inside until he can feel Charles hovering on the edge. Then he stops.

Charles whimpers.

You're sure? Erik asks. Has to check.

Charles nods. I trust you, he repeats.

Erik swallows, then gently pulls his fingers out and lines himself up. Bends down to press their mouths together again, pushes into the mental connection. If they're going to do this they should be all the way together.

Then Erik moves. And sliding into Charles feels like finally coming home and Erik doesn't bother trying to deny or hide it. Embraces it, embraces Charles, all of him, body, mind, and soul. Chess matches and foolish ideals and impossible dreams, kiss-red lips and sapphire blue eyes, all wrapped up, right there in Erik's arms. Wanting this. Trusting him.

After that, everything becomes a blur. Erik moves. Charles gasps. Loses any control of his telepathy and they fly, soar together higher and higher until there's nowhere left to go. Nothing left to do but fall. Fall through stars and heat and a brightness so white it's almost blue until they finally come back to themselves, naked and sweating, and Erik can't remember ever being so completely content.

When he can move again — and it takes a startling long time — Erik reaches for Charles's discarded undershirt and uses it to clean them up. Charles stretches lazily up to kiss him and Erik smiles. Tosses the undershirt away. Crawls back up the bed to lie beside Charles, pulling a sheet up and over them.

Charles sighs and curls up against Erik's side. Erik wraps his arms around him. Presses a soft kiss to his forehead, wishing he had the right words to describe his feelings right now, but he's too tired. Nose buried in Charles's feather-soft hair, Erik closes his eyes and sleeps.

Part Three: How We End

This time, when Erik wakes, Charles is still there. He had thought the night before that that was a happy as it was possible to be, but he had been wrong. This, opening his eyes to Charles stretched out beside him, warm and completely relaxed, still smiling softly in his sleep — somehow this is even better.

Early morning sunlight streams in through the windows, playing over Charles's face, making the freckles stand out, like tiny flecks of gold dusted everywhere. Erik isn't sure if it's the contrast or the sunlight or perhaps something else entirely, but Charles's whole body seems to glow somehow, making him look unworldly and the sheer beauty of it takes Erik's breath away.

Unable to help himself, Erik reaches over. Brushes a soft strand of flyaway hair out of Charles's eyes. Tries to tuck it behind Charles's ear but it's not quite long enough. Charles's eyes flutter open, ensnaring Erik in sleepy blue.

G' morning, he murmurs into Erik's mind, thoughts warm and a bit fuzzy, matching the slow smile on his face.

Morning, Erik tells him back. And he's sure that the smile on his own face is too big, too happy and full of teeth and stupid but he's too busy drinking this all in to care.

You are staring at me, my friend, says Charles after a moment and Erik grins even wider.

Yes, he says simply, then leans over to kiss him. Not hard, or hot, or desire-driven, but soft and sweet and simply because he can. Because he wants to. Because there's no reason in the world not to.

For several long moments, the world stands still, and everything is perfect.

Then Charles pulls back and sighs. Thinks, I suppose we should get up now.

And Erik starts to reply that it's early, that they're not scheduled to leave for another couple of hours at least, but stops, because Charles's thoughts are flicking towards the children.

Should we really have to hide? he asks, frowning slightly. Wondering again if maybe Charles is ashamed of this.

Of course I'm not, Charles tells him, clearly having heard, and of course he heard. There are no more secrets between them now. And, no, we shouldn't have to hide. But you know as well as I do that many people would find it — distasteful — and we need everyone focused for today. Lives depend on us being able to work together and even if we were guaranteed everyone's acceptance I would still worry that they would be distracted.

Erik closes his eyes. Scrubs his face with one hand. Shaw is out there, waiting for them, and Erik is finally going to get his chance to kill him, to avenge his family, and yet all he wants to do is curl up here in the sunlight in this bed with Charles. Because right here, right now, everything is good and Erik is happy.

(And that should be worrying. Should have Erik running, racing for the hills. Because he is sure he knows better. But apparently he has forgotten. And now he is happy and Charles is important and Shaw and the mission seem like such a smaller issue.)

But Erik knows — God, how he knows! — that if they stay here, Shaw will go through with it. Will start a war. A war that might indeed, end all wars. Millions of humans will die. Probably thousands of mutants will too. And the man who tortured him, who murdered his mother and infused his life, his very existence, with hatred and rage, will walk free. May win. May rule.

The children are not the only ones in danger of being distracted. And Erik can no more afford it than can they.

