Chapters:

Chapter 1

The CIA catches up with them Sunday night. It's Moira's partner at the door, and Charles almost doesn't notice because he's more interested in watching Erik wash the dishes. So much for school security, he thinks.

In his defense, the way Erik juggles cutlery in soapy water is very entertaining.

"Do you have any idea how calm your mind gets when you do that?" Charles asks, fascinated by the alignment of errant thoughts.

"Some," Erik says, clearly amused. Two spoons dart under the running tap, twisting as they go to expose every side to water before settling into the drainer. "This may come as a surprise to you, but I do live in my head."

"Yes, of course, I didn't mean to imply--" But Erik doesn't mind, and the knives and forks make a complicated pattern over the sink. "It's just that it feels instantaneous. I can't even tell which comes first... the calm, or the action."

"You taught me well," Erik says. There's a ripple in the calm, and those words mean something to him. Something bittersweet.

Charles doesn't dare ask. He's afraid to look further, not sure he wants to know even if Erik would willingly share. And he might not. Charles doesn't want to know that either.

"I wish," he says, the words out before he can check them. He stops too late.

"What?" Erik asks, when he doesn't continue.

"Never mind," he says. "It's... it's inappropriate. Insensitive. I shouldn't have said anything."

"You haven't said anything yet," Erik says. The calm remains, knives dancing idly through clean water. They settle, sharp side down, in a way that Erik means to be unthreatening. "Let me decide whether I want to hear it or not."

"It's not about your agency," Charles says with a rueful smile. "It's about whether or not I want you to think poorly of me for putting my foot in my mouth."

"What could you say," Erik remarks, "that would change anything between us now?" He turns away from the sink, looking at Charles to make sure he recognizes it. "I know how you speak, Charles."

Definitely not a compliment, Charles thinks. True enough, though. He's surely no worse now than he was a decade ago.

"I wish I could have seen your mind when you were yelling at me on the plane," he says honestly. "That was involuntary, yes? When you were angry?"

The forks rattle into the drainer as the water shuts off. "Yes," Erik says evenly. The calm in his mind burns, going up like so much steam even as he tries to think of it without reliving it.

He can't. It's always been Erik's weakness, that he feels so strongly he can't separate one moment from another. He's forged it into a strength, a passion that fuels him when he's alone and hopeless.

Charles wonders, not for the first time, what Erik remembered while he was imprisoned that was enough to get him through.

Charles, Hank thinks. It's loud and worried and more a concentrated burst of warning than a word-shaped message. Charles reaches out the way one turns toward a flash of movement.

Greg Levene is at the front door. Moira's former partner has a second agent with him, one James Cury, whom Charles has never met. They've come to warn, to threaten, to appeal to what they perceive as Charles' isolation.

If only they knew, Charles thinks wryly, as Logan picks up the agents outside and sends the same determined warning as Hank. Neither of them has been seen yet. Charles has seconds to decide, and he's sorry to invade their privacy but they aren't ready.

He didn't want to frighten anyone by planning for it where they could hear, and now none of them are ready. Has he learned nothing from Erik?

"What is it?" Erik asks, just as he reaches out for everyone they've taken in this past week.

Please stay calm, Charles thinks. We have visitors from the CIA at our door. I'm going to let them in this once. They'll go no farther than the study. I would appreciate it if you could stay out of sight until I tell you they're gone.

Moira and Sean are the most alarmed. Including you, Moira, he tells her. Only her. She can convince Sean or not, but he expects that anything he says will urge Sean to the opposite course.

"I'm going with you," Erik says, moving to follow as Charles rolls out of the kitchen.

Charles has to laugh at that. "You most certainly are not," he says over his shoulder. "You're dead. Stay that way, please."

"I won't hide like one of your children," Erik says, but the voice is still behind him and Charles knows he's stopped.

Charles catches his inside wheel and turns. "I know," he says, as sincerely as he can. "I know, Erik. I've bungled this, but I wasn't sure what they'd do. Give me this time and then we'll make a plan. Both of us. Together."

He knows what he's asking. He's asking for Erik's trust, for Erik to give up control and let Charles wing this. Alone.

Even at their best, it's the sort of gamble that only worked three times out of four. They're not either of them at their best, and he has no reason to believe the CIA cares what he thinks. But they’re here, so clearly he has something they want.

Erik nods slowly. Charles thinks his confidence will have to be enough for both of them.

Hank is waiting for him at the front door. "Do you want me to--" he begins, and Charles doesn't wait for him to finish.

"Not you, obviously," he says. "What would I do without you? Did you teach Logan to do that, by the way?"

He mimes knocking on his temple, but Hank just looks confused, so he shakes his head. "Never mind."

There's an actual knock on the door, then, and likely not the first. Charles nods at Hank, who opens the door for him with a straight face. The gazes on the other side go to Hank, despite the fact that at least one of them should know to look down.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Charles says. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Dr. Xavier." Moira's partner, at least, accepts the redirect. "I'm afraid we're here on business. This is my associate, Agent Cury."

"Charles Xavier," he replies, offering a pleasant nod to someone who can't decide where to look. "And my associate. Hank McCoy."

He doesn't smile, but they know they're being mocked. Hank doesn't move. He gets a nod from Levene anyway, so at least that bridge isn't burned. Yet.

"Won't you come in?" Charles asks. Their surprise is worth it--and it should be, because they won't get this chance again. He even offers them a drink, once they reach the study, and he feels twin flares of amusement and consternation from Levene and Cury.

They turn it down, of course, so he lifts the bottle in Hank's direction. Hank waves it off with an ill-concealed smile. At least he's entertaining someone other than himself.

"Agent MacTaggert disappeared from protective custody two days ago," Levene says as Charles pours a single glass. He leads with it because it's least important, which means they're going to ask about Erik as well. "We're hoping you can offer some insight into her whereabouts."

He expects Charles to ask why, so Charles just says, "Two days ago I picked her up from an airfield outside of West Springfield. She asked for safe passage and no questions, neither of which I had any reason not to grant."

Levene and Cury look at each other. More interesting is the fact that Cury believes him. If it's only Moira's partner--former partner--he has to convince, this part might not go so badly.

"You picked her up," Levene says flatly. "And took her where?"

"Here, of course," Charles says. The local towers have a record of their flight plan; Levene wouldn't have come before he had it too. "It was quite late, and no one likes to sleep on a plane. She spent the night and left the next day."

"Left for where?" Cury asks. They already know, but Charles is familiar with this game. It's almost as though they've never questioned a telepath before.

"Virginia, I believe. She borrowed a car to get her as far as the airport. I was under the impression she was headed home."

"She's been and gone," Levene tells him. "Booked a flight back last night."

"Did she?" Charles asks innocently. They weren't tapping her home phone, then. "Did she take the car, do you know? Hank hasn't had time to pick it up, but perhaps there's no need."

"You're saying she didn't come back here." Levene sounds more skeptical than he feels. He knows about Moira's feelings for Charles, and right now Charles can't tell if that's working for or against him.

"I haven't seen or heard from her since yesterday," Charles says truthfully. "I could call the airport to inquire after the car, but I think you'll have more luck there than I will."

"She was traveling with someone," Cury interjects. "Any idea who?"

"I expect the same gentleman who relayed her original request for assistance," Charles says. "He stayed overnight as well, and departed with her the next day. She didn't introduce him."

"How did he have your contact information?" Levene asks suspiciously.

Charles raises his eyebrows. "I wouldn't know. I could speculate that she gave it to him, of course."

"And how did she have it?" Levene demands. "She lost everything between Division X and Cuba to the head trauma from the crash. It never came back."

Charles looks at him kindly. "Yet you managed to find me," he says. "Checked a phone book, did you?"

"Look," Hank interrupts. He hides his amusement well, doing an excellent impression of someone who doesn't want Charles to get himself in trouble. "You obviously know more than we do at this point. Is there anything else?"

"Just one thing," Levene says. "What were you doing at the Pentagon on the 26th?"

Charles smiles, lifting his glass to Levene in a silent toast. "Preventing the escape of Erik Lehnsherr. As it happens."

Both agents stare at him.

"Some information came to me," Charles says, as if taking pity on them. "I was... reliably informed, that some very well-trained mutants had set their sights on Magneto. So I went to Washington to stop them."

"Capable job you did," Levene says dryly. "As always."

"There were some setbacks," Charles admits. He and Levene were never friends, but the judgment still stings. Not for the reasons Levene thinks; he just can't help questioning his own motives.

If it had been anybody but Erik, would he have given Logan's plan a second thought?

"If you had intelligence on Magneto, why didn't you share it?" Cury wants to know.

"Oh, and how's my credibility with the government these days, hm? With the CIA?" He looks pointedly at Levene. "With you? What would you have done, exactly?"

"What did you do?" Levene counters. "Erik Lehnsherr escaped. Witnesses put you with him, in Washington and again in Paris a day later. You were recorded live at the White House with him last week."

Charles doesn't bother to suppress an incredulous laugh. "Yes, you're welcome for that! I kept that scene from being a massacre, thanks very much!"

"You're saying you kept him from doing worse," Levene says.

"I bloody well did!" Charles exclaims.

"Tell us about the other mutants," Cury says. "The ones who broke Magneto out." It's clearly meant to be a calming voice, and that's brilliant. If it's just him against Levene, he's already won.

Levene's never forgiven him for not wanting Moira enough. He should be delighted to have a legitimate reason to spread Charles' failings around the agency.

"No," Charles says.

Even Hank looks at him in surprise.

"He's dead," Charles tells them. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"He's dead," Levene agrees. "They're not." The way he says it makes it sound like, You're not.

"He died an assassin of the president," Charles says. He can feel Hank's uncertainty and Levene's anger. Cury's just surprised, now. "Convicted in secret as a traitor to his country."

He takes a drink--his first, not that anyone's counting--and glances over at the chess set. "Erik was many things," he tells it. "I'll grant you that. But a traitor to his country?” He looks back at Levene. “He was not."

“He’s dead,” Levene says again. “He left you for dead. You and Moira and Hank, all of you. What do you care how he died?”

“He was my friend,” Charles says. “He was my--” He hesitates just long enough that he might have swallowed, his voice might have broken, they don’t know. “He was my very dear friend, Greg. You know that. Whatever he’s done since, I still care how he’s remembered.”

Levene looks away, but he’s not immune. “He was convicted.”

“In secret,” Charles insists. “By a jury that didn’t even believe in mutants before they walked through the door. For all they knew they were witnessing magic. Of course they convicted him.”

Levene doesn’t answer.

“Wait, what are you saying?” Cury asks, looking from Levene to Charles. “You don’t think Magneto did it?”

“I know he didn’t do it,” Charles says. He taps his temple when Cury frowns. “No one can lie to me, Agent Cury.”

Levene gives him a sideways look, and he’s putting it together. Charles either brought a team to break Erik out, or he joined the team that was there to do it. Either way, he knows who’s responsible. Charles may or may not be willing to implicate himself… but if he talks, he could at least clear the rest of Division X.

They’re trying to make Moira an accomplice to Erik’s escape, and that’s one thing Levene won’t allow. He doesn’t care about Erik. He cares little about Charles. But he’ll go to great lengths for his partner, and now he understands that the price of her good name will be Erik’s.

“We can’t overturn a court decision,” Levene says. Which is ridiculous, Charles thinks, courts overturn other courts’ decisions all the time. But that’s hardly the point. He doesn’t want Erik re-tried.

He looks at Levene until Levene looks back. “Anyone can be pardoned,” Charles tells him.

Levene makes a disbelieving sound. “Magneto’s guilty in the eyes of the public, the government, and the law,” he says. “Even mentioning a pardon would be political suicide.”

Charles shrugs. “I realize it’s a lot to ask,” he says. “Fortunately, I’ve no burning desire to give what you want either, so I suppose we’ve reached an impasse.”

“You’ll be subject to a criminal investigation,” Levene warns. Threatens. It’s a half-hearted attempt at best, and they both know it.

Charles smiles. “Not by the CIA,” he points out. “This is entirely a domestic matter. Shall I expect a visit from the FBI next?”

Without camera footage, there’s only a single domestic witness to say Charles wasn’t doing exactly what he claims: trying to stop Magneto, hinder his escape, and counter his demonstrations of force. There’s more overseas, of course, but trying to track them through the chaos of the Peace Accords? That actually is the CIA’s jurisdiction, and Charles has seen firsthand their reluctance to cooperate with the FBI.

He waits until Hank has shown them out to finish his drink. He wants to pour another, but he wants to see them leave more, so he rolls out into the foyer and watches the door close behind them. He catches Hank’s eye.

“I’ve been thinking,” Hank says, quietly enough that it won’t carry through the heavy doors. “Maybe we should have some kind of surveillance system. For when we can’t watch every door.”

“How right you are.” Charles would toast him, too, except he left his glass in the study. “Let’s not let them in again, shall we?”

Hank gives him a half-smile. “Did you just promise to tell them how you got Erik out if they clear him of the reason he was being held in the first place?”

“Did I?” Charles pretends to think about it. He can feel the agents moving away more quickly now--they must have driven their car right up to the front door. “Um, no. No, I don’t recall promising them anything.”

“Uh-huh,” Hank says. “Also, we should really start locking the gate again.”

“Mm.” Charles touches his temple, smiling at Hank in a way that doesn’t convince him at all. Our government visitors have gone. They left nothing behind, left with nothing, and won’t be allowed back inside the house. Thank you for your cooperation.

He should probably apologize for breaking into everyone’s brains like that, but it could have been an emergency. They’ll have to come up with some kind of contingency for that. A contingency for evading visits from the law… Erik really has been a poor influence.

I resent that, Erik replies.

Charles blinks. He glances around the foyer, but Erik’s nowhere to be seen. He is, according to his unreasonably clear mental processes, still in the kitchen where Charles left him. And yet.

Excuse me? Charles thinks curiously. Why are you in my head?

I think that’s my line. Erik sounds decidedly amused now, and Charles has no idea what’s going on. Why are you confused? Is everyone hearing this?

