I'd like to thank my wonderful beta, Sparkling Mist, for polishing this up for me. This would be set some time after X-Men: Last Stand, assuming of course Prof. X was still kicking. I'm just playing around in my own world I guess. Also I apologise for the crap title, I seriously couldn't think of anything. If you've any suggestions, tips, or critique, I'd be glad to hear it. Thanks for reading.

Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men.

"I dream of giving birth to a child who will ask, "Mother, what was war?" - Eve Merriam

Watching Charles bending over the game board with such intense concentration, Erik couldn't help but smirk, his brows climbing to his hairline. He flicked the brim of his cap up so that he could better see. 'You really aren't much of a challenge today, Charles.'

Charles stroked his chin thoughtfully and said in a pleasant voice, 'You haven't beaten me that many times, have you?' After much deliberation, he reached across the table and took his turn. Satisfied, he sat back and crossed his hands, then glanced up, smiling a little. His eyes wandered, taking in the park and the falling leaves, as well as the others who had come to the park.

Each day it grew colder. The leaves turned color and fell from the sky, leaving the branches bare, and people bundled in colorful clothes walked their dogs or power walked in the distance. All different kinds of people came here, from the children who tossed baseballs back and forth and those that played soccer or kickball, to the less fortunate who dropped off on the benches after the sun went down.

'Far more than I can count, I'm sure,' Erik said, trying to sound bored. He thoughtfully palmed his chin an studied the chess board, aware of the fact that Charles could sense his irritation at having made such an excellent move his turn. It was all in good fun, though, and a moment later he reached his hand out and stiffened, his lips thin. Anger flashed in his eyes for a split second, and he cleared his throat, physically moving the chess piece.

Charles raised an eyebrow. 'I'm surprised you've kept track,' he taunted back. The humor in his voice vanished and he looked at his friend's hand. Suddenly, he felt uncomfortable. 'I thought...'

'You thought what?' Erik asked darkly, squinting his eyes. He drew himself up straight. 'That I was human?'

'You, were—' he wrung his fingers together, still intertwined, and gestured to him. 'Administered the antidote, were you not?'

A measure of silence passed between them. Charles, certain he had upset his friend, anticipated an outburst, but was surprised to find Erik hadn't even flinched.

'Yes,' he answered simply. 'I was. However, as you can see—' He lifted his hand and his fingers writhed; a single chess piece began to rock and sway. 'Anyway, I thought you were dead.'

'This is neither the time nor the place,' Charles warned, briefly glancing about, worried that someone might have seen. Nothing appeared changed, the others continued on, unaware, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Erik simply tilted his head and smiled. The chess piece stopped rocking, and Charles sighed.

He held his hand up to his face and examined it. 'Curious, really.' When he lowered it, Charles looked unhappy. 'Something the matter?'

Charles ignored his question, which didn't really surprise Erik. 'How are things?'

Sounding equally surprised and offended, Erik scoffed. 'As well as can be expected,' he replied, sarcastically. 'And what about you?' His cold, dull eyes seemed to be trying to bore a hole into his head. A tiny sneer stuck in the corner of his lips. 'How are things with you and your glorious X-Men?'

Aware of the feigned concern, as well as the malicious undertone in his friend's voice, he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ''Fine,' he assured. 'But I meant—how are you, specifically? How have you been dealing with things?'

'So long as I'm not one of them, I'll be fine, I imagine.'

'We might be of some assistance to you, you know. We might be able to help you.'

'Help me?" he interrupted, placing a hand on the table. He chuckled. "Just what would you do to 'help me'?'

'I wouldn't know what, if anything, until we'd run some tests,' he admitted.

'I believe I shall take my chances alone. Perhaps something can be regained," he muttered, making a fist and examining it. He thought of Mystique lying on the ground, her breath slow and her arms wrapped around herself. She was so beautiful, and now...

'Perhaps,' Charles agreed. 'But the question is: If you do regain full use of your powers, just what will you do with them?'

'What do you mean? Why should my intentions be altered?'

'Come with me to the mansion,' he suggested. Erik bowed his head and chuckled in amusement. 'Together, we can make a difference. I've told you as much before, and this—' he waved his hand about. '—this should be proof enough. Things are changing.'

'You always were the dreamer, Charles.' Erik idly drummed his fingers against his cheek. They looked at each other from across the table. 'Tell me, why do you value their lives so much?'

'I value all life,' he corrected. 'And they're growing, Erik; they're learning.'

'Not fast enough, they aren't,' he snapped. 'They've waged war on us, not the other way around. Our kind has lived in fear long enough, though I shouldn't have to remind you.'

'If we show them we are not to be feared—'

'Don't be naïve, Charles, I really haven't the patience for this.'

'Don't give up on them!' Charles blurted, as though the words were being torn from him. 'You cannot judge an entire people for mistakes made in the past. That was long ago! You must—' Realising he'd drawn unwanted attention, he set his jaw and clenched his teeth, waiting for the staring to stop.

'We are the future, not them,' he continued, leaning across the table. 'It was Martin Luther King Jr. who said, 'Human salvation lies in the hands of the creatively maladjusted.' We are the creatively maladjusted, Charles.'

'No!' Charles insisted, quickly lowering his voice. People began to stare again. Drawing Erik's attention back to the chessboard, he moved a piece and waited. 'The future is us and them, together.'

'Us or them,' he retorted, coldly, and Charles knew he need not ask why. Erik thought back to when his family was forced into the ghetto; he thought back to the cold, tasteless soup, the talk and promise of meat that never found its way to their bowls. The cold. He saw his family executed before his eyes and then buried in an unmarked, mass grave. He thought of Auschwitz. All at once, his expression darkened, and he tensed. 'You know as well as I do that our kind will never be accepted. There may be a select few, but it just isn't enough. The war has already begun. We must see it through to the end.'

Charles, who could think of nothing else, said softly, '...I believe Mr. King also said 'All progress is precious.''

'Indeed,' Erik said, spent, unable to say much else. He sighed. 'Do tell me, have I told you how impossible you are?'

'I believe so,' he said, smiling sadly. Charles sighed too, and his hand found the control for his chair. They finished the game in silence, though neither cared about winning. When it was through, Charles spoke. 'I suppose I should be going.' He backed his wheelchair out from the table. 'If you ever change your mind, Erik— please call.'

'Oh yes I'll be certain to do that, Charles,' he said dully, indicating that the call would never come. 'Goodbye.'

He watched the man leave, and for a moment, his heart ached; and not only for his kind, but for humanity.