Sometimes, Erik thinks, opening his eyes again and sighing, I hate it when you're right.

He slides out of bed and rummages around on the floor for his clothes.

You know, he comments as he pulls on his pants, then goes to retrieve his belt, when all this is over, we really should get adjoining rooms or something.

Charles's emotions spike weirdly but when Erik looks over at him, he's sitting up on the bed, positively beaming.

I think that could be arranged, he hedges. Erik grins at him. Walks back over to the bed, arms full of turtleneck, and leans down to kiss him.

Good, he thinks, pulling back and still smiling. I'll see you at breakfast.

Then he turns and walks out the door, closing it softly behind him. Pads silently down the hall to his own room. Collects a fresh set of clothes. Showers. Dresses. Once again cloaks himself with purpose; his only goal Shaw's demise.

Carefully tamps down the connection with Charles.

Because he has to. Because he cannot afford to be distracted. Neither of them can.

And though nothing is ever quite so simple, it is perhaps here, at this exact moment, where it all starts to go wrong.

He doesn't see it coming. Doesn't see it all coming apart. Doesn't see the writing on the walls and everything breaking. Doesn't think either of them does.

It should have been obvious, but it isn't.

He does not see it when they leave, flying fast to the south, where countries have drawn the proverbial line in the sand — except that this line is in water and though the premise is virtually meaningless the consequences seem so much bigger than for any line drawn in the sands of morals. Even the Nazis only sought to rule the world, not to destroy it.

He does not see it when the two sides both refuse to back down, or when Charles takes his advice, offered so long ago it seems, and induces a Russian soldier to fire upon the missile-laden ship.

He definitely does not see it as he finds Shaw's submarine, filling his mind with Charles as he drags it from the water like he's been doing it forever. Like it's almost easy.

He doesn't even see it when they come crashing down onto the beach, metal and fire everywhere, Charles cocooned safely between the floor of the plane and Erik's own body and the others alive probably only by sheer luck, nor when he goes charging into the remains of the sub and finds Shaw, encased in some strange mirror-room that blocks Charles but is still ultimately surrounded by metal.

It is almost too easy. Metal pipes and struts are effortlessly called to break the room to bits. A power cord twists and strikes, snakelike, stealing the helmet from Shaw's head and delivering it into Erik's hands even as Charles seizes control of the man Erik knows has to die.

And he looks at Shaw, and then looks at the helmet in his hands. And he knows that Charles will never forgive himself if he could have stopped Erik and didn't. Knows, too, that he would never forgive himself for the destruction Shaw would wreak if he does stop Erik. Will have a hard enough time forgiving himself for just the small part he must play.

So Erik will make the decision for him. Will take away the responsibility for him.

He puts the helmet on.

The sudden loss of Charles in his head is more shocking, more painful, than he could have ever imagined. But Erik is used to pain. Spent years knowing little else. And now, for Charles, and for Shaw, he can survive it once more.

He turns to Shaw. Reaches into his pocket and pulls out the old Nazi coin. He has carried it for eighteen years. And now, suddenly, he knows why.

Erik floats the coin before him. Slow. Steady. His control perfect.

Eighteen years ago, Shaw placed this coin before him. Eighteen years ago, Erik could not move the coin. And eighteen years ago, because he could not move the coin, his mother died.

And now, eighteen years later, because he can move the coin, Shaw dies.

When it's over, he lets the coin drop, pinging discordantly on the floor. Somehow final. Somehow a statement: It's over.

He floats Shaw's body outside, to show the others. To stop the fighting. They have to stop. They have bigger problems to deal with now than each other. Because the humans are afraid. Because the humans are armed. And Erik would know what was coming now even if he couldn't feel it happening. Couldn't feel the turn of the turrets and the course changes of the missiles.

Erik had thought he'd feel good somehow, vindicated, when Charles finally realized that he was right. He'd thought he would, but he doesn't. He wishes Charles could have never had to know. Wishes he could have been wrong, just to keep that look from Charles's face. Because Charles looks as though his entire world is crumbling.

The missiles launch. Erik stops them. Has to. Has to protect the others. Has to save Charles from this at least.

Charles begs him to leave it at that. To forgive the men who launched the missiles. To forgive the men who were just following orders.

And because the helmet is in the way, because they are not connected any more, he has no idea the consequences this statement will have. Because 'following orders' is the justification Erik's heard all his life. It is why German soldiers rounded up his family. Why they killed his uncle. Why they branded his skin. Why they let Shaw have him. Why they did what Shaw said; what Shaw told them to do to him.