“No one should be hearing this,” Charles mumbles.

“Charles?” Hank is next to him, one hand hovering over his shoulder. Not quite touching. “Are you--do you need any help?”

“No,” Charles says slowly, frowning up at him. “I don’t think so. Do I?”

Can you hear me? he adds, for good measure.

Hank nods, lowering his hand. “Yeah,” he says. “I hear you.”

Can you hear Erik? Charles asks.

Hank frowns at him. “Why would I be able to hear Erik?”

“Charles?” Erik’s voice comes from across the foyer, audible and real in the physical space. “Problem?”

“Hey, what’s going on?” Alex calls from the balcony. “Why was the CIA here? Is this Sean’s fault? ‘Cause I have a bucket of water that says we blame him anyway.”

“Okay, I’m literally the only person in this house who hasn’t done anything.” Sean is standing on the other side of the stairs, within easy reach of cover if Alex should decide to attack.

“Nah,” Alex says, idly watching Erik cross to the front door. “Darwin’s innocent too. Plus the kids; we gotta count them.”

“Well, that makes me feel better.” Peter appears in the middle of the foyer, alone, just as Moira emerges. “I’d hate to have the CIA after me for something else. Or was it the FBI? No, that was mall security at the Smithsonian. Never mind; false alarm.”

“Are you with us?” Erik asks, voice low as his hand lands on Charles’ shoulder. Without asking, without reason, his focus overwhelms everything and Erik’s quiet space empties the foyer of anyone but the two of them.

“I’m fine,” Charles says with a sigh. He’s not, but this is an overreaction. He can’t dislike it: the space feels warm and comforting, welcoming in a way the real house isn’t. Still. They’re frozen in front of everyone, likely staring at each other, and there’s no need. “Thank you, Erik, but this isn’t necessary.”

Erik gives him an odd look. “I thought this was you.”

“What--” Charles glances around, fingers clenching on his armrests as he resists the temptation to stand. “This?”

“This,” Erik agrees. His free hand gestures widely at… everything. “Your quiet. I didn’t do this. It just happened when I touched you.”

Charles reaches up, very carefully, and removes Erik’s hand from his shoulder. Erik looks down, fingers lingering on his even as they let go. It feels like--

“They do this often?” Logan’s gruff voice is asking.

“Yeah, kind of,” Hank answers. “The professor’s mind is kind of… untethered, sometimes. Like he needs someone to pull him back, to focus on the here and now. He used to do it automatically. I think it’s harder now; he’s--he’s out of practice.”

“Uh-huh.” Logan is eyeing them when Charles’ gaze tracks to him, wondering when he walked in. “Looks pretty aware to me.”

“I am,” Charles says. “I’m fine, thank you. And thank you for the warning, Logan. With the--when they arrived.”

“You got that, huh?” Logan’s gaze slides from him to Erik and back again. “You okay with it? Me just thinking at you like that?”

Charles blinks. No one’s ever asked him that before. “Of course,” he says. “I mean--if you’re okay with me… thinking back at you?”

Logan shrugs. “Fair’s fair,” he rumbles. “Sure gets the point across.”

“It does, doesn’t it.” Charles reaches out to grasp Erik’s elbow without thinking, but nothing untoward happens. “Nonetheless, we’ll need a better system in the event of emergencies. Something more reliable.”

“How about we not have emergencies?” It’s Magda’s voice, coming from the nearest classroom hallway. Wanda trails behind her like a ghost. “Is that an option?”

“I’m afraid not,” Charles says. “Are you all right?”

“Jury’s out,” she replies.

“Hello,” Moira complains. She’s close enough now to wave her hand in his face and have it be annoying. “My partner? What the hell happened?”

“Ah,” Charles says. “No swearing. Sorry. School rule.”

“Fuck you,” Moira says, but she smiles so he thinks it was worth it. “Tell me what happened.”

“They want to know where you are,” Charles tells her. “They’d also like to know how Erik escaped. I’m afraid they went away disappointed on both counts.”

“Okay, what?” Darwin’s voice echoes from the landing, but evidence suggests he’s reacting to something Alex said. Eva’s clutching his shirt in one hand and a stuffed animal in the other. Scott’s there too, red sunglasses with his pajamas and bedhead, and Charles wonders if he sleeps with the glasses on.

Peter is with them in a heartbeat, bored with the adult drama on the first floor. “Hey, do you sleep with those glasses? Does your skin glow in the dark? Was your mom’s skin purple, because Alex’s power is red but neither of my parents are fast, so I don’t really get what the connection is.”

“Let me get this straight,” Moira says, sadly distracting him from what is clearly the more interesting conversation. “Two agents showed up, questioned you about your--let me emphasize--obviously illegal activities, and you sent them on their way with nothing?”

“Well,” Hank says. “He did offer them a drink first.”

The door creaks, and Charles remarks absently, “Hello, Warren.”

He realizes what it means just as Warren slinks around the door, windbreaker on backwards and zipped halfway up his back--just below his wings. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is a mess, and he looks happy and miserable at the same time. “Were you flying?” Charles blurts out. “At night?”

“Yes sir,” Warren mumbles. “No one saw.”

“I’m more interested in how you saw,” Charles says. “Did you have trouble finding your way back? There’s not much out here in the way of light.”

“No sir,” Warren says, daring a glance at him. “It makes the school stand out.” There’s the briefest hesitation, and then he adds, “I turned on lights in some of the empty rooms. So I’d know which way I was going.”

“Brilliant,” Charles says. “We should get something on the roof; would that help? We’ll set up something temporary and you can test it, modify it until it works as a permanent installation.”

“Hey,” Sean calls from the second floor. “How come I didn’t get lights on the roof?”

It’s the first time Sean’s spoken directly to him since he arrived at the house. Charles tries not to grin as he shouts back, “You didn’t fly at night!”

“I would have if I’d had lights!” Sean complains.

“Do I need to take a number?” Moira demands.

Charles brightens. “Can we do that?”

“No,” Moira and Erik say at the same time.

They immediately glare at each other, and Charles shouldn’t laugh. He knows it will only get him in trouble. He does it anyway because he thinks that here and now, with all of them together? No trouble is insurmountable.

Chapter 2

It turns out that everyone wants to know why they had the CIA at their door.  Yet in all of Charles' old plans and recent half-formed speculation, he never factored in Erik's presence... let alone his intent for it to be permanent.

He isn't at a loss, but he won't be able to keep anything from Alex.  And by extension, it seems, Darwin.  Magda must have some idea what's going on, but it's probably irresponsible to allow the twins--or Warren, for that matter--to stay without full disclosure.  Disclosure he can't give without Erik's consent.

"Half an hour," Charles tells them. "We'll meet in the parlour in half an hour, and we'll talk about what the CIA wants and why I'm not going to give it to them."

"Who's invited?" Alex calls from the balcony.

It's probably a fair question, given that Charles is currently surrounded by Erik and Hank and Moira.  He raises his voice when he says, "Everyone.  Everyone is invited.  You all have a right to know if you're going to stay here."

"Charles," Erik says warningly.  Under his breath, at least, and Charles squeezes his elbow in reply.

"That's why I want to talk to you first," he murmurs.

"Am I invited?" Warren asks, hesitating at the edge of the group.  Logan is there too, but he doesn't look like he's worried about invitations.

"Of course," Charles says.  It's only afterwards that he realizes Warren is the sole minor without a guardian present.  By rights, Warren's father should be invited to this discussion.  "Half an hour will give you time to change, yes?  We'll see you in the parlour."

"The TV room," Erik adds, and Warren's expression clears.

"Must you Americanize everything?" Charles mutters, entirely in jest.

"You're a terrible New Yorker," Erik replies in kind.

"Yes, that's deliberate," Charles counters, but he has to smile.  Erik could--and has--fit in anywhere.  "My study, please."

He catches Hank's silent question and shakes his head, but Moira isn't so easily dismissed.  "I'm coming with you," she says.  She's determined enough to make him pause.

"Stay here," Erik tells her.

"Whatever you're going to tell them," Moira says, and it's very clear she's addressing Charles, "it's as much my story as it is his."

Charles glances around the foyer, where every last household resident or visitor still lingers.  Watching.  This is a responsibility he hadn't meant to resume, yet there's no one he can hand it off to.  He either accepts this, or they dissolve into distrust and anarchy.

He doesn't hate the idea of anarchy, some days.  Most days, lately.

"Come with us," he says abruptly.  He can't slip past them, but he can roll enough to make them get out of the way.  "Erik, Moira."

Erik isn't happy with him, but he doesn't say anything until they reach the study.  Charles does his best to head it off: "We can't do this," he tells them, the moment Erik closes the door.  "We can't divide along mutant-human lines.  Not again.  Not in this household."

"I don't have a problem with him being a mutant," Moira counters.  "I have a problem with him."

"Likewise," Erik retorts.  "And I have a problem with her being human.  We trusted them before, Charles, and look where it got us."

"Moira didn't abandon us on that beach," Charles says sharply.

"Moira's people would have obliterated the beach."  Erik's voice is cold and uncompromising.  "Humans tried to kill all of us."

"For which we will not try to kill all of them," Charles snaps.  "Your enemy is dead, Erik.  Please stop killing him again by proxy."

"My enemy is still out there," Erik growls.  "Our enemy is all around us.  That's why this place, this school, must remain inviolate."

"And what of Magda?" Charles demands.  "Would you cast her out simply for being born with the wrong DNA?"

Erik stares at him, and it isn't because the question is unfathomable.  It's because the answer is chillingly obvious.  "There's no reason for her to be here," he says.

Charles closes his eyes.  "Her children need a safe haven," he says.  It's no easier to speak to Erik in darkness, but he has to try.  "Your children need a safe haven, though you're reluctant to acknowledge it.  Their mother is no different."

"Your school," Erik says, too flippantly.  "Your rules."

Charles opens his eyes.  Erik is still watching him, and he isn't convinced.  Of course he isn't, Erik won't abandon his views on mutant superiority for--well, anything, as far as Charles can tell.

"I said I would abide by them," Erik says.  "I'm only telling you the truth.  Not going back on my word."

"Your truth," Charles mutters, rubbing his eyes, "is hardly conducive to the spirit of trust and cooperation we'll need to see us through current events."

"There are promises I can't make," Erik says.  "I'll keep the ones I have."

Erik and Moira can't be at each other's throats, but it's very clear this is a challenge Charles will lose.  He has to let it go.  He has to let Erik's surrender, such as it is, be enough without pushing for more.

He's never been able to let anything about Erik go.

"If I hear that you've turned a single child against humanity with your hateful rhetoric," Charles says, "I will ask you to leave this house."

There's a moment of utter stillness.  The words are hard and horrible and he doesn't mean them.  He doesn't know what made him say it.  He thinks perhaps he's been possessed, that somehow the future is speaking through him and he wishes it desperately away.

"You think you can make an ultimatum every time you want something from me?" Erik asks, deceptively calm.  "An order and that's it?  It's done?"

He's truly asking, curious and infuriated at the same time.  Charles latches onto that with everything he has.  "No," he says.  "No, I didn't--please, forgive me.  I'm frustrated and afraid and I don't know how we're going to make this work."

Erik doesn't answer, but he's still listening.  That has to count for something.

"I got through that whole conversation with the CIA," Charles adds, "by some miracle, but I wish I hadn't if it meant I had something left over to keep me from saying the wrong thing to you.  Please, Erik.  I want you here."

There is a sad and self-loathing part of Erik that thinks Charles wants someone else entirely.  Someone who looks and speaks like him, perhaps, but thinks and acts far better.  The doubt is a part of himself Erik will never acknowledge.

"I said I would join you," Erik says evenly.  "I intend to stay as long as you'll have me."

Charles draws in a breath, and it feels like his first in several minutes.  "I will always have you," he murmurs.  He's conscious of Moira's presence, but he has little pride these days and fewer friends.  He'll not lose Erik to self-consciousness.

Erik's gaze goes to Moira as well before coming back.  "Then I'm always yours," he says.

Moira says nothing, because she's the sort of friend who will pretend to be invisible no matter how uncomfortable the conversation.  She doesn't regret following them into the study, Charles realizes.  She hasn't forgiven Erik, but she does see now.  She sees that Charles' blind devotion, however unwise, is at least returned.

It wasn't enough ten years ago.  It wasn't enough nine years ago, or three, or any time since Erik plucked those missiles out of the sky and turned them back on the ships that fired them.  If he's completely honest with himself, Charles doubts it will be enough now.

But he's tired of living without it, and it's here on his doorstep now.  He won't turn Erik away, not ever again.  No matter what the ghosts of the future say.

"I think they should know," Charles says quietly.  "About you.  Will you allow that?"

"What about me," Erik says.  It's barely a question, and he's going to say yes because Charles asked.

"That you were imprisoned for killing the president," Charles says.  "That you didn't do it.  That I broke you out, that the CIA suspects me because we used to work together, and Moira is a suspect now too because she... also worked with us."

"Yes, thank you for that," Moira mutters.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Erik says.  “They didn’t come after you before.  Why now?”

Erik means that he did plenty before the assassination.  And to be fair, they were all questioned about it.  Before they retreated back to New York, and in Moira’s case, long after.  But that isn’t what he’s asking.

“They recorded me at the Pentagon,” Charles says.  “They know I was there the day you got out; they quite correctly assume I had something to do with it.  They recorded Logan as well, and the guard in the elevator saw Peter, but they seem to be having more trouble identifying the others.  Hank somehow escaped notice altogether.”

“That’s why you keep saying you freed me,” Erik says slowly.  “Just you.”

“We wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without Peter,” Charles admits.  “But I think avoiding blame in this case is worth not receiving the credit, don’t you?  They know I was there.  We should keep to that.”

“And they took Moira…”  Erik frowns slightly.  “Because of her association with you?”

“I called him,” Moira says with a sigh.  “A week after the great escape.  It was stupid.  Sean told me not to; I should have listened.”

“You called Charles,” Erik says flatly.

