Freedom in February

~ Erik Lehnsherr ~
Erik Lehnsherr thinks, sometimes, that he lost his freedom when he was about fourteen years old, a long time ago in a faraway land called Poland. Not when the guards pushed his family into the trains, not then. Or when he had a six-digit number tattooed into his skin. Or even when he was hustled into the camp at Auschwitz and separated from his parents.

No, Erik Lehnsherr lost his freedom the second he fell into Schmidt's hands.

One coin, one bullet, one life – and there went freedom.

It's different with Xavier, he thinks, leaning against the wall of the conference room and watching as Xavier chats excitedly with his sister. Erik's seen the signs there; Xavier is from old money, considering the gold watch on his hand and the expensive suits and British accent, and he waltzes through everything as though it's nothing to be worried about. An academic, not a solider, who has no idea what war is really like.

And yet . . .

And yet Erik can't bring himself to hate the man. He clearly has far more freedom than anyone else Erik's ever known; even Raven, Xavier's sister, who turned blue and dared him with her gold eyes to comment, lives forever in fear of being found out. Xavier's mutation, like Erik's, in invisible.

Well.

Somewhat.

Xavier has an annoying habit of placing two fingers to his temple whenever he uses his telepathy, and Erik has honestly no idea why, because Erik knows Xavier doesn't need to. He can guess why, that Xavier feels the need to broadcast his intent in order to seem harmless, and it's a good illusion, and Erik's not quite sure whether he's more angry or amused that he'd half-fallen for it at the start even though he's used the illusion himself more than once.

He remains cold and distant when Xavier introduces him to the CIA agents, although he does make a point to greet Raven. The "next stage of evolution" speech is pretty and certainly far more alluring that Erik cares to admit, but he can't deny that he feels a stronger kinship with Raven and Xavier than these – these humans.

But still. Erik is a monster. He's known it, accepted it, embraced it. A fox among chickens, he thinks, surveying Xavier with his soft hands and expensive clothes and slender frame.

Even among his own kind, he's a monster.

Erik handles the debriefing the same way he's dealt with the SS men he's snuck up to and killed. He's calm and cool and never lets them get the full truth. He's taller than them, and he knows how to use his height and posture to give off the dangerous aura that makes the agents skittish and trigger-happy whenever he lays his eyes on them or even walks into the room. Raven shows no fear, but the girl's a shapeshifter; there's very little to read in a face of someone who can change it at will. And Xavier . . . Xavier lounges in his chair, easygoing and relaxed.

But then again, unassuming as he is, Xavier's still a powerful telepath. Erik gets his first glimpse of it when Agent McCone goes a little too far.

"Yet there's no record of where you were from, say, 1944 on to quite recently," the Director says obnoxiously, consulting the very thin manila folder. Thin, because Erik's very good at hiding and covering up his tracks, and he knows that as much as the Director does. "Do you care to explain, Mr. Lehnsherr?"

The man says his name wrong and says the entire thing with an air of condescension, and Erik's temper flares. 1944 is a year he will never forget.

In answer, he rolls up the sleeve on his left arm, smirking to himself as their faces pale and they instinctively shy away in an ohmygodgladitisnotmeohmygod manner that Erik knows most people greet the tattoo with. It's why he prefers long-sleeved shirts and turtlenecks, or at least leather jackets over his polo shirts.

"As far as I'm aware," Erik says, quiet yet clear, "America has yet to begin acknowledging some of the horrors of 1944."

That's when the Director's eyes fog over, and Agent Stryker's, and Agent Platt's, and Agent McTaggert, and Erik realizes with a start that they didn't hear him. And they're not moving.

He snaps his head to Xavier, who has two fingers pressed to his temple and whose eyes are narrowed as he contemplates something Erik isn't seeing. Raven looks between him and Xavier, rolls her eyes, and slips out of her chair and leaves the room.

"Xavier," he says warningly, all menace and threats.

Xavier's eyes flick to him, and he manages a tiny smile. "I'm terribly sorry about that, my friend," he says. "I, uh, I know that you're not really quite comfortable with revealing some parts of your . . . past."

"You're not my friend," Erik retorts automatically.

"My apologies."

Xavier's eyes narrow again, and the agents blink and breathe as they are released, and Xavier goes back to fiddling with the buttons on his coat.

"I think that's it for today," Director McCone says briskly, closing the folder, his eyes suddenly clear and bored. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Lehnsherr. Glad to have you on board. We'll see you tomorrow, yes?"

Erik blinks.

That was . . . not the reaction he expected.

The agents are gone before he can leap from his chair, pin them against the wall, and demand the answers he needs. People react with fear to the Holocaust, and people react with fear to him, and what was done to him, and what was done to his people. No one's ever brushed it off so slightly, it was like they didn't even remember . . . like they didn't even . . .

Erik recalls the frozen icy grip of the blonde-haired woman on the ship, and the memories she'd effortlessly tugged up.

Xavier lets out a startled cry when his watch magnetizes to the chair, twisting his wrist.

Erik stands, gestures, locks the door, and leans over Xavier. Xavier is at least half a head shorter than him, and the difference in height makes it easy for Erik to loom threateningly over the telepath, the metal in the room humming eagerly to come to his aid as he stares into the man's innocent blue eyes.

"What did you do?" he demands curtly.

Xavier tugs at his wrist, and then seems to give up. "I removed their memories for now," he says, nonchalantly, as though it's nothing. "You don't like to talk about what happened. They should respect that." His brow furrows. "They will respect it now, anyways."

Erik isn't convinced. Shaw had a silver tongue too, sometimes.

"How do I know you're not lying?"

