There are not enough adjectives to describe how sorry I am about the slowness of my writing. I'm in the process of trying to venture into my own business, and it's basically all consuming.

THANK YOU ALL so much for bearing with me and the continued comments/kudos/alerts/favs. No snapshot this time since I didnt want to delay the update anything further, I'll hope to post a snapshot within a fortnight.

The end of this chapter might scare some of you off, but have faith in my worship of the Cherik :) It's just my way of attempting to reconcile comic!canon with XMFC. And I've been going back and forth on how I wanted to end this story, so I think I've hit a sorta-compromise btwn my 2 ideas, so at least I know how I want to end this!

"It was an accident!"

Raven directed a look at Erik that bellowed 'what the fuck is fucking wrong with you, you fucker' and continued speaking.

"Erik didn't mean to injure you. We were under attack, and he unknowingly deflected a bullet straight into you... H-he wouldn't hurt you intentionally."

Raven muttered that final part mostly to herself, but the three other grown men looked like they knew something she doesn't.

"I... I ahh..."

It wasn't that Charles was at a loss of what to say. It was more that his brain could not process the last ten minutes at all. He felt detached from what was currently happening around him, like an outside observer, across from a thick glass barrier. The world was moving around him, and he was stuck in a numb void. Was this helplessness how knowing your destiny feels like? Things might have been easier if they really were all vivid figments of his hyperactive imagination. So Charles' mind focuses on what it can absorb for the time being, the least traumatic; the vomit all over him and on the floor around his feet.

"I... I should get this cleaned up."

Sean moves to give Charles a few gentle pats on the shoulder. The telepath hardly felt the touch, his senses so severely blurred still.

"I'll clean it. You go get changed, and if you're up for it, Hank'll give you your next treatment."

"...yes. Okay. I should... I need to... I'll just..."

Charles doesn't feel what must have been Hank's large hand between his shoulder blades, quietly encouraging the sputtering teen out of the room.

~x~

More than an hour passes before Charles consciously takes note of his surroundings. He doesn't remember changing into a fresh set of clothes, let alone taking a shower, but his hair is damp and he could smell the minty citrous of the shower gel Ororo had picked with him on one of their supply runs, to him years ago, but knowing better now, a mere few weeks before. The young man wants to slap himself for ignoring all the obvious clues and irregularities right in front of him. He can't help but think back on everything, analyze and dissect every memory he treasures. What was real? What was brought about because of guilt. What? What...?

Sheer mental exhaustion stopped Charles in his tracks, one of his hands slides up the etched wallpaper to balance his swaying body. Before Hank, who was leading the pair to the lab, could come to his aid they hear Alex's raised voice through the shut doors of the nearest room. The seething anger in his voice immediately snapped Charles out the murky labyrinth of his thoughts.

"-the fuck is wrong with the two of you!? You just stood there and let her spew this bullshit!? You want Charles to be manipulated by them?"

Sean must have said something in reply, but his calm, level voice could not be heard through the doors. Nonetheless it was abundantly clear that whatever Sean said in reply only riled Alex further, as he raises the volume and fury.

"You were there with me Sean! Have you fucking forgotten what Charles was like at the hospital? What those first months back were like for him?"

Charles couldn't help it, he needed to hear every word, so he stepped right up to the door and listened through the slight gap, pleading with his eyes at Hank to allow him to eavesdrop.

"Shut up and calm the fuck down, Alex."

Alex snorts at Sean's words, his tone much lower than usual.

"Charles is gonna remember what happened one way or another. We should let him find out in his own way."

"Yeah, well, that's very unlikely if they're gonna play dirty."

"Alex... I'm not going to let them either. I'm not gonna let them hurt him again."

"Don't you see? It's already too late. I should have fought harder against letting the Professor go into that chamber."

"This isn't your fault. It's also not Hank's."

"Fuck, I know okay! And stop before you say this isn't that asshole's fault either."

"I'm not going to make excuses for Erik, but what happened in Cuba and perhaps even before then... it's something Charles needs to confront Erik himself."

"...it's just... Damnit, you saw didn't you? What Charles projected when he was on all those meds. That bullet isn't what I'm pissed about. He more or less drove that fucking coin through his head. I won't stand by and let something like that happen to him again."

"We won't, Alex. We wont."