She folds her arms and raises her eyebrows at him.  “I do that,” she says.

“Please,” Charles says with a sigh.  “Can we not--?”  He gestures between them helplessly, but his intent must be clear.

They each immediately think that the other started it.  The synchronicity would be funny if it wasn’t so bad for his head.  Neither of them says it out loud, but then, they both know they don’t have to.

“What are they going to do when you’re not here?” Moira asks.

“What?” he says, before his mind catches up.  The rest of the household, she means, when the next round of government agents comes to the door.  “They’ll get Hank.  He’s very good in a crisis.”

She gives him a very skeptical look.  "How often do you leave the house without Hank?"

"Often," he says defensively.  "Sometimes."  He thinks about it, then adds, "I went to Roanoke with Alex."

"While Hank came for me and Sean," Moira says.  "You have work to do, Charles.  It's fine.  I'm only asking how you plan to protect the school around the clock."

"That's why we're telling everyone," Charles says.  It's a weak answer at best, but he never wanted security.  He never wanted to need security.  "Alex and Darwin are capable, and if Logan stays, he can turn people away as well as anyone."

He rather thinks Magda has experience dealing with law enforcement as well, but he doesn't want to rile Erik again.

Moira does it for him.  "Peter's mother knows what she's doing too," she says.  "That's not my point."

"What is your point," Erik  says.  Not in a way that makes it sound like he's asking.

Moira gives him an irritated look.  "I think you should lock the gate," she tells Charles.  "This is private property in a very posh neighborhood.  If you can't get the police on your side in a town like this, you're not trying hard enough."

"What good are the police against Sentinels?" Erik demands.  "By all means, lock the gate.  Then let me fortify the boundary.  You want someone here who can turn people away?  I'm your man."

"We're not locking the gate," Charles says.  That was Hank's answer too, and he doesn't see how it helps anything.  "This was a school.  I have hope that it will be a school again.  We will not close out the people who need it most."

"Closing the door doesn't mean you can't open it for your friends," Moira says.

"Or whoever comes along," Erik mutters.  "At least put another obstacle between you and those who mean you harm."

"Don't you see, it's more symbolic than useful."  Charles frowns.  "I'm willing to talk about the boundary.  It can't be armed with anything that could turn on the children, but I'm not immune to the value of raw material in places where we can get at it."  It would be nice if Erik could practice large-scale control of his powers without tearing up every installation in a five-mile radius.

"Furthermore," he continues, "Hank mentioned installing a private surveillance system.  I've no idea how he'd do that, but he designed an invisible jet and rebuilt a telepathy-enhancing computer, so I rather doubt it's beyond him."

"You want to see them coming," Moira says.

"Can I put metal in the ground?" Erik asks bluntly.

"Yes," Charles says to both of them.  "There's no reason to close the door if we have the ability to toss people out as easily as we let them in."

Erik nods.  It's sharp and approving.  It would be less disconcerting if Moira didn't echo it a moment later.

"Okay," she says.  "What about Erik, then?  What if someone sees him?  He can't stay dead forever.  Not if he's staying at a school you're going to advertise."

Charles doesn't miss the implicit question.  "He is.  And we are.  I'm... working on that."

"You're working on it?"  Moira asks skeptically.  "How can you work on it?  He's an escaped felon.  He's dead.  And thanks to that stunt in Washington, right now he's one of the most recognizable men in the world."

He sighs.  "Yes, I'm aware of the obstacles.  Fortunately, I believe your partner is very dedicated to you.  And he delights in showing me up, which may yet prove useful."

"What did you do to Greg?" Moira demands.  "You didn't mess with his mind, did you?  You know he hates that."

"His stated goal in visiting was twofold," Charles says, ignoring the indirect accusation.  "One, to find out where you are, and two, to determine how Erik escaped.  His actual goal is more convenient: he wants to clear your name of suspicion."

"It reflects badly on him," Moira says with a grimace.  "That was unfair of me.  But it would have been worse if I'd stayed."

"Yes," Charles agrees.  "It would have.  Regardless, he wants me to testify that you were not involved in Erik's escape, and I want Erik pardoned.  I made the potential for exchange very clear to him."

They're both surprised by this.  Erik is more startled than Moira, which is typical.  Of course he doesn't expect justice.  He's never had it before.

"You know Greg can't make that happen," Moira says, as though the years spent walking might have addled his brain.  

"A fact which I expect him to enjoy proving," Charles says.  "If, in so doing, he leads me to someone who knows who might, I will consider it time well spent."

Moira raises her eyebrows, but she’s seen him turn the tide before.  She doesn’t argue, at least, and he doesn’t know if that’s flattering or frightening.  “And in the meantime?” she asks.  “You’re just going to tell people he’s innocent?”

“Erik did not kill the president,” Charles says firmly.  “He’s chosen to stay here.  If his presence affects other people in any way, they’ll have to make their own choices.”

“But you’re going to tell them,” Moira insists.

Charles looks at Erik.  He can’t remember whether Erik actually said yes or no, or if he just thought it.  “If that’s all right with you?”

Erik stares back at him.  “I spent months listening to the most foolish and ineffectual humans in the country explain to each other why I am the only possible source of a killing bullet I tried to stop.  I couldn’t care less what you tell a bunch of whiny teenagers and their parents.”

Charles understands Erik’s pretended disdain all too well.  “Couldn’t you?” he says gently.

Erik holds his gaze, but it costs him his composure.  “No,” he snaps.  Yes, his mind says, silent and involuntary.

"Very well," Charles says.  "We'll tell them only what's necessary.  Is that all?  Because if we're done here, I'll have a drink.  You're welcome to join me."

"What about you?" Moira blurts out.

Charles blinks.  Him and Erik, she means.  He can think of little about them she doesn't already know.  "What about us?"

She braces herself, even if it isn't visible, and he knows what she's going to say before she opens her mouth.  "Alex says Magda is Erik's wife."

"Alex is correct," Charles agrees.  Apparently the days of discretion in polite society are over.  He would wonder how he missed the transition, but Erik's betrayal removed him from those games so thoroughly that he doesn't know what the done thing is anymore.

"Did you... know that?" Moira asks.  Her gaze flicks from one of them to the other.  "I mean.  You're... aren't you?"

He raises an eyebrow at her.  "I knew Erik was married," he says.  "Neither of us knew he had children."

This, of all things, prompts a flare of guilt from Erik, and Charles almost looks at him.  It's gone before he can see, but it’s enough to make him doubt.  He's no longer sure--Erik said he had no children.  He was as surprised by Peter and Wanda as Charles was.  So what--?

"You knew he was married," Moira repeats, and Charles is suddenly impatient with everything.  With all of them.  From the courts to free love to Erik's bloody secrets, he's tired of it all.

"I’m sorry,” he says, as kindly as he can manage, “but I don't see how it’s any concern of yours.  If Erik and I want to have an affair, I rather think we’re allowed.  So.  Drink?”

“The state of New York disagrees with you,” Moira says.

“The state of New York can mind its own bloody business,” Charles retorts.

Erik would like to tell Moira the same, but he’s pouring a drink instead and Charles silently blesses him when he hands it over without a word.  Charles salutes him with the glass.  “Thank you, darling,” he says fervently.  

It makes Erik smile, a small thing, and perhaps there’s a mean flicker of satisfaction when Charles’ attention is diverted.  Charles decides that he’s handling this all wrong if Erik thinks he has to steal his attention.  “Tell me about this metal you want to put in the ground,” he says.

Erik’s smile relaxes into something softer and more assured.  He pours a second drink, picks it up, and hesitates for a long moment.  Then, to Charles’ genuine surprise, he offers it to Moira.

He doesn’t know which of them is more surprised when she takes it.  “Thank you,” she says after a moment.

Erik pours again, but all he says is, “I see nothing wrong with scrap metal.  It doesn’t have to be fancy; it just has to be there when I want it.”

“What if you’re not here?” Charles counters.  “Can you align it so that it does some good even when there’s no one to pull it out of the ground?  So that it interferes with radio signals or electronics or something?”

“You want me to build a jamming field around the house?”  Erik is more intrigued than skeptical, so Charles assumes he’s stumbled on something useful.  Engineering isn’t really his field.  He tries to leave that to Hank, as a general rule.

“It could negate a certain amount of covert surveillance,” Moira offers carefully.  “Not that the government officially sanctions that sort of thing.”

“Don’t block the TV signal,” Charles says, taking a sip to hide his smile.  If she’s trying for detente, she has his full support.  “We’ll never hear the end of it.”

It isn’t easy, drinking with Erik and Moira together.  But it isn’t as awful as it could be, all things considered.  They pass the remaining time proposing--and mostly dismissing--increasingly outlandish options for civilian defense.  Charles isn't interested in weaponizing the boundary, but he doesn't laugh at Erik's idea of a giant electromagnet buried under the lawn.

Hank would probably veto putting it so close to the labs, but anything that could generate a sufficient pulse could effectively--if crudely--neutralize the Sentinel threat.

“You like that idea,” Erik realizes almost immediately.

“Something that could shut down massive machinery at a distance, with little threat to human life and no effect on mutant abilities?”  Charles can’t suppress a smile over top of his glass.  “Darling, I love that idea.”

“Okay,” Moira says, putting her own drink down.  “I have to ask.  Darling?”

“Yes?” Charles says, glancing at her.

“No,” she says, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.  Only then does he realize what she meant.  “You never used to call him that.  Erik, I mean.  Now he’s ‘darling.’  Are you--do you even know you’re doing it?”

“Oh yes,” Charles assures her.  “It’s quite deliberate.  You see, every time I say it, there’s a brief moment when he stops thinking about anything else.  I find I enjoy it tremendously.”

Erik gives him a bland look that Charles recognizes as the expression preceding something particularly dangerous.  Then he's standing, approaching Charles with singular intent.  Charles doesn't think he'll do it until Erik pulls him up, his legs support him, and they're not really in the study at all.

The kiss is careful but thorough.  It feels real, Erik's skin hot against his and his mind rushing in to fill all the empty places.  His mouth is almost an afterthought, pressing closer only when Charles pushes back.  It's delightful and distracting and absolutely indecent.  

Charles digs his fingers into Erik's arms and makes no sound at all, but his eyes are wide and he still feels breathless as he stares across the room at Erik a moment later.

"--the dangers of being with a telepath, I suppose," Moira is saying.  She didn't notice.  She's talking about Charles teasing Erik with "darling," and she has no idea that Erik's just co-opted his telepathic training for amorous purposes.

"Funny," Erik replies.  His voice is distinctly lower than it was a moment ago.  "Your reasons against are the same as my reasons for."

Charles wants to kiss him again, wants desperately to touch, but it isn’t his body that burns for it.  The sweet slide of Erik’s mind against his, into his, like there’s nowhere he’s more at home… god, he wants that.  He wants that like water, like air, and it’s right there in front of him when he can barely breathe.

It’s right there.  He could fall into Erik’s mind right now.  He could stare out of Erik’s eyes, curl Erik’s fingers until he--he could touch himself with Erik’s hands.  Someone Erik loves.  He could settle into every secret Erik has and just know.

“Charles?”  Now Erik sounds concerned.  Now, when it’s much too late, he’s reaching out to touch, to ground, and Charles jerks away.

“Don’t--”  He’s holding up his hands, but he’ll take Erik’s if he has to.  He can shove Erik away from inside his own mind.  It will only make things worse, but he’ll do it and be glad of the excuse.  “Don’t touch me!”

Moira’s on her feet, but Erik stops like he’s been struck.  He stands frozen, waiting, and Charles barely manages a shaky breath.  “Please step back,” he says.  He’s surprised by how calm his voice sounds.  “And if you could--think about someone else.  Please.”

Erik does it, instantly and without question.  It doesn’t help at all.  All Charles wants is to feel the wonder and gentle affection Erik feels for Wanda from the inside, like it’s part of him.  He can’t remember the last time the urge to climb inside someone else’s brain was so violent, so all-consuming.  

He doesn’t want to feel Erik.  He wants to take him over.

“Charles,” Moira says.  “Do you need someone else?  Hank?”

He’s breathing.  He can feel the air coming in, flowing steadily out.  “A moment,” he says.  The words don’t sound like they’re forced out through gritted teeth, so he thinks he’s doing well.  The intensity of the desire is easing a bit.

“Did I do something wrong,” Erik says.  His voice is even, unquestioning, and his musing on Wanda and her abilities doesn’t shift in the slightest.  Unfortunately for Charles, his ability to concentrate is very attractive.

“No,” he whispers.

Erik’s gaze flicks to him, and Charles clears his throat.  He’s not actually fifteen; he can control his own bloody libido.  “No,” he says, more clearly.  “I’m afraid my powers are somewhat… sensitive.  I was momentarily overwhelmed.  Nothing to be worried about.”

“Overwhelmed?” Erik repeats.  His mind switches seamlessly from Wanda to Alex, smooth and focused and he has to be doing it on purpose.  He’s deliberately not thinking about Charles.  Still.  “Was it a flashback?”

“No,” Charles says.  He shouldn’t mention it in front of Moira, but if he doesn’t say Erik will just keep pressing.  He can’t keep the amusement out of his voice when he adds, “You know what you did, my friend.”

Erik frowns.  The full force of his attention is on Charles in an instant.  It’s easier to take now, and Charles lets out a breath in relief.  Still beautiful, still alluring, but not irresistible.  If Erik will just keep his mind to himself for five minutes, Charles can pull himself together.

“Did I hurt you?” Erik asks at last.  He knows that isn’t it, not exactly.  He’s seen Charles react like this before, but the memory is too old.  He can’t pin it down.

“Quite the contrary,” Charles says dryly.  “Your mental hijacking of our shared focus was--”  The equivalent of a hand in my pants, Charles wants to say, but he won’t do that to Moira.  It’s embarrassing enough already.  “Well, let’s just say, you got to third base very quickly.”

“Oh my god,” Moira says.  “I don’t need to hear this.  Why am I even here?”