Xavier looks at him. "It's quite obvious you dislike talking about it," he points out, and unwillingly Erik thinks of the changing room on the ship, when Xavier had caught sight of the tattoo and the blood had drained from his face before he'd said firmly that it was nothing. "There's no reason for them to be pushing you for information now. We can be debriefed when we've actually gotten sleep – you look exhausted."

Erik waves it off. "I've fared worse."

Xavier pulls at his wrist again. "Fascinating as this is," he murmurs, "this was my father's watch. I really would like it back, thank you."

Erik isn't sure who's more shocked when he steps back, waves his hand, and releases him.

Xavier looks a tad startled.

Erik's even more so. He's never considered anyone's comfort over his own, never tried to spare pain, never tried to show mercy, not since . . . not since Anya and Madga and the mob and the fire. He doesn't understand why he so easily yielded to Xavier's request, unless . . .

"Get out of my head," he repeats, remembering their run-in outside the compound the night before.

Xavier sighs and shakes his head. "I'm not in your head," he says, in the tone of someone who's run through the routine more than once.

"Stay out."

Xavier eyes him coolly, rubbing absently at his watch, as if he's not bothered by the fact that a man who can overpower him in five seconds is standing right in front of him while he's not a single weapon on him. "Can you stop yourself from feeling all the metal around you?" he asks abruptly. "Feel where it is, what it is – can you stop yourself?"

No, of course not. He could be unable to see, hear, taste, smell, touch, speak – Shaw did experiment on some of those things – but even then he will never stop feeling the metal if it's in range. It sings to him, calls to him, and most times he can't ignore it. It's helpful, because most weapons are metal, but Xavier's right – even if Shaw was dead and buried and Erik's vendetta was done and he could live normally, he will never, ever stop being aware of the metal around him, and where it is, and what it is.

"Neither can I stop myself from feeling people's minds," Xavier continues, seeing the answer in his face. "Your gift comes alive at your order; mine just never stops, ever. The best I can do is distance myself and raise my walls until all I get is a low background murmur, but even so, particularly strong thoughts still get through."

It's an interesting take on telepathy, and Erik finds himself less angry and more interested. He wonders what kind of man Xavier is, to reveal such intimate details about his gift so freely to a stranger. Erik only gave the bare minimum: "I can manipulate metal."

He settles for, "You're too trusting."

Xavier shrugs. "It's an occupational hazard of being a telepath," he says breezily, but there's something in his eyes that tells Erik it warrants a bit more than the light-hearted tone Xavier is using to describe it.

He steps around Erik and opens the door, turning his back to Erik so easily that Erik stares.

He's never, ever turned his back on anyone, not even Magda. He doesn't think he'll ever stop expecting enemies to pop out at him, and he'd frankly rather be prepared for everything than to find out the one day he relaxes it the one day the whole world goes to hell. Xavier, clearly, has led quite a different life style.

"Raven and I have rooms just down the corridor," Xavier informs him. "Just pick any of the others that you want." He hesitates. "Good night, my friend."

Somehow, Erik thinks it's not quite what he meant to say.

"I'm not your friend, stop calling me that," Erik forces out behind gritted teeth, thinking those unpleasant thoughts of a cold hand stroking his hair and you're my son and such a good boy and call me Father, please, little Erik.

Xavier looks at him, almost sadly. "I'm not Shaw," he says. "It's your choice whether you consider me a friend or not. But I consider you one. Unless it makes you uncomfortable . . ."

Erik considers him. Xavier's soft and naive and simple-minded and weak and gentle and sheltered – but this is a man who threw himself over a boat into the cold and dark to save a stranger he didn't know. This is the man who wiped the agents' minds because he felt Erik was unhappy talking about his past. This is the man who shows him such easy trust and speaks so confidently that Erik can feel himself, just a bit, falling for Xavier's spell, and he can feel the powerful lure that's drawn people like the CIA to him.

This is the lure that drove him to stay, after all.

"No," he finds himself saying, and it's downright strange. "No, I don't mind, Xavier."

Xavier grins at him like a boy. "I'm glad you chose to stay," he says, and Erik's caught off guard – no one should sound that happy about having him anywhere near them. "And call me Charles."

"Whatever, Xavier."

"Charles," Xavier corrects petulantly.

"Charles," Erik mimics, matching Xavier's accent and tone with a roll of his eyes and drawing a bright, startled laugh out of the telepath, who wishes him good night again and vanishes into the corridor.

Erik watches him go and leans against the table with a frown, wondering what sort of mess he's gotten into now.

But at least one thing's different.

Eighteen years ago, in that tiny operation room, Shaw never gave Erik a choice – forced him to call him Father, to kneel and submit and do everything he said to do. He never had the freedom to, and even now, eighteen years later, Erik's still bound to Shaw and the memories Shaw left him. He won't be free of them.

Charles, on the other hand . . . This time, Erik made the choice to accept Charles, to allow himself to be called "friend", to place his trust, for the time being, in this untested man he knows next to nothing about while being surrounded by suspicious, incompetent humans.

But still, Erik had the freedom to make the choice. And that makes all the difference.

After all, ice only melts bit by bit during the spring thaws.

Sneak Peek: Match in March. Charles eyes the chessboard contemplatively, wondering if he should even bother to ask around and see if anyone can play. It's one of the few good memories he has of his childhood – before "Uncle Nathan", before Kurt, before Cain – and of his father, teaching him the rules and beating him soundly ever time while a little Charles pouted and frowned and struggled to keep up. He's gotten better, now, but even now he's not certain if he's just really good or if he's picking up things unconsciously through his telepathy. Raven's not certain either, but she hates chess anyways, so playing with her is useless. That's when Erik says, "You play?"