On his way to bed one night, Erik pauses in the doorway of his room, suddenly on alert.

Something's different, something's changed since he left this morning.

It takes just a moment before he makes out that his helmet is sitting on his bedside table - he knows it by the moonlight glancing off it, but also by the shape of it in that part of his mind that senses metal. For some reason he's never been able to manipulate the helmet; but feel it, yes.

What is his helmet doing here?

Your Xavier grew teeth to get that for you, Emma says, her voice inside his head hard and cutting. More fool he.

Erik closes the door, crosses the room in three long strides. He picks the helmet up and sits heavily down on the bed with its smooth, cold weight in his hands.

I hope you realize that the moment you put that on, you'll be exactly where you were before, Emma says. Except then you'll be in Xavier's hands, because I will wash mine of you. I only have the patience for so much nonsense; between the two of you I have reached my threshold.

"Charles did this?" Erik says, his voice wooden in his own ears. "Why?"

He seems to think you're in an unfair position, for some reason.

Erik sits there, considering but not quite thinking in so many words - he's discovered that this renders his thoughts just slightly less likely to be responded to, and thus (possibly) less easily read - for some minutes. Then he says, "What was it you were saying before? About learning to shield myself?"

Then there's laughter inside his head, not his own. You would wait until now to ask me that. I don't know which of you is more avoidant. This is ridiculous.

Erik ignores this; allowing her to provoke him will only provide distraction from the hazy plan now forming in his head, his way out. "If I'm wearing the helmet, you can't do anything to affect her, because she's an extension of myself. Could you still feel her if I'm wearing it, would you be able to tell anything about her if you didn't already know?"

The answer takes a minute to come, and when it does it's a very grudging, No.

"Then teach me," Erik says. If Emma can't sense the child's presence if he has the helmet on, neither can Charles; and if Erik can learn fast enough and well enough, he can leave before anyone - but especially Charles - suspects anything.

Erik can't imagine that Charles would think him fit to raise a child, not after the way Charles looked at him, the way he spoke to him, like he's a mad dog, lashing out at everything without discretion. Neither can he quite imagine that Charles would try to take her; but he won't take chances on that, either.

She's his, though she's half Charles' too; and he's keeping her. He'll work out the rest of it later, when he has his autonomy again.

I know what you're doing. Don't imagine you're being subtle.

"Teach me," Erik repeats.

Only if you promise me you won't try to leave until I say you're ready.

"Done."

Week 20

It shouldn't surprise him.

Raven has been calling the mansion daily for the past week and a half, hinting around for details, details, details. Mostly it's details about the baby's mother she wants - who is she, where did they meet, who is she, why is she just going to hand the baby right over to Charles, who is she, what does she look like, who is she, what's her name, who is she, why the hell are you being so difficult about this, Charles.

It's incredibly frustrating, and by the third call Charles is actually tempted to concoct some elaborate fiction to get her off his back, at least for a while; but he decides it will mean less trouble for him in the long run to duck the questions, let Raven keep wondering, and if the truth comes out later then at least Charles can say, well, that's what happens when you assume things, your crazy theories aren't my fault.

At one point during the fifth call he breaks into one of her rants to say, "Fine, I'm the mother." He does it partly to derail her, partly to hear her reaction, and if he's to be entirely honest, partly to see if she'll believe it.

"That is so not funny, Charles," she snaps, and hangs up on him. So that doesn't go over terribly well, but at least now he can say that he told her the truth, it's not his fault she didn't want to listen. Blue people who can shapeshift should not be so unwilling to open their minds to new concepts, regardless of how incredible said concepts may sound.

So in retrospect, it shouldn't surprise him when he wheels himself into his study one afternoon after a long day of training the others and himself to find Raven nosing through his desk drawers. She's not even bothering to be respectful of any of his possessions, slinging books and papers every which way after she's glanced at them.

"What are you doing to my things," Charles gasps.

Raven doesn't so much as glance up. "I'm going through them until I find the answers I'm looking for or you cave - whichever comes first."

"Honestly, Raven," Charles says. "This is childish - Raven, those ledgers are for the household accounts, you really mustn't - gaahh!"

Raven looks at him with that little smirk on her face, an expression Charles has always hated because it means she's gotten the upper hand over him at something; but as it fades and melts into horror, as Raven's hands fly up to cover her mouth, he finds himself wishing the smirk were back.

He should have told her about the wheelchair, he should have -

Too late.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you before," Charles says, when it becomes evident Raven is neither going to faint, nor begin shrieking. "I'm finding I'm rather much of a coward when it comes to some things, these days."

This does not improve matters, and Raven is obviously well on her way to a fit of hysterics, so Charles does the only other thing he can think of to do; he holds out his arms to her and says, "Come here."

And then she's in his arms, and it's strange and wrong for her to stoop over him this way when they've ever been of a height; stranger and wronger that the nudist tendency has apparently stuck - she doesn't have a stitch on - but Charles does his best not to focus on that, as he rubs her back and makes little soothing noises he wasn't previously aware that he could make. He stores this discovery away for future reference, vaguely aware that comforting should be part of his parental repertoire.

