It had been weeks since anyone had seen hide or tail of Erik.
Charles was getting worried.
Normally, this was his favourite time of year- the normally-empty estate came to life, buzzing with people and light, the entire house smelling of roasted meats and baked desserts, many of which would then find it's way into Charles' mouth.
Not that he stole. He simply... found a new purpose for those items that the humans were no longer using.
After all, if he intended to claim ownership of a piece of meat, he would hardly set it down on a flimsy, greasy bit of paper and levae it on the table, now would he?
It was clearly meant as trash, which meant his , er, 'prizes', were perfectly ethical, thank you very much.
In years past, his greatest concern at Christmas had been The Children. He never understood how, for 99 percent of the year, the massive estate was practically empty save for Mrs Marko and the servants, and then suddenly seemed to explode with children. Was she keeping them in the closets?
Perhaps she just had too many 'friends' like Erik, prepared to take utter advantage of her good nature and naturally kind heart. Charles sniffed disapprovingly.
He stretched, and began to prowl the perimeter of the wide, dark space that was their home, beneath one of the numerous carved tables found in the East Wing. It was warm, and dark, and quiet; more importantly, it was almost never used.
Originally, when it had been just Raven and he, they had stayed in Charles' rooms- but now they numbered nearly 20, and that would have been a touch conspicuous.
He did a head count. Jean, Bobby, John, Kitty, and Scott were sleeping, as all reasonable kittens should be at this hour of the afternoon. Raven and Hank were... wrestling. My, they did enjoy wrestling, didn't they? Charles has never seen the attraction, himself.
Pietro was attempting to scale the curtains, and had been for the last half an hour. He would dart at them, jump, and climb as fast as he could- only for the fabric to give way beneath his scrambling claws.
At Charles' count, this is the sixteenth time he has landed in a puff of white fur on the oriental rug.
Kittens these days, honestly. They had no respect for other people's property.
Rogue sat in the corner looking sad. She was very good at that.
Wanda was in the other corner with Lorna, the two swaying to an imaginary chant and frantically waving their paws in a synchronised motion. Charles... didn't want to know, really.
Warren was attempting to fly. Again.
Charles didn't know who had told him about flying squirrels (though he suspects Hank), but Charles intends to personally ensure that they never do so again. He winces as another priceless china ornament shatters on the ground.
Jubilee was- no, Charles, look away, look away, that is not a strand of Christmas lights in her mouth, that is a ... lollipop. Yes, a lollipop. One of the children must have dropped it.
David was chasing imaginary butterflies. At least that was slightly less destructive than his actions yesterday, which had involved hunting imaginary... supervillains?
You killed my father! he had squealed, claws and teeth bared. You must pay for your sins!
And with that, he had lunged at the air, running into Charles mid-lunge and nearly taking his eye out.
Charles winced. There were still a few flecks of blood on his otherwise pristine fur from that... event.
Well, it could have been worse, he supposes. The world could have descended into an Apocalypse the likes of which it had never seen before.
Wade was stalking something. Which was not, in itself, unusual. Of course, in this case it was a banana, but, again, that was not so out of the range of normal behaviour, for him.
Charles sighed. The kittens were all safe and accounted for, yes, but... where was Erik? It hurt Charles to the depths of his heart to think of someone being alone for Christmas, with naught but his mad quest for revenge to keep him company. His family was all with Charles, after all.
Alone at Christmas. It just wasn't right.
Oh, I wouldn't worry, Wade said, having apparently stalked the banana into submission, He's Jewish.
I beg your pardon? Charles sniffed.
Erik. The revenge obsessed absentee father tragic hero you're mooning over? He's Jewish.
He's a cat, Charles pointed out. How does that even work?
I'd say ask the author, but she has no idea either. The point is, it's very important. If you like this guy, you need to respect such a fundamental part of his Tragic Back Story?
His tragedy is being Jewish? Surely that's a bit prejudiced of you.
No, it's.. You know what, just.. read the comic. It's all explained. Or watch the films.
Charles sighed. Talking to Wade occasionally felt like talking to a piece of sentient tuna fish.
I do... miss him. I worry about him.
Don't worry, I'm sure you'll be seeing him very soon- after all, this is a story about kittens at Christmas time- it's hardly going to end in tragedy.
Charles opens his mouth to reply, but is interrupted by the sounds of paws on the front stoop.
Running as fast as his paws could carry him, he went to investigate. What he saw shouldn't have surprised him, but it did.
Erik? he began to call as he raced around the corner. Erik, is that you-
He stopped, speechless at the sight before him.
Erik was there, looking a good deal thinner and more ragged than when he had last seen him, but with a glint of satisfaction in his eyes.
He was surrounded by kittens of all shapes, sizes, and colours.
Charles gaped.
Well, I could hardly leave them, could I? Erik said with a smile. They call themselves the Brotherhood. I said they could come home with me.
Erik! You- Wait. Did you just say home?
Erik began to purr. I won, Charles. My quest is over.
You bit Shaw on the nose?
Erik's eyes gleamed. Yes, and he needed two stitches. His face turned soft, wistful. Will you still have me, with such blood on my paws?
Oh, Erik, Charles said, You are always welcome here, my friend. You and these kittens.
Erik's purr rumbled louder, like the engine of a motor car. Charles joined him.
You're here for good, then? No more mad quests for vengeance?
Erik nodded, and rubbed up against Charles, infusing him with his musky, outdoorsy scent.
Merry Christmas, Charles.
Merry Christmas, Erik, Charles replied, his smile so wide his whiskers were tickling his lips.
I'm Jewish, Erik pointed out.
You're a cat. How does that even work?
Erik shrugged.
Happy Hanukkah, then? Charles suggested.
He turned to the kittens.
Welcome, everyone. My name is Charles Xavier, and this is a home for kittens who haven't one. You will share this home with many others like you. I expect you to respect them and yourselves, and to avoid the humans at all costs. Do you understand?
There was murmur of affirmative meows.
Good. Welcome home, everyone, and happy holidays.
He smiled, and led them through the house, head held high, with Erik at his side.
This was his favourite time of year, after all.