“We should be going, yes?”  Charles would really prefer they went ahead, giving him an extra moment to gather himself, but he can tell from Erik’s expression that it’s not going to happen.  “Warren’s back, and Alex and Darwin decided to bring their charges after all.”

“About Darwin,” Moira says, frowning.  She looks at him, then at Erik.  She finishes her drink in one go and leaves the glass on a side table.  “Never mind.”

She leaves without looking back, and Charles isn’t sure whether to be relieved or worried.

Erik’s thoughts and demeanor remain steady.  “Are you certain you’re all right?” he asks quietly.  “I shouldn’t have ambushed you like that.  In my defense, I wasn’t sure it would work.”

Charles laughs aloud at the sly tone curling around the edges of his thoughts.  “No,” he agrees.  “That was a new application of the grounding principle.  Thank you.  And I’m fine--I quite enjoyed it, actually, but next time… if you could arrange for us not to have an audience?  I’d appreciate it.”

“I did try to get rid of her,” Erik offers, but softly.  It’s only a joke and he’s conscious of ears outside the study.  Charles thinks this alone shows as much respect for Moira as he managed during the entirety of their conference.

“Please don’t--”  He’s already moved on to the audience gathering in the parlour, so the words get tangled in warning.  “Next time.  If you--that was dangerous, Erik.”

He pauses, but Erik is listening.

“It felt dangerous,” Charles repeats, more quietly.  “I’m not opposed if you’re interested in--in repeating the experiment.  But I’d prefer not to be caught off guard again.”

“You want to discuss it,” Erik says.

“A little warning,” Charles says.  “I almost took over your--”  Everything, he thinks.  “I almost took over you.  You need to know that could happen.  And I need to be able to see it coming.”

Erik looks at him for a long moment, but there’s no creeping fear or flash of apprehension.  There’s just Erik, weighing what to tell him.  How much to tell him.  He isn’t thinking about it, not directly, so Charles forces himself to wait.

“You used my powers,” Erik says at last.  He hasn’t taken his eyes off of Charles.  “To free yourself, on the lawn at the White House.”

It’s not his proudest memory.  Charles nods curtly.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” Erik says evenly.  “But I liked feeling you... in my head like that.”

Charles gives him a disbelieving look.  He’s telling the truth, as bizarre as it sounds.  He liked feeling Charles--not just use his powers.  He liked feeling Charles stand up in his body, turn inevitably toward his own, and lift his arm.

“Come here,” Charles says.

Erik does, and this is a terrible idea.  This is selfish and irresponsible.  It is, at the very least, quite rude, but Erik’s eyes are dark with anticipation.  Whatever he thinks is going to happen, it’s clear that Charles’ intent isn’t a secret.

He slides into Erik’s mind, stretching out and settling down, just for a second.  It feels like coming home, like returning to his own body after a dream.  He lifts his hand--Erik’s hand--and reaches out.  He meets his own hand halfway, palms pressing together.

When he lets Erik go, reluctantly--too reluctantly, it’s like dragging through sand to pull away--Erik’s fingers curl through his and hold on.  “I hope you’re planning to do that again,” Erik murmurs.

His breath is shaky once more.  He can control himself, but he could control Erik, too.  So easily.  He needs to get out of this room, except there’s no respite outside.  Not in a crowd.  Not in any company at all, right now.

“I need a moment,” he admits, lifting his free hand to his forehead.  He squeezes Erik’s fingers by way of apology.  “You’re brilliant, it’s not you.  It’s just--would you mind?”

“Of course.”  Erik’s thoughts waver between smug and worried, but he accepts Charles’ word.  “Call if you need someone.”

Charles tries to smile.  He needs Erik.  He needs Hank.  He needs all of them, brilliant and beautiful and so unused to trusting.  He won’t shatter it for them.  “I’ll be out in a minute.”

After Erik’s gone, Charles braces his elbows on his knees and lets his head fall, pressing two fingers to each temple.  It’s not telepathy, Erik said.  It’s mind control.

All he wants for his students is safety and self-determination.  The world seems set to burn away the first.  It’s Charles’ own gift to steal the second.  He doesn’t know whether that’s irony or karma, but he knows what he saw in the future.  He knows what his own voice sounds like when he’s telling people what to do.  

Whether through ignorance or misguided optimism, he can't let that path be the one they follow.

Chapter 3

"Eleven years ago," Charles tells the parlour audience, "I completed a thesis on human evolution.  A thesis which included extensive research, much of it disguised as wild speculation, on the nature of mutation.  Rather remarkably, in retrospect, it was enough to earn me both a doctorate and the attention of Agent Moira MacTaggert."

Moira lifts her head at that.  "There wasn't anyone else," she says archly.  She's seated on the couch beside Sean, who's swapping bracelets with Eva and pretending not to listen.

"Regardless," Charles says with a smile, "she enlisted my help in the pursuit of one Sebastian Shaw.  A Nazi war criminal whom, we were soon to discover, Erik was also pursuing.  We joined forces, made some friends, and stopped Shaw from launching World War III during what came to be known as the Cuban Missile Crisis."

Alex raises his hand, but he doesn't wait to be acknowledged.  "I remember it being harder than that," he says.

"It had its challenging aspects," Charles agrees.  "Most notably the division of our forces after the fact, and the way we lost contact with each other over the course of the following year.  A lot's happened since then, and my goal in telling this story is only that it serve as a reminder that nothing comes from nowhere."

Erik is standing by the door, but everyone hears him mutter, "Did they teach you that at Oxford?"

Charles ignores him, amused but wary of showing it.  "We all have history," he says instead.  "Alone and with each other.  I want everyone to feel comfortable here, but understand there's no way we can share everything.  It would simply take too long."

Darwin follows Alex's example and raises his hand.  "What about the CIA?" he says.  "We only have all night; you think you can fit that in?"

Charles gives up.  He was mostly talking to Magda and Warren anyway, and if they want answers, it looks like they'll have to learn to interrupt.  He waves at Moira, who gives him a surprised look.

"What, me?" she says.  "You want me to talk?  I wasn't even there."

"Well, it's your agency," he says.  Quite reasonably, he thinks.  "Why did they come to the house?"

"Because you broke Erik out of prison, smuggled him into an international summit, and then let him walk away from a second presidential assassination attempt on national television?"

"I wasn't there to kill the president," Erik says.

"Which time?" Moira retorts.

"Either time."  Erik bites off the words like he can cut someone with them.  "Kennedy was a mutant brother whom I tried to save.  I have no care for what happens to Nixon, but Trask is a traitor to his own cause who deserves to die.

"Raven agrees with me," he adds pointedly.  Charles assumes this is directed at him, but when it makes the rest of the old team exchange uneasy glances, he wonders.

"You see," Charles says with a sigh, "this is why I'm the only one who's allowed to speak when it's important."

"Because you put people to sleep?" Sean mutters.

"Because I don't make people want to arrest us!" Charles exclaims.

"That's not universally true," Moira tells him.

"Look," he says, as it's clearly up to him to keep them on track.  "Erik did not kill President Kennedy.  There was a... misunderstanding, and once I realized--well, our error, I facilitated the release of a wrongly convicted man and offered him safe harbor here."

"Wait," Peter says.  "You facilitated his release?  Because I was the one in the actual prison, and I could be remembering this wrong but I don't think I am: I was also the one who got you all out of it.  Except Hank," he adds.  "He probably walked out on his own two... very hand-like feet."

"Peter, the reason the CIA came to my door and not yours is because I'm the one they could identify on the security feed at the Pentagon," Charles says.  "Until they have any reason to know who you are, yes.  I facilitated Erik's release."

Peter doesn't have to pause to consider it.  "Yeah, okay," he says.  "Deal."

"Thank you," Charles says.  "Erik will be staying here for the foreseeable future.  As the federal government is reluctant to accept my word when it comes to his innocence, we'll likely be hearing from them again.  Warren, we'll understand if this is too compromising a circumstance for your final year of schooling."

Warren looks up, clearly surprised to be called out.  "What?" he says.

"I know your father's keen to have you here," Charles tells him.  "But I'd prefer the decision to be yours.  Please don't believe you have a lack of options."

Warren eyes him skeptically.  His wings are tucked around his shoulders, folded into the chair with him instead of draped over the sides, but they’re free on top of his long-sleeved shirt.  "You think I'm going to have a problem because you got your friend out of jail?"

"Well," Charles says uncomfortably, "it's a little more complicated than that."  He didn’t mean for “history” to be a code word for “loyalty,” but it’s possible that’s exactly what they heard.

"If they lock me up because I can fly," Warren says bluntly, "will you get me out?"

"Yes, of course," Charles says.  “But it's highly unlikely that anyone would--"

"No one's going to arrest you up for having wings," Moira tells him.

Erik's simmering anger flares bright from across the room.  "You base that on your extensive personal history of oppression and subjugation, I suppose?"

"Erik, please," Charles says.  The last thing they need is to repeat this argument in front of everyone.  

"Am I wrong?" Erik demands.  "Humanity convicted me for being a mutant; you know that.  I see no reason to offer false reassurances.”

“Dude,” Sean says into the resounding silence.  “He’s got wings.  No one’s gonna lock up an angel.”

Charles glances at Hank, who’s already shooting him a guilty look for thinking the same thing.  Sean isn’t the only one who's noticed that Warren has a particularly beautiful mutation.  It makes Warren angry enough that Charles hesitates, and then it’s too late.

“I thought my friends wouldn’t set me on fire,” Warren tells them bitterly.  “I was wrong about that, too.”

It’s Eva who answers, her voice small but unself-conscious in front of the group.  “My friends beat me up,” she says.  “Even though I’m pretty.  I don’t think what you look like makes any difference, really.”

The combination of thoughtfulness and certainty is heartbreaking.  

“People who hurt you on purpose aren’t your friends,” Darwin tells her.  “Friends stand up for you when stuff goes down.  Right?”

“Right,” she agrees.  “Like family.”

“Like family,” Darwin says, holding out his fist.  She chucks it with her own, once on top and once underneath, and he smiles a little.

“My foster parents made me sleep in the shed,” Scott says.  He doesn’t sound as certain as Eva, like maybe this is okay, but he’s still saying it.  He doesn’t think it’s okay.  “They were worried I’d set the house on fire.”

“Your foster parents were stupid,” Alex tells him.  “And wrong.”  

It’s hardly an eloquent argument.  It lacks even a token amount of respect, but Scott looks reassured and Charles supposes that’s the important thing.  Darwin looks amused, and Sean is nodding in agreement.

Erik doesn’t say anything, but Charles thinks he doesn’t have to.  They’ve made his point for him.  

"Magda," Charles says.  "You have options too.  We're not your only recourse."

The smile she gives him is thin.  "I'm not sure you're any recourse," she says.  "But I can't take Wanda back to Virginia without an awful lot of questions, and Peter's one step ahead of the law on a good day.  I'd just as soon keep him as far from Washington as possible."

“Hey,” Peter objects.  “I’m five hundred steps ahead of anyone on a bad day.”

“If it’s resources you need,” Charles says, “I’m sure arrangements can be made.  Relocation, for example.  If you’re not comfortable returning to Virginia.”

“No offense,” Magda says, though her tone says exactly the opposite.  “But if and when we relocate?  We’ll do it on our own.”  Without your help, she thinks but is careful not to say.

Without your knowledge, is what she means.

“You won’t let Charles help you move,” Erik says.  “But you’ll take advantage of his hospitality for… how long are you planning to stay, again?”

“Erik,” Charles warns.  “Everyone is welcome here.”

“That’s not what you said half an hour ago,” Erik counters.  “We’ll let people in on the condition that we can remove them just as easily.  Isn’t that what you said?”

“I meant people who intend us harm!” Charles exclaims.

“Humans mean us harm,” Erik tells him.  “Or haven’t you been listening?”

“Not all humans,” Charles insists, for what feels like the hundredth time already.  “You just had a drink with Moira, for god’s sake.”

“It was a drink,” Erik snaps.  “Not a blood oath.  I dare say Moira has no illusions about how far I’ll go to protect her.”

Moira snorts.  “Erik, you’re the one I expect to need protecting from.”

He bares his teeth at her in something that isn’t a smile.  “Exactly.”

“Everyone,” Charles says, as pointedly as he can, “is welcome here.  And anyone who accepts that welcome, and welcomes others in kind, can expect a certain amount of safety within these walls.  Whatever protection I can offer, you will have.”

Oddly, it’s not Erik who says, “Define welcome.”  It’s Logan, holding up the wall by the window.  Closest to Hank, Charles notes.  It’s such an unlikely friendship that he can’t help feeling warmed by their subtle possessiveness of each other.

“I don’t ask that everyone get along,” Charles says.  “But welcome means making space and no intentional harm.”

“And mutual defense,” Hank adds unexpectedly.  “No federal agent at the door gets past me.  No matter who they’re looking for.”

“Mutual defense,” Charles repeats, testing the feel of it.  Hank has managed to hit upon a less provocative version of “fight together or fall together,” and he finds it’s one he can live with.  “Yes, all right.  That’s acceptable.”

“Mutant mutual defense,” Erik says.  “If the CIA wants Moira, that’s not my concern.”

“Uh, no,” Sean says, before Charles can rebuke him again.  “If Moira’s not your problem, then you’re not mine.”

Erik gives him a scornful look.  “I think I can manage without your help, Banshee.”

“Stop it,” Charles says sharply.  “If you accept the protection of this household, you also contribute to it.  Without discrimination about who benefits from that protection.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Logan rumbles.  His support is something of a surprise, but Charles appreciates it.  Especially when it makes Warren nod, and Alex and Darwin share a look of silent agreement that’s unchanged from the early days of Division X.  They’re in, then.  No matter how recalcitrant Erik proves to be.

“I won’t protect humans,” Erik says bluntly.

Magda has clearly had enough, and Charles is too late to intervene.  “You think we expect you to?” she demands.  “I know what you think of us, Erik.  We’ve known for eighteen years.”

“I don’t have a problem with the children,” he tells her.