Charles steps away from the door, his body language tentative but his mind solidly made up. Hank looks wary and guilty, no doubt having heard every word exchanged behind those doors with his acute hearing. The young man gives the blue beast a wordless but unequivocal nod, then leads them both towards the lab.

Charles knew all too well how emotions and adrenaline can affect the brain, making one perceive matters with personal bias, but the images that Hank's memories replay for him, of his older-self struggling against an immovable Erik bent on massacring all those soldiers, the careless flick of Erik's arm that propels a bullet into unintended flesh followed by the almost too-slow descent of his body onto the sandy surface, his head and upper torso held steadfastly within Erik's embrace...

The memories go fuzzy with static when Raven takes Erik's proffered hand, and disappears in the cloud of charcoal smoke.

Then Charles sees nothing at all when Raven's voice continuously echoes the words, 'Mutant and proud', while intermixed with his own voice saying 'I can't feel my legs.'

All the while a haunting image of a spinning coin spears through the mind like a blunt blade...

"Was I... Did I fail you?"

Raven knew Charles would be confronting her sooner or later, but all that emotional preparation did little to quell the aching anxiety bleeding through her. Charles' hollowed whisper only adding to her inner turmoil.

"What do you mean?"

"Hank... he let me see what happened... what he saw that day. In Cuba."

The shifter's deep citrine eyes falls shut as she lets out a shaky breath.

"I..."

"You left with them. You left us. Left me. Was it... was it because I didn't treat you right? Did I not protect you from C-Cain? Oh my God... Did I hurt you? Do I turn out to be just like Cain?"

"Charles, no! It's not like that at all! Don't even go there!"

"Then... why?"

Raven thought better than to answer with a 'you let me go'. It would no doubt add to Charles' misunderstanding.

"I needed to prove myself. I needed to come out of your protective shadow, Charles. I know you were doing everything you thought was right by me, but... but I was suffocating. You made me feel ashamed of my mutation-"

"W-what? What did I... Oh my God! What have I done to you?"

The sick horror in Charles' voice and expression drained the oxygen of Raven's blood. Her trembling arms wrapped around Charles not merely to reassure her brother, but also to keep herself from breaking down completely.

"Charles, believe me when I say that you are the best thing that's happened to me. But I think deep down, you've known for a long time, my place in this world was never going to be beside you. And that's why you let me go. So that I can make my own path, seek my own purpose."

Charles remained within Raven's embrace, and his voice still wrecked.

"...are you happy with your decision? Was leaving the right choice for you?"

In all honesty, Raven still did not know the answer to that. She knew that she owed Charles her life, and that she couldn't have had a better, safer, happier childhood than with Charles. But something deep within her, a numbing voice almost, keep telling the shapeshifter that she doesn't belong with Charles, that she is destined for a path all of her own.

"What did you do to Warren?"

Emma doesn't even bother looking up from her magazine to acknowledge the young man's presence, though she is inwardly surprised that it was the younger Summers' brother who has come to confront her.

"You'll have to be more specific, sugar."

"So you're admitting you've done more than this to him?"

"Define 'this'."

Scott's expressive brows scrunch together in frustration, earning him an oh-so very slight, but amused grin from the immaculately groomed telepath, but still she denies him eye contact.

"How about his sudden hatred of Miss MacTarggert for starters."

Moira had visited the mansion, now Institute, a handful of times since she helped bring Warren back. She had taken in everyone's gifts with awe and respect, even turning a blind eye to the attacks 'the brotherhood' had made upon her employers and colleagues. All the children were quite taken with Moira, her presence and understanding nature fueling the hope that one day soon, they would no longer have to hide their gifts beyond the mansion's vast gardens. Warren of course held special affection for her, and there's now a running joke in the household that the young man needs to decide between Jean and Moira already.

All of that changed today when Warren told Moira with direct eye contact, and without a single stutter, that she doesn't belong here with them. Shock morphed into hurt on the agent's face as Sean tried to reassure her that it wasn't so, that she was welcome here. The agent left with glistening eyes and a sad smile that did not reach her eyes.

Emma flips a page and continues her nonchalance.

"I would see it as overcoming his weaknesses."

"Moira wasn't a weakness for him. He told us that she was the only person he could look forward to seeing, and how she was the only one to talked to him, not at him. She was the only one who didn't treat him like a freak. She gave him hope, strength."

