A/N: Alright, so! This is completely AU. I've been searching the fandom for something like this but I have yet to find it so I decided to take a crack at it. Charles and Erik still have their powers, but there is no Holocaust and no dead mother for Erik. This takes place today - in the time of colored televisions, and Superman, and Arthur on PBS. Charles and Erik don't meet while Erik is dying trying to kill Shaw, but rather in pre-school. I sincerely hope you all enjoy. For right now this is a complete piece, a oneshot, but if enough of you enjoy it, I will most likely write an accompanying piece set in the future. Heck, I might still write an accompanying piece if you all think it's horrid *laughs* I'm quite taken with these two in this universe. :)

o o o

Erik Lensherr is a 'solemn child.'

At five years old, he doesn't know what that means. It's just something his mama says quietly into the cradle of his little neck when she scoops him up and carries him around as she does her housework. "You are just as I was," she says as she stirs the soup, matza thick and doughy, floating fat to the surface. Her voice soothes him - more than any toy or television show with men in brightly colored suits jumping around ever could. He lays heavy and limp in her arms, head against her shoulder, thumb in his mouth. Every breath he takes fills his tiny lungs with the scent of her perfume, light and powdery. It mingles with the scent of the rich soup and the fresh bread that she allowed him to slap into shape before he watched her place it in the oven earlier. "You are a 'watcher.' You study the intentions of others." Erik doesn't know what 'intentions' means either, but it doesn't matter, because his mama's voice is seeping into his tired body, and pretty soon he is drifting off, the warmth of the kitchen and his mama's soft body latching onto his bones.

A large hand on his tummy, shaking him gently, wakes him up soon, though. He is still above the ground, in someone's arms, but it is not his mama. He shifts, and his fingers wrap around the little metal buttons he knows are part of his father's uniform. His bare foot knocks against the empty gun holster, and his father hooks a hand behind his knee. "It's time to wake up." Erik buries his face into the hot, spicy smelling skin of his papa's neck. The resulting chuckle rumbles through his whole body. A big hand rubs his back, gently. "Just some soup," he says. "A little bowl, a ball of matza. You love matza. And then back to bed. You start pre-school in the morning."

Erik's stomach wriggles unpleasantly and his father's buttons shake in their holes. Erik is not excited about pre-school. At all. When his father explained what it was it sounded awful – a strange place, with strange people that he's never ever met before. And the worst part is that he can't even use his superhero powers there. Because Erik does have superpowers, just like Superman, or Spiderman, or Green Lantern. And not the fake ones that the other kids in the neighborhood pretend to have, tying bed sheets around their necks and zooming around with their hands held in front of them, shouting and screaming and pretending to move things out the way. Erik can really move things out of the way. Some things. Little things. Metal things. That's why his papa has to take his gun off as soon as he gets into the house and hide it.

Mama and papa tell him it is because the other kids will not understand – they might be afraid of him if he begins to move things around without touching them. "But they might think its cool," Erik had answered, imploringly. "They might think I'm a superhero, and want to be my best friend because I can protect them from, from… from the bad guys! With guns! Who don't use them for good deeds like papa does."

They had exchanged a look then, the one Erik doesn't like because it always means they are sharing a secret he doesn't know about.

"They might," his papa says slowly. "Or, they might… not."

"Let's try it for the first week," his mama says, smiling at him kindly, eyes warm. "You won't use your superpowers at school for one whole week, and if you feel okay about it then you can stay, and play all the games, and make new friends, and sing songs. How does that sound, boychick?" It's the sound of his mother's favorite endearment for him that had Erik nodding.

"I don't want to go to pre-school," he says now, pulling back so he can look up into his father's face. "I want to stay home with mama."

His father sighs. "We talked about this, Erik. Try it for one week."