“I’m not leaving my children for you to raise with your mutant lover!” she snaps.

Charles braces his elbow on the armrest and puts his head in his hand as curiosity flares around the room.  Even Hank, who must know the whole story by now, and Alex and Darwin, who likely guessed most of it, are suddenly more interested than uncomfortable.  Warren is confused.  It’s clearly gone over the heads of Scott and Eva, and Logan is only… amused.

Sean is loudly wondering where Raven is, and if she even wants grown-up children, or any children.  Charles closes his eyes behind his hand.  If any of this could have gone well, it certainly won’t now.

“They don’t need to be raised,” Erik is saying.  “They can make their own decisions; they’re perfectly capable young adults.”

It’s possibly the most rational thing Erik has said since entering the room, and it neatly evades any discussion of his relationships.  With anyone.  Charles would be impressed if he wasn’t so angry.  “Made so by their mother,” he says, without lifting his head.

“What’s that, Charles?”  Erik’s voice is dangerously calm.  “Do you have something to contribute?”

“Wanda has been interacting with a world that sees her as an eight-year-old girl for the last ten years,” Magda says.  The fury in her voice is the expression of Erik’s.  They’re both so angry, Charles thinks.  Is it contagious, perhaps?  Can he blame any of his own anger on them?

“She may look her age,” Magda is saying, “but she’s not ready to function as an adult.  Peter’s decisions have always been questionable.”

“I think you mean perfectly reasonable,” Peter says.  “But look, I understand.  Words get mixed up; it happens to everyone.”

“Because he hasn’t had the proper guidance when it comes to his mutant abilities,” Erik says, ignoring him.

“Whose fault is that?” Magda retorts.

“You didn’t tell me you were pregnant,” Erik snaps.

“I didn’t know!” she shouts back.  “How was I supposed to know you’d disappear without even a goodbye!  Without so much as a letter to let me know you were alive!”

“We talked about it!”  Erik’s voice is rarely uncontrolled but he’s shouting now, angry and unconcerned with the audience.  “You knew I was going after the men from the camps!  You knew it wasn’t safe!”

“I knew you were gone!”  Magda hasn’t even stood up, yet somehow she seems just as terrifying as Erik.  “I knew I’d probably never see you again, and I did the best I could!  You don’t get to sweep in now and take my babies just so you can have your own twisted version of a family!”

“All right,” Charles says, lifting his head at last.  “That’s enough.”

“Leave Charles out of this,” Erik says, low and deadly, “or I’ll remove you from this house myself.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”  Peter’s behind Magda now, one hand on her shoulder and the other Wanda’s.  “I think threats are boring and swearing is uncreative, but if it gets the job done: you can back the hell off right now.”

“Erik,” Charles says sharply.  “Stop it.”

“Make me,” Erik snaps.  “That’s your power.  Why not use it?  You want to be honest with everyone who walks through that door?  Stop hiding, Charles.”

Charles glares at him.  “I don’t lie about my abilities.”

“Calling yourself a telepath is like saying I can sense metal,” Erik retorts.  “Even as a mutant, you disguise yourself as something you’re not.”

“I am a telepath,” Charles says, trying to sound as calm as he can.  “I can read minds.  I can also manipulate them, but we don’t have a convenient word for that.  Most people are satisfied with ‘telepath’, so I don’t bore them with a list.”

“Because you don’t want to frighten them,” Erik says with a sneer.

“Erik, you can pull the fillings out of people’s teeth and strangle them with their jewelry.  I see no reason to list all the horrible things a mutation can do when it's equally capable of being a force for good--no different from any other human skill.  A weightlifter can throw someone off a building or free someone trapped beneath a car: the difference isn’t in the ability.  It’s in what we do with it.”

Erik shakes his head, and it’s a form of surrender, much as it doesn’t feel like one.  “You can’t ask me to protect people who would cheerfully wipe us out of existence.”

“You shot my sister,” Charles says through gritted teeth.

Erik looks at him in surprise.  As though he has no idea what that has to do with anything.  Like he sees no hypocrisy in condemning all humans for the actions of a few, while forgiving mutants everywhere for anything and everything they do.

“You yourself have hurt or killed more mutants than Moira and Magda combined,” Charles says.  “You want to display the basest of prejudices?  Fine.  But don’t pretend it’s justified.”

“Raven’s sacrifice would have been one for many,” Erik says.  “For the good of all mutants.”

“All other mutants,” Charles says.

“Wait, what happened to Raven?” Sean wants to know.

“She’s okay,” Hank says.  “Erik tried to kill her to keep the Sentinel program from getting and integrating her DNA.  Turns out by shooting her, he delivered it to them himself.”

“In this house,” Charles says, clear enough that he sounds stern without even trying, “we will judge each other as we are now.  Not as we have been in the past.

“And not,” he adds, staring at Erik, “based on our DNA.”

No one says anything.

Erik shifts.  Charles braces himself.  But he apparently thinks better of it, and after a moment, it’s Warren who raises his hand instead.

Unlike the others, he waits to be called on, and Charles tries not to sigh.  “Yes, Warren?”

“So can I stay or not?” Warren asks.  He doesn’t even care if he’s going to school, but he doesn’t say it out loud, and Charles is grateful.

“Yes, of course,” Charles says.  “The school will have to register with the state for your diploma to mean anything, but the bigger challenge will be curriculum equivalency.  I hope you’ll be willing to work with us to fill in any gaps you feel exist in your current education.”

“Yeah,” Warren says, frowning a little.  “Sure.”

“Hey, I have gaps,” Peter says.  “Can I get taught things?  What about Wanda?  She has like, ten years worth of civics and science to catch up on.”

“I’m not good at science,” Wanda says calmly.  It’s still a surprise to hear her speak.  “Cause and effect don’t work around me.  But I can do math.”

“That’s true; she’s great at math,” Peter says.  “Way better than me.  Does Hank do all the teaching?  ’Cause I don’t see Dad being very good at it.”

“Hank teaches most of the sciences,” Charles says.  “Alex and--”  He stops himself before he can say Sean.  “Well, Alex and I can cover the rest of the instruction.”

When no one interrupts, not even Peter, Charles adds, “Sean, I’ll not volunteer you to your former position, but if you’re interested, you’d be very welcome.”

“And Darwin,” Alex reminds him, and Charles nods.

At the same time, Sean says, “I’ll think about it.”

“Wanda is caught up in literature and writing,” Magda says.  She’s very carefully not looking at Erik.  “She can work at grade level in at least three of the subjects.”

“I expect she’ll have company in introductory science instruction,” Charles says, smiling at Wanda carefully.  She smiles back, untroubled.

"I like science," Eva says unexpectedly.

"Good," Charles says.  "You've come to the right place, my dear."

"Are we in a school?" Eva asks.  "It doesn't look like one."

"It's a different kind of school," Alex tells her.  "We teach useful things here.  Interesting things."

"So not art?" she says.

"Yes, art," Hank says indignantly.  "Art is useful!"

Eva looks at him with deep suspicion.  "When?"

"When you're trying to solve problems," Alex says, grinning at Hank.  "And none of the ugly solutions work."

"Yes, exactly."  Hank is flustered and trying not to show it, and strangely, it's Logan who steps in.

"So, mutual defense," he says.  "We watch each other's backs as long as we're here.  That it?"

It's as much of a commitment as he expects from Logan--more, if he's honest.  "Yes," Charles says.  "I think I've fought with my friends quite enough for one evening, thank you.  You're all free to go."

Logan, bless him, straightens up from his slouch by the window and very conspicuously crosses the room to the door.  It's enough to get most of them moving.  Even when Erik doesn't, and they all have to pass his cold and forbidding glare on the way out of the room.

Erik, Charles says without looking at him.  You're not making any of them more comfortable.

Erik reply is swift and clear.  I'm not a dog, Charles.  Stop scolding me.

Charles tries not to glare at Eva, who really is quite charming when she lets Darwin scoop her off of the couch and set her on her feet.  I'm only suggesting that if your goal is to clear the room, looming angrily by the door may not be the most effective strategy.

Seems to be working so far, Erik says.

"Hey."  Alex stops directly in front of Charles, momentarily blocking his view of anyone else.  "If we leave you in here with him, are you both going to come out alive?  Because I can chaperone--I mean, referee if you need me to."

"Thank you, Alex," Charles says.  He manages not to sigh.  "I think we'll be all right."

"I'll stay," Hank says, and Charles has to laugh.

"My friends," he says, "it's simply not necessary.  Erik and I are very much accustomed to differences of opinion; I'm sure we'll manage this one with our usual grace."

"Yeah," Alex says, and he's thinking of a stray bullet and choking dog tags.  "That's what we're afraid of."

"Go," Charles tells them, not without affection.  "I'll see you later."

They do go, slowly, and with expressions that Erik ignores.  Or pretends to ignore.  He's aware they're not happy with him.  He wonders how long Charles will be willing to placate them on his behalf.

"They don't disagree with you, you know."  Charles can hear Darwin and Alex in the foyer still, conferring in quiet voices with Hank and answering louder questions from Scott and Eva.

He doesn't hear Sean at all, but Charles know he's there.  Moira is following Magda to the student wing with Peter and Wanda.  Logan and Warren are already gone, and Charles does worry for Warren but Erik doesn't and suddenly that's all he can feel.

Charles frowns at him.  "What are you doing?"

The silent uncertainty is enough to convince him Erik isn't doing anything, at least not intentionally.  Finally Erik says, "Waiting for you to change your mind."

He doesn't know what he was expecting, but that wasn't it.  "Sorry?" Charles says.  "What does that mean?"

"Surely I'm more trouble than I'm worth."  Erik's tone is flip and uncaring, but his thoughts are bitter and afraid beneath the anger.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Charles tells him.  It’s not entirely a lie; he knows Erik actually expects Charles to make him leave but he can’t imagine why.  Not when he’s explicitly told Erik it will never happen.  "I can feel you at the front of my mind, even when I try to ignore you.  I can't stop being aware of you."

Erik frowns at him, and Charles can't miss his confusion.  "Is that strange?" he asks at last.  "I'm always aware of you.  You'd have to be miles away for me not to be able to pick you out."

"Being able to find you isn't the same as not being able to ignore you," Charles says, although he hadn't known that.  Erik could tell where he was in the house by... his chair, presumably?  "I just tried to follow Warren and I couldn't.  Because you were in the way."

Erik considers that for less time than it took Charles to reach a similar conclusion.  "I'm interfering with your powers," he says.

"Well, they're not behaving correctly around you," Charles says.  "I'm not ready to equate correlation with causation, but I suppose the result is the same."

“Is it because of… what I did earlier?” Erik asks carefully.  “Do you think?”

“Kissing me in the mental space you hold for me?” Charles says, amused.  “No.  As pleasant a diversion as it was, it affected me far more physically than mentally.

“How do you still know how to do that, by the way?”  He asks before Erik can tease him, can ask if he’s sure, because they could conduct another trial in the name of science.  Charles is trying not to suggest it himself.  “You can’t have had much reason to practice retrieving a telepath’s mind in recent years,” he says instead.

Erik stares at him long enough that he realizes he’s said something incredibly stupid, but it’s not until he speaks that Charles knows the extent of it.  “I had little reason to do anything else,” Erik says.  The words are smooth like glass and his mind is fragile behind them, but there are no cracks.  

Erik won’t think about it, and Charles doesn’t want to, so he lets it go.

He tries to let it go, at least.  In its absence there’s nothing: he doesn’t know what to say, he can’t remember how they got here, and all he can think is that he needs to not think.  He doesn’t even know whose thought it is, and it’s overwhelming in its magnitude.

“I suppose you can’t avoid knowing, then,” Erik says at last.

Charles latches onto it like a gift.  “Knowing what?”

The corners of Erik’s mouth curl, but it’s more resignation than pleasure.  “Everything.”

“No,” Charles says slowly.  It’s resignation, but it’s also… relief.  He doesn’t know whether continuing will help or hurt.  “But that doesn’t mean I--that I understand.  You know that, the meaning is a bit--thoughts don’t always come with enough context--”

“I love you,” Erik cuts him off.  The “but” is so loud he might as well have led with it, and Charles holds his breath.  “I don’t know how to do this--”  He gestures around the room.  “With you.  Run a household.  Run a school.  Even talking to you without a common goal is--”  

Grief is gnawing at him, the sense of Charles slipping away, and Erik is so very afraid.  Afraid that Charles won’t listen.  Afraid that one or both of them will say it all wrong.  Afraid that none of this will matter if the school comes under fire and Erik has to kill to save their lives.

Afraid their second chance will be over before it’s begun.  

“Potentially explosive?” Charles offers, when Erik seems unable to finish.

Erik nods, just once.

“We’ve both exploded before,” Charles reminds him.  “I meant it when I said we’re no strangers to disagreement.  Still, we’ve managed enough compromise to achieve grand things in the past.  I see no reason why we can’t do it again.”

Erik only looks at him for a long moment.  “I won’t be your attack dog,” he blurts out.

Charles raises his eyebrows, but he waits for Erik to say it out loud.

“I’m not here to stand silently by until you need someone broken out, conveniently incapacitated, or scared away.”  Erik’s expression is threatening, but his mind holds no warning whatsoever.  Charles tries to ignore the part of him that thinks, Unless that’s what you need, because Erik would do it.

The thought is disturbing and terrifying if Charles looks too closely, so he doesn’t.  “My friend,” he says, “I’ve seen no evidence you’re willing to stand silently by for anything.  What makes you think I’d ask it of you?”

“The way you keep trying to silence me.”  There’s strength in Erik’s tone now, backed as it is by certainty and dislike.  “I agreed to follow your rules.  I didn’t agree to become a mindless automaton.”

“Any attempts I made to shush you were countered by your equally vehement attempts to override me,” Charles points out.  “Such are the difficulties of shared authority.  Perhaps we should discuss how and under what circumstances we might present a united front.”

Erik stares at him.  “I just disagreed with everything you said to them, and you want to discuss a united front?”