"And all that just proves that humanity wishes to see us contained, neutralized or eliminated. MacTarggert is merely an anomaly."

"No! It proves that there are people who understand and are willing to accept us for who we are. It proves that there can be peace!"

'Well, Xavier sure has potential in this one.'

Emma was about to try to end this futile conversation by stating that it was Warren who came to her, when the younger man continued.

"Look into my mind, Emma. You'll see that I've never been hurt by non-mutants. The only person who's ever given me the creeps is Dr. Essex. I know he's mutant."

The telepath tilts her head in surprise and consideration, her first proper reaction to Scott since he entered the room.

"And I know you and Erik know something about the doctor, something involving Alex and myself. Jean saw glimpses of the doctor the night after Cain Marko attacked."

The telepath made a mental note to up the training of her fellows' mental shields.

"Yes, I do know of his connection to you. Doesn't mean it's anything... sinister."

Even though Scott would have completely missed the pun, Emma had to cringe at that tastelessly chosen name.

"...I know with my glasses or these visors... people forget I'm not actually blind. They let their guard slip, and I can tell easily when they're lying to me. I can also tell that you're hiding behind that frosty persona. That you care a lot about all of us, especially the younger of us. I see how much you enjoy teaching us, teaching Jean and Charles about their powers. And the fact that what you did to Warren wasn't permanent, that Charles was easily able to reverse it, means that deep down, you know war isn't the only way."

Scott knew he's probably stepped over some line, but couldn't help but go on.

"You should consider it, you know. Staying here to teach... I'd... we'd really like it if you chose to stay."

And for the first time in too many years, before Shaw, before Hellfire, before the devastating rejection by a human, her first love, Emma Frost's eyes softened and a genuine, albeit melancholic smile brightened her face.

"Perhaps in another lifetime, sugar. A life where we teach alongside each other at this very school. Where we can be equals outside of this estate... But that's all a dream for another lifetime..."

The incident with Warren had everyone further on edge, and so everyone had attributed Charles' withdrawal and quiet demeanor to the events of the past two weeks. Raven, the only person who might have realised something deeper was wrong, was too wrapped up within her guilt and turmoil, she had completely forgotten the significance of Charles regaining the memories of his fifteenth year.

Charles liked to think that his mother died of a broken heart rather than the official cause of alcohol poisoning and liver failure. Kurt had promised her so much, and in the beginning, he had tried to give her everything he could. But the lure of money, power and prestige changed him, as it did Charles' own father.

In many ways, Sharon's death had freed Charles. And that is what haunts Charles currently; remembering how he could finally breathe with ease because he no longer had to worry about his mother's health or sanity. He remembers wanting to hate her, for not being the mother he desperately needed, for not shielding him from his own father's experiments, for letting the Marko's in, for being so easily bent by the self-absorbed society she was bred into.

He doesn't know whether it will ever stop hurting that his earliest memory is of her letting down her hair, kicking off her shoes and twirling freely in the sun drenched garden with him held tightly within her embrace.

It has been a little over a week since Charles was told the whole truth of his condition. It was also the last time since the now fifteen year old has spoken to Erik. The avoidance came from both sides, and even though Charles couldn't help but miss Erik and feel a pang within him from the deliberate silence, he understood the older man was allowing him the space he needs to come to grips with the revelation. Charles was perhaps never going to be ready to confront Erik fully. To have the man explain the choices he made that day on that beach.

However, with the heavy tension seeping throughout the mansion, and after what happened between Warren and Moira, the young telepath knew he could no longer put off their conversation.

The young man vehemently ignores the thought that this should be called a confrontation instead.

Charles finds Erik in the library, staring at the worn, but well cared for chess set. Erik looks up at him with a blank face. Well, not quite blank, because Charles knew Erik well enough to see the buried fragility, and the hidden guilt. The man sat in what has been wordlessly agreed between the two of them as his seat across the chess set. The telepath takes his seat opposite and sets up the board, hands nimble and graceful, clear evidence of the younger man's familiarity with the pieces. Still with no words exchanged, their game begins, with all their concentration and unspoken tension directed into the game.

By now, both knew each other's approach to the game. While Charles liked to think of himself as a larger-picture strategist, he knew his weakness was in fussing over the possible loss of every piece, the need to save rather than sacrifice. Very much the opposite of the man before him.