"You know," he says when Raven finally begins calming down a bit, "I'm the one stuck in this thing, so if you ask me I should get to drip snot all on your shoulder."

Ravens lets off a little hiccup at this, which Charles decides counts as a laugh; and he decided something else, too, and says, "There's more, actually, and it's much better. Would you like to see a magic trick?"

Then, before she can give him an answer but also before he can lose his nerve, Charles makes sure no one in the house is liable to come and interrupt them; and then he lets the illusion fall, all of it.

It may be petty of him to enjoy the shocked look that comes over her face, but he does anyway.

"You see, I wasn't having you on," he says, and before she can react to this he takes her hand and guides it down to his stomach - and the baby is such a good baby because she choose that moment to give a great huge kick, what marvelous timing she has.

Ravens face erupts into wonder, and Charles mentally pats himself on the back for a crisis well averted.

But then Raven plucks a nickel off his stomach and says, "It's Erik's, isn't it?"

Well, this is an entirely new crisis, then, isn't it? Why didn't Charles see this coming? Why does he never see anything coming?

"Er, is it that obvious?" he asks, somewhat weakly.

"Yes," Raven says, pointedly picking two dimes, another nickel and a steelie off him. "You know, I wondered when you could have found the time to go slutting around in bars with everything else we had going on around here last fall."

"Raven!" Charles chides. "I take exception to that - 'slutting around,' honestly?"

"You mean you resemble that," Raven says. "Seriously, have you met yourself? You're disgusting."

"Well, thank you for that," Charles says. "Though I'd have to say it must run in the family then, because I've heard something quite peculiar about what's going on between you and several - ah - gentlemen -" He falters, already regretting opening up this line of conversation because really, he's been doing an excellent job of not thinking about that in any way whatsoever.

"Oh, Charles, Charles," Raven says wryly, giving his stomach a little pat, not bothering to look the least bit ashamed of herself, "you have no room to talk, so don't start."

Raven ends up staying the night, and after fetching a plate of cookies and jug of milk from the kitchen, they pass most of it in the little alcove off the second-floor library that's always been their own secret, cozy place.

After some consideration, Charles decides to attempt maneuvering himself onto the overstuffed sofa in the corner, and when he manages it he says delightedly, "You know, I couldn't have done this several months ago." At Raven's stricken expression he adds, "I rather imagine I won't be able to do it a month or two from now, either. I'll be huge, I suspect I'll resemble nothing more than a beached whale by the time I'm through - with an emphasis on the beached."

Raven cracks a hesitant smile at that one, like she's not sure if she's allowed to find it amusing. Then she sits down on the sofa beside him, leans into him, and he wraps his arm around her and they stay like that for hours, talking, just like the old days.

Charles confides in her about everything, all his doubts and fears, which mostly come down to Erik. Because Erik is still here, and while Charles doesn't see too much of him, sometimes they pass each other in the halls and Charles can never see anything other than suspicion in Erik's features. Charles hasn't seen him with the helmet on, though he carries it around everywhere now and sometimes when Charles scans the house he doesn't pick up on Erik at all, so he must be wearing it at other times.

Erik is still here, and Charles can't imagine why, can't imagine what danger Erik's life could possibly be in to keep him here when he so obviously doesn't want to be. Sometimes he's tempted to look, once or twice he's even been on the verge of it; but as much as Charles wants to know what's going on, he never can bring himself to actually take a peek. Something always stops him from doing it even though he's never been able to keep such intense curiosity at bay for so long before.

"I don't understand him at all," Charles concludes, after quite the long and tortured monologue about it. He leaves out the bits about wanting to poke around in Erik's head, because Raven would probably encourage him to look; she's always been adamant he stay out of her head, but she never has extended the sentiment to anyone else's.

"He's problematic," Raven agrees. After a moment's though she adds, "I don't know about what he's doing now, but back home - back in Detroit - he was definitely pining for you, in an Erik sort of way. I mean, it's not like he was sitting around crying and eating whole gallons of ice cream in one sitting or anything - but he was really snappish if anyone looked at him the wrong way, or looked at him at all, or had the nerve to be in the same room with him. It was pretty awful, especially for a week or two when he had this scary stomach bug with like, projectile vomiting and stuff - that was pretty horrifying, actually."

Charles is torn between feeling sorry for Erik, and feeling perversely satisfied that he's not the only one who's had to suffer. He refuses to consider the 'pining' statement as anything other than a mistaken reading of Erik; Raven is no telepath, after all, and even Charles' own readings of other people are often erroneous when he's not using his gift. And he knows, very well, what Erik looked like, what Erik acted like back when Erik wanted anything to do with him; and he hasn't seen anything remotely related to it since the morning of the day everything went to hell, the morning after they made the life growing inside of him.

"Are you going to tell him about the baby?" Raven asks.