“We’re quite good at shouting at each other,” Charles says.  “There’s no challenge to it anymore.”

Erik’s expression doesn’t change.  “And you do love a challenge,” he says.

“I love you,” Charles tells him.

That’s what finally makes Erik crack a smile.  “I can’t tell if you just corrected me or agreed with me,” he says.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Charles teases.  “I think we’re making progress.”

Chapter 4

Erik doesn't disappear with Azazel that night.  Maybe they planned it that way.  Maybe they don't meet on Sundays, or every fifth day, or on days when Erik has other alliances to preserve.  Charles doesn't ask because he doesn't want to know.

He wants to think it's because Erik would rather be here.  He wants to believe that it's Erik making a choice: him, them, the school.  He doesn't believe it, not quite, but he wants to and for the evening it's enough.

They play chess for the first time since the plane.  For the first time since Charles has been in the chair, and he never noticed how much he moved during chess until he can't anymore.  It’s awkward when it shouldn’t be and Erik, bless him, doesn’t pretend not to notice.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, eyes intent on Charles.  They don’t stray, but Charles can tell he’s torn between guessing physical or mental ailments as the cause for Charles’ discomfort.  He doesn’t want to offer either aloud, for fear of incurring the second on top of the first.

Charles tries to smile, because it’s a nice thought, but he doubts he does a very good job of it.  “Nothing,” he says, which is the lie he wants to be the truth.  “It’s ironic, isn’t it?  That now is when I notice.  When we’re both sitting, with no need to move at all.”

He feels no guilt from Erik, but it isn’t because he doesn’t understand.  He considers Charles’ words for a long moment.  Now his eyes wander, but carefully, in the service of his judgment when he looks back up at Charles.  “No,” he says.  “This is when it should be--the most similar.  This activity should be the least changed.  It makes sense that the fewer the differences, the more each one would stand out.”

It’s awkward, and Erik knows it.  He knows how polished he isn’t, how uncertain he might sound, and he tries anyway.  Charles is so very grateful for the effort.

“Thank you,” he says.  “For not--”  His throat closes up unexpectedly and he can’t finish.  He hadn’t realized it would affect him so much when he tried to say it out loud.

“You are the same man,” Erik says quietly.  Fiercely, with all the pride and longing he’s ever felt churning behind those words.  “I regret what happened.  But you are not weaker for it.”

“No,” Charles says, staring blindly down at the board.  There will be tears in his eyes if he tries to look at Erik, if he sees anything but the honesty he can feel.  "But perhaps I was never as strong as I thought, after all.”

Erik reacts with neither surprise nor violence.  “You've always been the best of us,” he says calmly.  There’s a confidence in him now that’s frightening, something that seems darker and less kind than his awkwardness.  “That’s a heavy burden to carry.  No one can blame you for stumbling under its weight.”

Charles can only laugh, absurd as it is, and he's angry--suddenly angry at the implications.  “The best of us,” he echoes, reaching for the board.  “Really, Erik.”

“Yes, really.”  Erik watches him move without shifting his own weight at all.  He’s more still than Charles, and that isn’t how either of them used to play.  “You’re among friends here, Charles.  There's no harm in showing off.”

Charles braces his elbows on his knees and glares up at him.  “I wish you’d stop using my own words against me.”

“I wish you’d stop asking and make me,” Erik replies, and he isn’t joking.  He isn’t threatening or dismissive, either, and Charles tries to ignore the challenge.  He tries not to notice how much Erik wants him, tries not to think about what he would do in a mind like Erik’s.  

The two desires are sharply contradictory.  This is what he tells himself, what he’s always held to: the belief that what Erik wants him to do and what he wants to do to Erik are two very different things.  Too different to co-exist.  For as long as they’re together, they’ll only ever have what one of them wants--and Charles can live with that, so long as it means he also lives with Erik.

Erik can’t.  He doesn't compromise, no matter his own determination to the contrary.  It will be all or nothing between them, as it always has been.

Charles will take it all at least once before they go back to nothing.

"You don't know what you're suggesting," he says, almost gently.  He can't keep the bitterness out of his voice, but he can soften it.  Enough to anger Erik rather than frighten him.

"That's rarely true," Erik says.  Then, unexpectedly, he adds, "Scare me, Charles.  I know you want to."

Charles raises his eyebrows.  “If I hurt you,” he begins.

Erik grins, triumphant, and interrupts him before he can finish.  “You won’t,” he says.

“My powers aren’t functioning correctly,” Charles reminds him.  “Not around you.  This is dangerous, Erik.”

“This is what I want,” Erik tells him.  “It’s what you want.  Don’t pretend it isn’t.”

“I want you,” Charles insists, but it’s a losing argument and it always has been.  “I’d rather have you than a pyrrhic victory.”

“Which is why you’ll do it,” Erik says.  “Come on, Charles.  If you don’t jump, I’ll push you.  You know I will.  Surely it’s better to have what control you do now than to lose it altogether.”

Charles leans back in his chair, aware of the motion only after the fact: a last ditch effort to keep himself from succumbing to Erik’s constant goading.  It won’t work.  It never works.  Only that one time--on the beach, when they had everything to lose.

That was the time it worked, and they lost everything anyway.

“If you don’t do it, I’ll think you a coward,” Erik warns, his voice low.  “You’ll lose me just the same.”  You won’t, his mind says, clear as day.  But he says it, and it’s horrible, and Charles hates him a little for it.  For making all his fears real.

“You’re insufferable,” Charles says.  It comes out without bite or anger or anything but resignation.

“Yet you suffer me,” Erik counters, a smile tugging at his lips.  Danger makes Erik smile.  He’s hard and cruel and he’s doing this because he’s kind.  He honestly believes that Charles needs this, and Charles hates himself all the more for not being able to deny it.

“I won’t apologize,” Charles tells him.  “Not after this.  Because I don’t expect you’ll ever speak to me again.”

“So dramatic, Charles.”  Erik leans forward, eager as always at the wrong end of a loaded gun.  “Do it.”

It’s like looking back in time, his finger on the trigger, with Erik high on adrenaline and the misguided belief that he’s invincible.  “How frightened do you want to be?” Charles murmurs, blinking in a futile effort to anchor his mind in the present.

“Terrified,” Erik says, flashing his teeth.  He isn’t joking.  But the feeling that spikes when Charles lifts a hand to his temple isn’t fear: it’s desire, lust… joy.  Admiration.  Validation.

Love.

It almost makes Charles pull back, but it’s too late.  He’s standing over Erik.  He’s reaching out and it’s not his hand, it’s his mind, drawn inexorably toward this shining man in front of him at the slightest relaxation of his tightly held control.  

Erik is the one who sits paralyzed.  He doesn't move because Charles is still, soaking in every thought, every sensation of the body that's now his own.  He feels Erik realize, recognize his presence, and Charles could hide it but he doesn't bother.  

Erik wants to know what it's like.  Now he knows.

Charles stands up.  Erik's body is taller, but his mind is slower: he takes in everything rather than skimming for what he wants, and Charles revels in the clarity it provides.  He sees the study in more detail than it’s had for years.  He hears every tiny noise his own ears ignore.  He feels the warmth of his skin under Erik's fingers in a way he didn't know anything could feel: strong and precious and yielding.

Charles blinks.  He's ignoring Erik's thoughts as best he can; he'd rather not know how Erik feels about having his body completely taken over.  But he can still feel the juxtaposition of love and desire when he looks at himself through Erik's eyes.

It's enough to crack his concentration, and then he can feel Erik's disappointment.  You must be holding back, Erik is thinking.  Touching you is hardly terrifying.  Try harder.

Charles squeezes his eyes shut.  "Don't speak to me," he snaps, and it comes out as a growl in Erik's voice.  “I'm trying to preserve the sovereignty of your mind."

That's the opposite of the point, Erik says.  How much concentration does this take for you?  Can you control your own body and mine at the same time?

"Please," Charles says, with his own voice.  "Even Emma could control multiple projections at once."

Somehow I doubt that was comparable.  Even Erik’s thoughts are sarcastic, but he can’t hide the excitement underneath.  He wants Charles to bristle, wants him to preen.  Wants him to do what Erik warned him away from, all those years ago.

“Dance with me,” Erik’s voice says.

Charles smiles up at him, taking the hand he’s offered, and he can feel the shock when Erik’s outstretched arm pulls him to his feet.  It’s quickly shushed, that feeling of uneasy surprise, but an echo of it lingers at the edge of Erik’s thoughts.  He didn’t notice the transition from reality to mentality.

Of course you didn’t, Charles thinks.  I didn’t make you notice.

There’s a flicker of you should have that Erik doesn’t mean him to hear.  Then, no, it’s fine, this is what I asked for, followed by Erik’s skepticism.  It’s not mind control if it’s not really happening, he thinks, very clearly.

Charles raises an eyebrow at him.  “Isn’t it?” he says.  “I can make you perceive anything I want.”

“Do you think you’re talking right now?” he adds in Erik’s voice.  They’re staring at each other, only they’re not.  Charles is staring at himself, his eyes locked with Erik’s, and Erik is looking back only in his mind.  “Who do you think is controlling your awareness?  You?”

He’s standing in the kitchen, pressing Erik’s body up against the edge of the table where his own is perched, legs spread to let Erik closer.  Charles used to sit on the table all the time, he and Raven so accustomed to taking up space in the kitchen that they did it without thinking.  The others complained, but it was Erik who went quietly crazy trying not to think about why it made him stare.

That’s impressive.  Erik is genuinely awed, distracted by the imagined press of bodies and cautious in a way he wasn’t scant seconds ago.  You might as well be a teleporter.

“Yes,” Charles says.  It isn’t that thought he’s responding to when he leans back on his hands and kicks his feet around Erik’s waist.  “I knew about these fantasies.”

Erik’s body settles on top of his on the bed, clothes gone, Charles’ ankles still crossed behind his back.  Charles pushes upward, holding Erik still even as every part of him flushes hot and hard and sweet enough to melt.  That’s the daydream, after all: a memory they never made, a way they never were.

Fuck me, Erik’s mind whispers.

“I thought it wasn’t really happening.”  He won’t use Erik’s voice, not now.  He should.  He should do it if he wants to make Erik see, to make Erik scared, but some kindness or loneliness in him uses his own instead.

It feels real, Erik thinks.

“You should have told me.”  His own voice is breathless, now, caught up in heat and friction so convincing it could be real.  It could have been real.  “We could have done this.”

We can do it now.

“No,” Charles gasps, thrusting harder, feeling it deep inside Erik’s body.  “We can’t.”

He does it anyway, though he never lets go of Erik’s mind.  Not even enough that he can move on his own.  If his mind wanders, there’s no telling where Charles will chase it, and Erik doesn’t need control.  Not here.  Here where Charles can feel everything he does, can ride and be ridden, cry out and hold on and shudder through it until they’re gone on lust and euphoria.

He lets Erik’s body relax afterwards, only realizing then that this is Erik’s old room.  He closes Erik’s eyes and they’re on Charles’ bed in a heartbeat, as warm and rumpled as though they’d been there all along.  Erik couldn’t flinch if he wanted to, but Charles feels the ripple of acknowledgment in his mind.  He didn’t miss the change.

It’s a fine distraction, the heat of Erik’s body and the ragged edge of his breath.  But it’s a single drop in the ocean of who Erik is, and it will never come close to everything Charles wants from him.  He mouths Erik’s ear and whispers, “Tell me what else you wanted to do.”

He expects more lovemaking, more sex, untenable positions and indecently public locations.  And there’s some of that, of course there is--he does know Erik, and he’s seen these fantasies before.  What he hasn’t seen are the secrets Erik’s mind gives up when Charles is inside, when Charles is living there and looking for them.

Charles, on one knee, staring up at Erik like he’s hung the moon.  Charles with a ring and no ringbox, an expensive thing that he flips in the air like a coin: yes or no?  A stupidly priceless piece of jewelry that he pretends is more valuable on Erik’s hand than in his own, something he’ll never tell Erik the worth of and Erik will never ask.

No, Charles says involuntarily, when Erik’s thoughts slide into metal and heat.  More.

The ring Erik would give him: silver and glittering, with words he can’t read when he’s alone.  The way everyone sees it, because Charles wears it casually, confidently, unconcerned with who looks and less so with who asks. He says Erik’s name with a smile, and he laughs every time someone hears “Erika” instead.

Erik didn’t grow up a mutant.  He didn’t know what he was until he met Charles; he picked up “mutant and proud” from Raven.  But he did grow up Jewish, and he grew up gay, and he survived the Holocaust with every wound it could inflict short of death itself.

It isn’t sex that Erik wants.  Not in the secret parts of his mind that he tries not to think about himself.  Sex is acceptable, sex is superficial, sex is… something he lets Charles see.  Something he isn’t embarrassed to share.  Not anymore.

Deep down, what Erik wants is to be seen.

More, Charles whispers.  He rolls Erik over and pushes him down, pinning him in soft sheets and what’s left of his secrets.  Tell me why you’re here.  With me.

Erik’s mind opens to him like a flower unfurling in the sun.  He loves Charles.  He wants to watch him, listen to him, feel him here just like this for all of time.  His desire to stay at the house is uncomplicated: he wants to be where Charles is.

That’s not enough, Charles tells him.  You said so yourself.  Love is not enough.

Erik disagrees.  He simply… disagrees, as though Charles is foolish for even suggesting such a thing.  He and Charles love each other, and they’re together, and Erik will do everything in his power to keep it that way.  And he will succeed.

Of course, Charles thinks.  It’s just like Erik to protect himself with the words he’s afraid someone else will say.  Inside he clings as hard as anyone else to the same desperate hope: that come what may, he can keep the people he cares about close.

More.  Charles pushes deeper into the light of things Erik holds most dear, finding himself reflected in every corner.  In the mutants Erik defends so fiercely, in their struggles and their shame and their pride, in the powers he’s accepted as his birthright rather than his curse.  In the way the world is now dotted with people worth saving, instead of only those more worth killing than the others.