The telepath can't help but ponder whether Erik's thoughts are organized in a long series of tactical moves, much like the man's approach to each game.

"It's true. I did see you and everyone else as a means to an end."

And as if Erik were the telepath in the room, their silence was finally broken when he spoke to answer the question Charles was too afraid to ask.

"For so much of my life, it was all I knew. To use people to get to Shaw. To trust no one. To keep people out. To be alone."

The older man paused and inhaled a deep breath.

"I used you Charles. And I wasn't… I'm not sorry about it. I did what I had to do, what I have to do still.

"I… I don't believe you. You wouldn't do that to me. We've- I- I know you care about me, you wouldn't use me or hurt me like that."

"Then you don't know me very well at all."

The cold blankness, and brutal honesty in Erik's eyes rips at Charles' very core, and the boy simply can't fathom this abrupt 180 change coming from the man opposite him.

"But.. but I do know you. This can't have all been a lie, some elaborate way to hurt me further… I-I'm not some mere pawn."

The young telepath's hand closed tightly around a single chess piece.

"...am I?

In a few swift movements, Erik is kneeling down beside him so that they can be eye to eye. Charles' empty hand was trembling as Erik gently holds it in his and places it to the side of his temple.

"Look. And see that none of this was a lie."

Charles lets his eyes slide shut. He sees what has Erik lost, what he had endured, what he had to overcome, what there is still to overcome... And what more he is willing to sacrifice.

By the time Erik regains full consciousness again, their foreheads are touching, and the elder's voice continues, though with a raw tenderness.

"Nothing has truly changed, we're still the same people, with the same ideals. I am sorry that you were hurt... but this is bigger than the two of us. It's bigger than all of us."

"...but everything has already changed…"

Charles manages to keep his voice unbroken, forces his body to not tremble at Erik's conflicted thoughts on leaving the mansion once Charles has 'recovered'. He looks directly into Erik's light hazel eyes with hope and desperation.

"Please don't leave us."

...was what Charles voiced out, but his mind held a truer wish.

Don't leave me.

It was heading into the second week of Logan's search for Victor Creed. Two weeks since he had asked Azazel to zap him to the vicinity of that man's last known location. Two weeks since he'd slept on a proper bed. Two weeks since he's snarled at and pretended not to be fond of a certain bunch of rambunctious teens.

He would deny it till the end of days, but every time Logan thinks about how a fiery-haired, barely ten year old girl had domesticated him (just that little bit) it would bring the slightest of smiles to his face. It was never going to be anytime soon that he locked away his oversized rucksack which contained practically all that he currently owned, but he had begun to leave items in his room at the mansion. Little things at first, like dirty laundry he tells himself he'd pick up the next time round, or bits and bobs he'd picked up here and there without much thought. He still doesn't know how to feel about his acknowledgment that he actually has a room in the mansion to go back to.

Logan will probably never be able to admit, even to himself, that it felt good to have a place to return to other than his rusty old truck. The mansion wasn't his home, he doesn't do homes, not anymore. But the burly man can't help but anticipate his every return to the welcoming fragrance of the blooming flowers cared for by Ororo, the equal parts challenging and awed interactions on Scott's end, the quick smile and quicker wit from Charles…

And of course one tiny little girl that had him twisted around her little pinky finger.

That being said, the girl's maturity was probably of an age older than Logan's, if he only knew what his real age was.

However, each time he allows himself the feeling of contentedness, his mind flashes back to a scene overflowing with blood and ripped flesh, and Logan knows his reality.

That things can never be content when Creed is still out there alive.

~x~

On the third consecutive night of sleeping in his truck, since he'd run out of money to afford a room, Logan had given in, and started his long journey back in the direction of Westchester. He had been driving nonstop for hours, before finally yielding to his growling stomach. The rain had been relentless the whole day, making distance scent tracking impossible, so Logan finds himself killing time in a back alley cardroom after a quick greasy meal.

Within a few games, Logan has more than enough cash to rent a decent room for the night, but the high of winning has him glued to his seat, and focused on nothing else but the cards. The heady smell of tobacco within the confined space was so thick, it was a wonder that Logan's ultra-sensitive nose was able to pick up a slither of the scent that nearly triggers his claws to rip out from his knuckles. Logan slowly took an even more detailed stock of his surroundings, his senses narrowing in on a man playing at one of the partially filled tables in the high stakes corner. If he was able to pick up the scent in such an environment, it could only mean the man has had prolonged and close proximity to Creed.