"I haven't decided," Charles says. Not only has he not decided, but the only decision he's made in that regard has been to decide to decide later, when he feels up to actually thinking about it, which doesn't seem likely to happen anytime soon. Or possibly ever.

"You probably should," she says. "I mean, okay, you said Emma knows it's Erik's, right? And Darwin too - I'm never going to forgive you for not telling me that he was alive sooner, by the way - and now me. How do you think Erik's going to feel if he's the last person to find out?"

"Maybe I don't want him to find out at all," Charles says.

"Yeah, okay, you know, I don't think that's going to work out well for you. There's a saying for this kind of situation: 'three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.'"

"You never were any good at maths," Charles says. "Me and you, Darwin and Emma make four, not three."

Raven screws up her face in a familiar mockery of what Charles looks like when he's thinking. "Well, how about 'four can keep a secret if you drop three on their heads?'"

Charles can't help but laugh. "Raven, that's terrible."

"Oh I know," she agrees sweetly. "Doesn't it sound like something you would say?"

"...Somehow I don't think that's my influence."

A short while later, the sky outside the window begins to lighten, and Raven says with clear regret that she must be getting home. Charles bites back a pang of regret at her use of that word for anywhere but here.

As she comes to her feet, he watches her closely and sees a strength and confidence in her that he doesn't think he's ever seen before, now.

"You're beautiful, you know," Charles says. He's always thought so, but he thinks now that he may not have made it exactly clear, previously.

Raven looks back at him and says, "You, too," and he feels they understand each other perfectly for the first time in a long time.

Then she whistles piercingly and Azazel appears, and Charles pretends not to see the way his hands go to Raven's hips so familiarly. He's only just thought that he should read Azazel's mind for his intentions towards her, when the other man gives him a smarmy look - and then they're gone.

Barely twelve hours later, the phone rings and it's Raven again, still harping on him, only now it's all, "you need to tell him, are you going to tell him, you should tell him, you need to tell him so he can step up and take responsibility." When Charles protests that there's no 'need' about it because he could afford to raise thirty children if he wanted them, she says "That's not what I mean and you know it."

Shielding is more difficult than it sounds. For the first few sessions, Erik can barely keep the helmet on for thirty seconds without her mind breaking over his like a wave, eroding.

She doesn't mean it, Emma explains, now that he's listening. It's all instinct, reflexive, her way of saying 'hi, I'm here, love me, protect me.' The problem, according to Emma, is that he lacks the ability that should be innate, the willingness to tell her 'enough' and keep her at arm's length so he can function normally (Erik remains skeptical of this, because how much experience with telepathic fetuses can Emma have had? She's probably making it up as she goes along).

Still, despite his doubts, it's hard - and painful, in a strange and empty sort of way - to pull away from her, even now that he knows, even now that he acknowledges the reality that he must learn this if he ever wants to get out from under Emma's thumb.

That he needs her knowledge, her experience, her help to move forward - that he must admit to it - grates at him. Severely. If he didn't need her, he would probably threaten to kill her again (though perhaps not, since after a certain point threats not made good upon cease to be threaten, and Emma has proven difficult to kill.)

The desire to get the hell away from Emma drives him to a not inconsiderable extent, but it's the desire to be gone from this place that fuels him the most, that makes him slip the helmet onto his head every time his thoughts clear, that causes him to try again and again and again even though a few hours of this back-and-forth leaves him muddle-headed and a day of it makes him so woozy inside his skull that he collapses into bed at the end of the day and wakes up some twelve hours later with an insane itch behind his eyes.

He improves. Half a minute becomes two minutes, two minutes become five, half an hour, an entire hour, two; and as the time he can placate the tide improves, so does his ability to think of other things while he does it.

It feels safer thinking with the helmet on, having a measure of privacy for however brief a time, even if Emma immediately intrudes as soon as the helmet is off again.

Erik finds that what he thinks about the most is where he can possibly go, to raise a child - a child telepath - in relative peace. He can think of no place he's ever been where he would wish to raise a child. He of all people knows: there are monsters everywhere, a plague of locusts engulfing the earth - and where they're hidden themselves deeply in the grass where he can't see them, the child still will. The minds of men, good or evil, will be open books to her. Bad enough that she'll be able to see into his mind, without all the rest.

He can't imagine where she would be safe to have a childhood - a proper one, unlike his own.

He thinks, very briefly but with an absurd sentimentality that startles him, of Israel, though he's never been, never wanted to go; and he discards that thought in an instant because at his most charitable he still can't believe that place will ever be safe for any child. He flashes through everywhere he has ever been, over and over, and comes up with nothing. The best of them in his mind is Detroit, and only because he didn't go there tracking Nazis; but from what little he knows of labor disputes he doesn't think that will do either.

There's a remarkably simple solution to this problem, you know, Emma says one time after he removes the helmet, no more scrupled about seeking out his past thoughts than his present ones.

Erik ignores her. He has an idea, from the wryness of her voice inside his head, of what her 'solution' is; and he wants no part of it.