And Erik cannot let that justification stand. Never again.

He sends the missiles back. Charles rushes him. Then there is a struggle. Then a moment of victory. Then gunshots. Bullets deflected. And then a scream. And when Erik turns Charles is falling.

Everything else falls away. Erik runs. The missiles fall, forgotten, detonating several hundred feet from the ships. Erik doesn't notice. Drops to his knees at Charles's side. Pulls at the bullet with his power, removing it from Charles's back. Rolls Charles over and drags him into his arms.

How can metal have done this? Metal is supposed to never hurt him. He is metal, metal is him. Metal would never hurt Erik and Erik would never hurt Charles so how has this happened?

Moira fired the shot.

And Erik nearly kills her when he remembers this. Would have, except for Charles screaming for him not to.

"Charles—" But there are no words and Erik sits there, fingers clenched, twined with Charles's, his mind frozen and empty. And there, in the void, in the dark and the cold, the words come back to him.

"Peace was never an option."

Erik stares down at Charles, and suddenly he knows. He knows why those words filled him with such foreboding.

Because the closest Erik can get to peace is with Charles.

"Peace was never an option."

It is not what he meant. Not how he meant it. But now Erik can see the truth of it.

"I want you by my side."

He says the words. Means them. Knows better. Because it cannot work like this.

The world is afraid. Erik knows this, knows this better than anyone. So he cannot stay. And it is not for why he thought. It is not because he is poison. It is not to protect Charles from his darkness. It is not because of him at all.

It is because of Charles.

If there are ever to be good guys then there must first be bad guys. And Erik knows — knows as surely as his heart is breaking — that it can never be Charles.

Because Charles is good. Because Charles is pure. Because Charles believes.

Because Charles is everything that Erik is not; optimist, pacifist. Perfection. Hope.

So Erik will have to do it.

Charles's blue eyes stare up at him, desperate and overbright and Erik knows it is not the physical pain that is doing this. And so he says the words that will make it easier. That will let Charles let him go.

"We want the same things."

And he sees it now, the clarity coming through in Charles's eyes as he realizes the same truth. Charles shakes his head, too-blue eyes spilling out salty clear tears and Erik wants to die. Would drown himself in those tears, those eyes, if he could.

"I'm sorry, my friend, but we do not."

They stare at each other and the moment seems to stretch on for eternity as Erik's hand moves. And then Moira is there, taking Charles, taking Erik's place beneath Charles's head. And Erik lets his heart break and then seals it away. He won't be needing it anymore, anyway.

Erik stands, turns, gathers the others. He must be a leader now. He must become the bad guy so that Charles can do the impossible — the thing that only Charles can do.

Hand in hand, his followers at his side, Erik takes one last look into the blue eyes that once pierced through to his soul. Charles looks back and blinks slowly, just once. Then Erik gives the signal and Azazel whisks them away.

He is Magneto now.

Epilogue

Erik stands outside, unwilling just yet to commit himself to the gloomy interior of the place Azazel brought them. It is one of Shaw's old places, its only redeeming quality that it will work the same as the helmet, protecting Erik's mind from any and all telepaths. It is now the only place he can remove the helmet for everywhere else there will be Charles.

Emma does not understand this. Erik has no desire to explain. Somehow, he simply knows that, after that last time, distance will never again matter. Not for him and Charles.

It's ironic, really. Erik has spent his entire life looking for a way to close the distance between himself and other people. And now, just when it no longer exists, distance, it seems, is the one thing he must somehow manage to create between them.

The sky is blue. And it hurts to look at, because it is not the right blue. Still, he is loath to go inside.

Raven will be disappointed. He almost wishes she had not come, but she has far too much potential, far too much use, for him to turn her away completely. She believes in him and he accepts her. But that is all it will ever be.

He will never want her. Never love her. Never welcome her to his bed.

It is not her fault. It is not that she is unappealing. It is not even that women are unappealing. It is simply that there is only one thing on earth now that will ever be appealing to Erik.

And he cannot have it.

So he will not remove the helmet. Will not unseal his heart. There will be no more smiles, no more joy. No more lovers. No more friends.

No more my friend.

But it's okay. It's okay for it to end like that — alone is how it started, after all. So it's okay. As long as Charles understood him, it's okay.

And Erik knows he did. He had to. They never really did need words, after all.

Touch-touch.

My heart. Your heart.

I love you.

Forever.

~End~