Even with the man's back towards him, Logan could tell man used his charms as a weapon. His posture was relaxed, almost invitingly and playfully so, and if the way the female croupier blushes and smiles at his every word was any indication, the man's winning streak comes from more than just luck.

Logan makes his way over and sits down in one of the empty seats, furthest away from the man so that he could get a better look at his face, only to have it obstructed with a pair of red-lensed aviators. Logan immediately comes up with several plans of attack and offence to deal with possible optical blast powers like Scott's. Along with the eyewear, everything else about the younger man oozed effortless charm, but none of it fully hides his youth.

"Ain't ya a little young to be gambling?"

The man takes a moment to give Logan a once over, one end of his mouth slowly lifting up.

"I'm legal, in all the ways tha' counts, mon cher."

Even with the obscuring glasses, Logan could tell there was a wink that came with the sly smirk. He had a thick Cajun accent that only amplified his charm, his body indicated no ounce of awkwardness or alarm. It left Logan at a momentary loss. He couldn't tell whether the younger man was here on his own, their meeting of pure coincidence, or that this was the most elaborate and genius set up he'd had the misfortune to step into.

"Ain't ya' lil' poor for dis table, cheri?"

A knot starts to form in the pit of Logan's gut, and he can't decide whether it's from dread or excitement. He reaches into the covered breast pocket of his well worn leather jacket for his half finished cigar, makes a show of lighting it up and inhaling, before throwing down the minimum bet $50 chip.

"Your move, bub."

"-if anything else, we need you to be honest with yourself."

Erik ordered a cup of double espresso and a bread platter without taking his eyes off of Charles, who was still looking through the menu, chewing at his lips in consideration, yet there was such a polished, charming aura about the younger man, the waitress seemed only too happy to answer Charles' questions about what is recommended.

"You need to decide what is more important to you."

They were sat at an intimately sized table for two, in a cafe less than ten minutes drive from the mansion, the least pretentious cafe along this stretch of prime real estate. It was the first time they had been out of the mansion alone since Charles was told the truth of his condition.

The young man was obviously tense, his body language a mix of anxiety and excitement. Erik had no doubt if he tapped into his powers, he would be able to feel the faster blood flow within the telepath.

"If it's him, then you need to stop stringing the rest of us along. You have potential to be a great leader, but you have one blaring weakness right now."

And isn't that just ironic? How long had Erik fought to be rid of any weaknesses of the heart? How much loss has he suffered to ingrain Shaw's lesson into him?

But sitting across this small square table was someone who is proving to be every contradiction in Erik's life.

"If it's us, then you need to be prepared to-"

Prepared to do what, Erik didn't need Emma to tell him. He's had increasingly sleepless nights going over and over in his head about whether he should, and if so how he will change the 'past'. It's not everyday one gets a second chance to alter destiny. To write a new path for another life. Another mutant's life.

A life so trusting of him, he would probably let Erik alter his fate, even though he knew what betrayal Erik had inflicted.

"Whether we continue to work together is now up to you. But I want an answer by the end of the week."

Emma's words from a few nights back haunts him endlessly. The others of the Brotherhood, a name which the non-mutant media have called them which had somehow stuck, have also been throwing questioning glances at him, unsure whether they should still see him as their leader. There was no more putting this off then.

Erik holds his breath for a full minute. Then makes up his mind.

"Charles, I-"

"M-Max? I-is that truly you? Max Eisenhardt?"

Erik felt his blood freeze. Nobody alive today knows this name. His real name. A name that died when he felt the last shreds of his humanity ripped from him all those years ago. Erik's vision narrowed in on the female figure approaching their table. Her body was too thin, skin veering on sallow, her auburn curls dull and tied tightly in a bun. But even those dark bags haunting her blue eyes could not disguise them from him.

"Magda?"

~x~

Charles watched in stunned silence, bewildered eyes flitting between Erik and this woman who has brought upon Erik's face an expression Charles had never seen on him before. He wanted to ask straightaway who she was, revert to his tried and tested charms to access the information he craves, needs. However, dread traps his voice in his throat. A dread that pulls around his neck, suffocating him as he felt himself blur into background.