It’s odd to think, to know, to see so clearly that he’s given Erik hope.  He might appreciate it more if he weren’t overwhelmed with love.  It’s all he can feel surrounding him, suffusing him with the sense of something he’s always wanted: family.

More, Charles demands.  Oh, god, he has this.  He had this.  Erik thought of him as--Erik’s family is as precious to him as--

Tell me about Magda, Charles insists.

She was everything good Erik had in the world.  She was the one he could save, the only one he could protect, and he gave her everything.  He would give it still.

Your children, Charles says.  His concentration is slipping.  

Wanda wasn’t his first.  Magda’s people, Charles thinks.  She was born among the Romani.  Erik hopes she’s still with them.

He’s floating, light and loved, while his focus becomes as wordless as the flame of Erik’s mind.  He shouldn’t let go.  He knows that, but he can’t remember why.  All he wants is to stay here, with Erik, in Erik.  Part of Erik.

There are sheets under his fingertips.  They’re cool when he curls his fingers into them, and he blinks at the light.  It’s his light.  The lamp beside his bed.

Charles lifts his head, and only belatedly does he realize that he’s sprawled over top of Erik.  He blinks down at Erik’s flushed face: he can’t feel that.  He’s just--Erik is solid, stable and calm, but he’s staring back at Charles and Charles can’t see himself.

Charles sits up abruptly.  He can sit up.  It’s easy, knees bracing him against the bed, feet flexing the moment he thinks of them.  “Where are we?” he blurts out.

Erik rolls his head to one side, making a show of glancing around.

He’s moving, Charles thinks, a little dazed.

“Looks like your room,” Erik says.  He puts an arm behind his head, tilting it enough that he can look at Charles without effort.  He seems unconcerned that they’re both completely naked.

“Our room,” Charles corrects automatically.

Erik raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t answer.  Oh, he’s thinking, so now it’s our room.  I see how it is.  Man rifles through your head and suddenly he agrees with everything you say.  Could be useful.

Charles winces.  He lowers his head, pressing the heel of his palm into his forehead.  “Are you doing this?” he mutters at the mattress.  “Did you kick me out of your head somehow?”

The hair is so terrible it’s good, Erik muses.  Like it’s gone so far around the bend it’s started coming back.  I wonder if he made me like his hair.  Pretty useless, probably not.

Charles looks up, and Erik’s focus narrows sharply.  Now he’s glancing pointedly at Charles’ legs.  “All evidence suggests we’re in someone’s head,” he says.  “Wouldn’t you know if it was yours?”

“Are you implying I wouldn’t know if it was someone else’s?”  Charles is momentarily offended, but Erik’s obvious amusement is deflating.  “Oh.  Right.  Well, it could be yours, I guess.  Or mine.  The options are somewhat limited.”

“You’re not filling me with a great deal of confidence right now,” Erik says wryly.  And he could, his mind adds silently.  So there’s really no excuse.  Not as terrifying as he thinks he is?  Or just out of practice?

“What--I don’t--I’ve never practiced that!” Charles says indignantly.

Erik smiles, very slightly, and his thoughts shift without any other indication.  Still hearing everything I think, then?  You look very fuckable.  We should switch.  Oh, was I not supposed to think that?  Your fault for resurrecting the past.  Finally.

It’s not Erik’s usual smooth-as-speech mental thought process.  It’s much closer to the stream of consciousness most people spout quite naturally, except that Erik isn’t flustered by the idea of Charles listening in.  Charles can’t tell if he’s broken him, or if his own powers are to blame for his failure to filter.

It’s possible that Charles has actually broken himself.

“If you’re broken,” Erik says, “does that mean we’re stuck here?  Because I can think of worse things.”

Charles frowns.  “Did I say that out loud?” he asks, but no.  Hearing his own words makes it very clear that he was not hearing his own words a moment ago.  He said nothing.  Yet Erik chose the same word he’d just been thinking of.

“Not that I heard,” Erik says.  “But I seem to remember someone telling me that he can control everything I perceive, so who knows.”

“The house is muffled,” Charles says, staring at him.  “Everyone else, they’re--barely there.”

“Normally, I’d say good riddance,” Erik replies.  He hasn’t moved, still on his back as he stares up at Charles.  “But given your expression, I have to ask.  Is that good?”

“This is the quiet space,” Charles says.  “This is you.  You’re keeping us here.”

“Really.”  That makes Erik pull his arm out from under his head and sit up.  “How am I doing that?”

“I don’t know.”  Charles frowns at him.  “How would I know that?”

“Well, you’re the telepath,” Erik says.  “Allegedly.”

Charles waits, deliberately listening this time, but he hears nothing else.  Erik is amused, confused, and vaguely relieved.  His thoughts are right there, waiting to be read, but they’re not filling the air all around him.  Speaking out loud, yes.  Thinking out loud?

Not anymore, apparently.

Charles takes a deep breath, but they’re not touching.  He wasn’t pulled here from anywhere.  They’re just… here.

He gestures at his head, wiggling his fingers in explanation.  “Do you mind?”

The corners of Erik’s mouth curve, but he shakes his head no.

Charles rests his fingers on his temple and closes his eyes.  He might not need to if Erik were wearing… well, anything, but given the situation he thinks it’s better to avoid whatever distractions he can.  He reaches down to pluck at his trousers irritably and his fingers come away damp.

He opens his eyes in surprise.  Erik is sitting across the chessboard from him.  He’s wearing all of his clothes, which is a shame, but more than that, he looks annoyed.  Erik never looks annoyed when he’s angry.  He only looks calm and relaxed or, when he’s particularly furious, pleased.

If Erik is annoyed, then Charles might not lose him over this.

“You’re not going to lose me,” Erik says, with a careful precision that indicates just how annoyed he is.  “I assume I have you to thank for this.”

When he gestures at his lap, Charles realizes there are worse things than an embarrassing wet stain on the front of one’s trousers.  Erik is unmistakably hard.  Controlled frustration is leaking from his mind, restlessness building as Charles stares.

He remembers the hold he kept on Erik’s body.  Tighter than his own from the very beginning, because Erik gave up all control.  Charles was in his mind, and Erik’s mind offered its consent willingly.  His body might not have.

When Charles lifts his eyes to Erik’s, he stumbles over, “Ah, yes,” even as Erik glares at him like he’s done it on purpose.  Which he has, really, so that’s fair.

“That,” Erik says, speaking over Charles without apology, “is the most ludicrous reasoning I’ve ever heard.  And you’ve been in my head for some time now, so that’s saying something.”

A few minutes, Charles thinks but doesn’t say.

Sure enough, Erik looks at his watch.  “Is that--”  He’s frowning now, momentarily derailed.  “That can’t be right.”

“You’re hearing me think,” Charles says.  “That’s not fair; why can’t I hear you think?”

“Charles, you’re a telepath,” Erik snaps.  “You can hear me think anytime you want.”

Charles eyes him, deciding to take that as permission.  “That’s twice now you’ve called me a telepath,” he says, relaxing his mind just enough that some of Erik’s thoughts climb into his head with him.  “Rethinking your stance on the word?”

No one should be that attractive when they’re pouting, Erik’s thoughts inform him.  I’m rethinking my stance on telepaths in general and mind control in particular.  Much hotter than I was led to believe.

“No,” Erik says.  “And the next time you want to know something about my family, I’d appreciate it if you'd just ask.”

“Yes,” Charles says awkwardly, “yes, I can see how that would have been--”

“Not terrifying,” Erik says.  “Not even a little bit frightening.”

“A better choice, I was going to say.”  Charles frowns at him.  “I find it hard to believe you weren’t disturbed by any of that.”

“Disturbed?” Erik says, lifting one shoulder in a shrug.  “Occasionally.  Afraid?  No.”

“What about now?” Charles counters.  “How do you even know this is real?  You could still be locked inside your head.  You could be inside mine; you’d never know.”

Erik can’t resist the jibe, “Apparently, neither would you.”  But his mind says, Because you’re in the chair, and Charles shakes his head.

“What if I stood up?” he says, bracing his hands on the armrests and watching Erik’s reaction.  “Right now?”

“If you stood up,” Erik says, perfectly calm, “I’d push you into the nearest wall and put your hand down my pants.  Not very cultured, I grant you,” he adds, “but then again.  You’re not going to stand up.”

“Pity,” Charles agrees, relaxing.  “Perhaps you could come over here instead.  I might be able to make it up to you?”

Erik is already out of the armchair when Charles thinks to say, “Would you mind locking the door, darling?”

Erik goes to wave his hand impatiently, then pauses.  When Charles notices, Erik extends the hand to him instead.  Charles glances at it, then at the door.  With a flick of his fingers, the lock snaps into place, and Charles smiles.

Chapter 5

He wakes up alone the next morning.  He also wakes up early, which is one of the benefits of mental time dilation that Erik has yet to appreciate.  He can hear the shower running, leaving him with the question of whether to wait or to struggle through use of the one next door.

It's not much of a choice.  Erik wakes him up again when he comes back into the room, and Charles remembers two important things.  One, Erik is unreasonably attractive in a damp towel, and two, he was supposed to ask about Erik's family.

"What was her name?" Charles mumbles, pushing himself up to watch Erik sort through the clothes he's left stacked in the chair.  "You can use the dresser, you know."

"It's full," Erik says.  He doesn't seem surprised to find Charles awake.  "Unless you mean the dresser in the other room, which is hardly convenient."

Extracting a shirt from the pile, along with slacks that must be quite wrinkled, Erik adds, "Whose name?"

Charles runs a hand over his face.  Those are his old clothes, still, but this is a poor way to have that conversation.  "No, you're right," he says instead.  "You should have your own.  Do you want to move the one in the other room, or do you prefer the one you used to use?"

Erik drops his clothes on the end of the bed and removes his towel.  It causes a stutter in Charles' conscious thought process that Erik seems very much aware of.  "What was whose name?" he repeats, but there's a light in his eyes that says he's teasing more than trying for actual information.

"No one," Charles says quickly.  "I mean, who?  I don't remember."

Erik climbs onto the bed and crawls up to where he is, smirking down at him when Charles' eyes wander.  "Don't you?" he says.

"Definitely not," Charles replies, putting a bold hand on his chest and letting it trail downward.  "Can't remember my own name right now, I'm afraid."

Erik leans in to kiss him.  He holds back enough that Charles can get both hands between them, running his fingers over skin and muscle as Erik's mouth presses gently into his.  It's a lovely way to start the morning, and Charles thinks they should have been doing this all along.

Erik lingers there above him.  Held up by his arms in a way that keeps him from using his hands, his lips and tongue make up for it even as his body trembles under Charles' touch.  He lets himself be pulled in closer when Charles' arms slide around his shoulders, stroking from Erik's neck down as far as he can reach.

But Erik still won't lay flush against his body.  He won't trap Charles against the bed, bracing his elbows on the mattress instead and kissing his jaw, then his neck as Charles arches up into him.  It's careful and thoughtful and maddening, all at once.

"I won't break, you know," Charles says breathlessly.  He's digging his fingers into Erik's hips, nervous with the weight of his paralysis even now--even lying down, because Erik's right: the more it shouldn't matter, the stranger it seems.

"Everyone breaks," Erik murmurs in his ear.  "More important is who we let put us back together afterwards."

"That's very poetic," Charles says, the words catching in his throat.  "It's very--"  He doesn't know what it is, and it turns out not to matter.

"It should be."  Erik pulls away swiftly, yanking the covers off and settling over Charles' waist in one smooth motion.  He sits on his heels, though, still careful not to exert undue pressure.  "I probably heard it from you.  Tell me if it's all right to sit on your legs."

"It's extremely all right," Charles tells him, and he doesn't know how true that is until Erik sinks down onto him and the sudden weight is glorious and comforting at the same time.  He draws in a sharp breath and it's easy, all at once, it's so easy--

Erik groans as Charles surges against him.  The force of it moves him too, just enough that Charles can push comfortably into him with Erik straddling his lap.  It's closer than they were lying down, closer than they've been all morning, and it's Erik's undoing.

He takes Charles' hand, pressing fingers clumsily against his own temple.  Talk to me, are the words Charles hears in his mind.  He isn't about to stop kissing Erik, not when those hands are finally on his skin where they belong, but he settles his fingers more comfortably against Erik's face.

It feels good, Charles tells him.  It feels normal.  Like it used to.  Don't stop.

Don't stay out of my head, Erik thinks.  I'm sorry I ever said that to you.

Charles knows he's still wearing pajama bottoms, if nothing else, but he can't feel them.  Erik surely can.  He's less self-conscious about his legs when Erik is on top of him: clearly aroused, interested in what he can feel for Charles' sake alone.  He thinks perhaps any sleepwear was a foolish choice after all.

Everyone is entitled to their fears, Charles thinks.  You can take my pants off, if you like.  The words get a bit jumbled in his head, but he thinks Erik gets the message.

What do you like.  It's heated and hazy, an intoxicating feeling of desire that carries Erik's thoughts to him.  He isn't committed to anything but kissing, and groping, and whatever else Charles will let him get away with.

"It's--"  He tries to say it out loud, because Erik does like the sound of his voice.  "It's pretty much the same for me, I find."

Which doesn't make much sense, when he hears himself, but Erik is amused instead of frustrated.  With clothes or without?  That explains a lot.

He's sure it doesn't.  "When I'm--when I can't walk," Charles mumbles.  Erik's hands are hot against his skin, one on his back and the other sliding under his arm, scratching almost accidentally against his chest.  "I can--I feel pressure, a bit.  It doesn't much matter if it's skin-to-skin or not."

Is that why you like me sitting on you?  Erik's chin against his neck is unreasonably distracting, and Charles clutches at his waist.

"No," he whispers, then tries again.  "Maybe.  Mostly--"  Erik mouth finds his again and it doesn't matter for several long moments.  

"Mostly," Erik prompts, voice rough when he finally slides away.  Erik nips at his jaw, teeth just grazing his skin, and Charles wonders a little wildly if this is an argument for or against being clean-shaven.