Erik says nothing, and during dinner he makes all of the spoons except for his own, float up up up towards the ceiling.

o o o

The other children here are too loud, Erik decides. He'd watched from his father's arms that morning as they all ran around, picking up toys and dropping them down in front of other kids to play. He knows some of them, the ones that live in the neighborhood, but none of them talk to him. He sits in the corner, by himself, and his chest hurts. He wants to go home, wants to go back home to his mama who always plays with him when she's not busy and who let him wear his favorite blue shirt today because she said it would bring him good luck. His little hands ball in the fabric, tugging at the hem. All the kids play with each other, but none invite him over. He watches as a pregnant woman drops her child off. The little boy presses his ear to his mother's stomach as she chats with the teacher, fingers absently running through her son's hair. The boy stays still for a few moments before turning to whisper something to the baby inside and kissing the protruding outline of the bellybutton pressing against the pretty sundress. Erik looks away and back towards the kids playing merrily without him. His stomach gives another twisty jerk, and he can feel his bottom lip trembling, and his eyes are getting blurry with unshed tears-

Don't be upset.

The voice isn't his own, but is right in his head. He begins to look around but before he can a little boy with tremendous blue eyes plops down in front of him. It's the boy who was listening to his mother's stomach. He's got on tan pants and soft looking brown shoes. There is what looks like a sweater with no arms over a white button down shirt. He looks too fancy for pre-school, Erik thinks. Even his voice, when he speaks, sounds too fancy for pre-school where everyone is wearing jeans, and sneakers, and is screaming like that Banshee on that episode of Arthur that make Erik grip onto the couch pillows. "Hello, my name is Charles Xavier, and it is a pleasure to meet you." Charles holds a hand out, but Erik doesn't take it. The voice that comes out of this boy's mouth is the same that was just in his head.

"How did you do that?" he demands. Somewhere in his mind he thinks his mama would be upset with him for being so rude.

"Do what?" Charles asks, dark hair flopping into his eyes. His hand is still out.

"I heard you, in my head. How did you do it?"

Charles lets his arm drop and he stares at him for a long moment. Erik feels uncomfortable. He feels as if this other boy is looking straight into his mind, and it's like he can feel something pressing against his brain. He scowls. His mama and papa told him never to hit another person, but he wants to hit Charles, even if his eyes are the same color of Erik's good luck shirt. Charles is looking at him strangely just like his parents said the other kids would, and it's making his tummy tie up in knots.

I'm like you, Charles says finally. But he doesn't really say it. His voice echoes in Erik's head again.

"What do you mean you're like me?" He demands, and he can feel his hands balling into fists.

Please don't hit me, the voice says. I don't want you to be upset - we're both superheroes.

Erik opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. What do you mean?

This is my super power. I can talk to people like this. And I can see what they think. You can move things.

How do you know that? Erik is still suspicious, but he isn't angry anymore. He doesn't know why, but he trusts this boy with his weird clothes and bright eyes. Plus, he's nice. The only one who has spoken to him. And they both have superpowers. Charles won't be afraid or be mean to Erik like the others will.

I can see it, Charles says, and he is smiling now, and it is strange because Erik can feel the smile in his head. It's warm, and bright, and makes him happy too. I can see you- you made the spoons float away last night! The boy giggles and Erik does too, shifting closer so that their faces are closer together, heads bowed.

My mama said I can't use my powers, Erik thinks, a little angrily. She and papa said that the other kids would get scared and be mean to me.

I won't. I won't get scared or upset or anything. And Erik can feel the promise just like he could feel the smile. We're best friends. Like Batman and Robin! They giggle again and joy pours through Erik's body. It's not like the same joy he gets when he's with his mother – it's close though. Charles isn't part of Erik's family- he isn't Erik's mother or father so he doesn't have to like him. But he does. He chose Erik to be his best friend.

Who's gonna be Batman and who's gonna be Robin? Erik asks, grinning, laying his hand out, palm facing upwards, on the colorful carpet.

You can be Batman, Charles says and puts his smaller hand in Erik's. You're bigger.