"It makes it seem like you're holding me down," he mumbles.  "Instead of me, instead of it being--"  Erik kisses his ear, tongues his neck, and Charles swallows hard.  "Me," he finishes.  "My legs."

Erik reaches back, and only when he thinks, Right side feels, you said? does Charles realize what he's doing.

A little, he thinks, words and feelings tumbling over each other before he can get them out.  Feel some on the right, move some on the left, but don't please I don't--

He can feel Erik's hand on his face almost immediately, gentle as it mirrors Charles' fingers on his temple.  Sorry, Erik thinks.

Like it, Charles thinks desperately.  I don't like it, I don't want to feel it now, not like that.  Not like this.  He doesn't want to feel--or not feel--how different it is, and he can't keep the tide of it from rushing over Erik in the wake of his aborted movement.

Good, Erik thinks, odd and fierce in the silence of their minds.  Good, tell me.  What else.  Don't stop.

"I like hearing you think," Charles gasps.  Erik is shifting on top of him now, making enough space to move the hand trapped between them.  "I like feeling you inside my mind."

That makes two of us, Erik thinks.  His thumb grazes a nipple, and Charles digs his fingers into Erik’s shoulder blade.  He probably scratches too hard as Erik lowers his head, mouth following the path of his hand.  It's careful and messy and they struggle to keep their balance when Erik pushes him too far.

They can’t quite manage it, landing with a soft rush that pushes the breath out of him in a laugh.  Erik catches himself with a hand braced beside Charles’ head, searching his expression for--for something.  Something he must find when Charles beams up at him, because Erik relaxes and it’s suddenly much easier to pull him down, drag him closer until they’re pressed fully against each other once more.

“I’d put my legs around you if I could,” Charles murmurs, and he’s mostly joking, partly reminding Erik of his own fantasy, and maybe just the slightest bit regretful.

Maybe a lot regretful.

“You can,” Erik says, eyes wide open and serious even as they melt into him.  “Anything you want, Charles.  Tell me and I’ll make it happen.”

He feels the smile fade, but Erik’s always had that sort of intensity.  He answers more honestly than he should.  “I want to have not lost you,” Charles says.  “That day the Blackbird went down on a beach in Cuba.”

Erik leans in, hard and heated in his ear when he whispers, “You never lost me.  Not then, not ever.  Not for a second.”

Charles makes a sound--not passionate but hurt, choked with the weight of reality.  “Oh, Erik.”  He closes his eyes but it doesn’t help, all of Erik’s fear and love twisted in the air around them.  “I lost you the moment I walked away from that chess game.”

It was late, Erik thinks desperately.  You didn’t leave.  We had to sleep; we were fine in the morning.  It has the strange and well-worn sense of a mantra, and it makes Charles ache with the realization that he isn’t the only one replaying every last moment between them.  Looking for comfort… looking for hope.

Looking for some kind of peace.

We were fine, he echoes, wrapping his arms around Erik and holding on as hard as he can.  We are fine.  You told me all we need is love, you know.

“I did not say that,” Erik whispers in his ear.  “I don’t quote song lyrics.”

The sound that escapes this time is somewhere between a sob and a laugh, but at least there’s doubt.  At least there’s the possibility that these aren’t really tears in his eyes.  “You quote song lyrics all the time, you stupid bastard.”

Erik kisses him.  Even if it’s as much an effort to shut him up as apologize, Charles thinks the feeling is worth any motivation.  I like this, he whispers tentatively, trying to keep the words clear and separate from the rest of what’s in his head.  

I love you, Erik replies without hesitation.

A decade lost.  They shouldn’t think about it; they clearly can’t talk about it.  “I love you,” Charles echoes, the words mercilessly muffled by Erik’s mouth.  I love you.  I’ll always love you.

Erik lifts his head, pressing a kiss to his temple.  He has to shift his whole body higher to do it, and Charles groans at the rush of telepathic intrusion and Erik’s arousal suddenly hot against his stomach.  The tongue that flicks across his skin is nothing compared to the force of Erik’s mind, loud and bright at the edges of his awareness, and it’s only the push of Erik’s body against his that keeps him grounded.

It’s a giddy feeling, suddenly being so close to the edge.  The sorrow is burned away by Erik’s heat.  Erik, who long ago learned to feel through the fear, through anger and sadness and pain: Erik wants him.  Erik loves him.  Erik knows what it means and he doesn’t let it stop him.  He’ll take as much of Charles as he can get.

It’s deep and dizzying and he can barely keep himself in his own head.  He’s sure it would be just as good in Erik’s.  Maybe better, the way he’s moving with it, letting the drag of their bodies create a friction he won’t acknowledge while he tugs Charles’ hair away from his face.  It gives him room to kiss, mouth on the skin between temple and hairline, and that shouldn’t be erotic, it shouldn’t.

It isn’t, Charles tells himself fiercely, but it is, oh god he wants to be able to walk into Erik’s mind and push.  He can’t.  He’s been here before, he’s resisted before.  Come on, he tells himself, it’s not that hard.  It’s not that hard.

“Stop,” Charles begs.  “No, please--”  He pushes back when he starts to feel his own skin under his lips.  Harder when he almost keeps going.  “Erik, stop!”

Erik shoves away, breath caught on a desperate thrust he can’t suppress.  Because it isn’t him, and he understands that, disentangling them so gently that Charles groans.  Clutching his head, Charles twists away as far as he can, trying not to look or think or feel.

There's a terrifying moment of silence: just the thunder of his pulse and the roar of Erik's thoughts.  Then Erik says, very quietly, "I don't mind."

He might have, but he doesn't now.  Not if Charles meant to ask.  If he doesn't want to do it without permission.  Erik isn't blasé about this, but he trusts Charles and that's what will ruin them.

“I do,” Charles hisses, eyes squeezed shut in a useless effort to block him out.  He tries putting his hands over his ears, for comfort’s sake if nothing else, but of course it doesn’t help.  "Bloody hell, Erik; I mind very much."

"Why?"  Erik isn't touching him.  He understands that much, at least, but he doesn't know enough to stop talking.

"Because," Charles groans, pressing his face into the pillow.  "I want to stay in your mind forever."

"You know I can't understand a word you're saying?"  Erik's tone is conversational, but there's an underlying fondness that makes Charles despair of ever properly frightening this man.

He pushes himself up, hair everywhere, glaring at Erik with as much ferocity as he can manage.  I want to stay in your mind, he thinks, loudly and plainly.  What if I can't get out again?

Erik thinks of Shaw first, and it's a dark pain, followed by the sweetness of Eva's innocence.  He doesn't think of himself at all, despite the fact that he and Charles have been inexplicably stuck in a shared mental space twice in as many days.  He certainly doesn't think of Azazel, or Cerebro, or the fact that even when Charles' telepathy burned itself out he could still use Erik's power.

Erik might not know about that, Charles realizes abruptly.  He didn't actually affect anyone with it.  Would it be better or worse to tell him now?

"What?" Erik asks, still studying him.  "You stopped trying to glare at me for a moment."

Charles buries his fingers in his hair, trying to shove it away and reveal himself without speaking.  "You have no idea,” he whispers.  And it's this, finally, that makes Erik's impatience irrepressible.

"You want me to guess?" he demands.  "Because I don't think you have any idea what you're doing either.  You said you don't practice taking over other people's minds, not to the extent you've been in mine.  You said I should be ready to bring you back, the other night--and when I wasn't, when I wasn't here, you got lost.  You couldn't do it on your own.

"Is that it?" Erik says, the calm expression of anger fading to a frown.  He's talking just to keep Charles from turning away, but he's putting it together out loud as fast as anyone could ask for.  "Is that what Alex did for you, that night in the kitchen?  What Hank did in the classroom with Wanda?  They're anchors, aren't they.  The way you asked me to be when you use Cerebro."

Charles doesn't realize he's staring until Erik stops long enough to allow a reply.  One he's likely supposed to give.  "Sort of," he manages.  "Yes?  They--they took your place.  With Cerebro.  Hank rebuilt it after you were gone."

"I noticed," Erik says irritably.  He's never liked Cerebro.  He never liked what it did to Charles.  Not that it stopped him from enjoying some of the side effects.

"It wasn't the same without you," Charles murmurs.

Erik pins him with an intent look, and it's not hard to know what's behind it.  "What are their spaces like?  Or is it rude to ask?"  He doesn't sound like he cares.

"It's not a space so much as it is a feeling," Charles says.  Hank is the closest to Erik, but he's never seen any good that will come of saying so.  "Anyway, that's not the point."

"What is, then?"  Erik is waiting now, placated by Charles' participation.  He’s sitting sideways on the bed, next to Charles, not close enough to touch without reaching out.

"They shouldn't have to bring me back," Charles says.  "You shouldn't--well.  If I can't--I shouldn’t go so far I can’t come back.”

“That’s what you have us for.”  Erik isn’t impressed, and he dismisses the argument with an ease that makes Charles wonder.  Erik was part of a team, once.  Surely he hasn’t been for some time.  Unless he was waiting for the Brotherhood, that whole time he was imprisoned?

“I’d never have raised a submarine if you hadn’t helped me,” Erik is saying.  “You’re the one who taught us that we can do more together than we ever could alone.”

Charles can’t help raising his eyebrows.  “That’s… not a lesson I thought you’d learned, I’ll admit.”

“I don’t know why,” Erik says steadily.  “After I begged you to come with me, I begged everyone else.  Being alone again was the last thing I wanted.”

Yet it was what he had to endure, all those long years.  Charles doesn’t know what to say.  He doesn’t know how to do this, how to heal something this… close.  This isn’t just Erik’s pain, this is his.  It’s a part of him.  And he can’t make it better.

“It isn’t the coming back,” he mutters.  It’s awkward and wrong and he doesn’t know how to say anything else.  He doesn’t know how to say this, but he doesn’t even know where to start with the rest of it.  “I mean, it is.  It’s the same--it’s a symptom of the same thing.  Getting out of being brought back is… harder.  Now.”

With you, he thinks but doesn’t say.  Alex and Hank don’t take over his perception to the same extent.  Maybe that’s all it is.  But he doesn’t want to be in their minds the way he wants to be in Erik’s, either.

“Were we stuck?” Erik says quietly.  “You didn’t know how to get us out last night, did you.”

He’s always been good at following things to their logical conclusion.  This requires leaps Charles isn’t sure he would have made, but Erik follows without a misstep.

“How did you?” Erik asks after a moment.

Charles shakes his head wordlessly.

“You don’t know,” Erik says.

Charles searches his expression for the fear he expected to see the night before, but it still isn’t there.  “I couldn’t get out of Eva’s head,” he says softly.  “I tried.  I tried everything I know, and eventually I just… gave up.”

“You were tired,” Erik says.  “You--burned out on Cerebro.  It’s happened before.”

Charles laughs, but it’s more incredulous than amused.  He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve Erik’s excuses after all this time.  “I was in a child’s mind, Erik.  And not one I know particularly well, at that.  If I couldn’t even leave her, what makes you think I’ll ever be able to leave you?”

“Hank got you out,” Erik says.  “You’re acting like there’s no contingency plan, nothing we can do if something goes wrong.”

“He shut down my powers!” Charles exclaims.

“Very effectively,” Erik agrees.

“It’s not exactly a guarantee!” Charles protests.  “What if it hadn’t jolted me back into my head?  What if it had trapped me in hers until it wore off?  Hank’s brilliant, but he’s not big on controlled trials, is he!”

It makes Erik smile, and there’s something about the expression that… helps.  Charles gulps a breath, pushing his hair back yet again.  Erik just watches.  He feels reassured, somehow, comforted by god knows what, but he looks like he’s where he wants to be and Charles is in no position to question.

He does anyway.  “You trust Hank?” he manages, trying to breathe more slowly.  It isn’t--he isn’t in Erik’s head now.  There’s nothing wrong, right now, that can’t be ignored or glossed over or forgotten until they get out of bed.

“I trust you,” Erik says.

“Well, I don’t!” Charles retorts.

“Then trust me.”  Erik leans forward, but he puts his hand down next to Charles’ instead of on top of it.  A breath apart, and somehow it means everything.  “I can still anchor your mind.  You haven’t had trouble getting out of it so far.  Having you trapped in my head isn’t the worst thing I can think of, regardless.”

Charles gives him a look, and the corners of Erik’s mouth twitch.  “Not optimal,” Erik concedes.  “But not the worst.”

He isn’t sure that being better than the worst thing Erik can imagine is flattering, but he supposes the options are limited.  “Understood,” Charles says with a sigh.  “I’ll… keep trying, then.”

“You’ll need to practice,” Erik says.  “I volunteer myself as your test subject.”

This time when he laughs, it’s a bit closer to the real thing.  “I don’t think you’ll have any choice about that,” he says, turning his hand over on the sheets.  “Not if you want the experiment to mean anything.”

Erik looks down at his hand, then back at his expression.  Charles doesn’t move.  He feels Erik’s fingers settle on his hand a moment later.  He wraps them in his own, squeezing hard when Erik doesn’t pull away.

“Do you want to tell me now?” Erik asks.

Charles blinks.  It doesn’t help, especially while Erik’s thoughts are calm and largely focused on his chest.  It would make him smile if it didn’t seem so incongruous.  “Tell you what?”

“What you were going to ask,” Erik says.  “When I came back from the shower.  You clearly thought better of it then, but we’ve lost the mood.  You might as well ask now and save us both the awkwardness later.”

What he was going to ask.  Charles honestly has no idea what was on his mind when he woke up.  “It’s sound reasoning,” he says, “but I don’t remember--”

“You wanted a name,” Erik interrupts.  “For who?”

“Oh.”  Charles lets his head fall back against the headboard, closing his eyes briefly.  “You know,” he says, “you really should let that one go.  Another poorly timed, highly insensitive remark from yours truly; I think we’d be better off if you pretend I said nothing.”

“Charles.”  Erik sounds amused now.  “When I grow tired of your insensitive remarks, I’ll tell you.”

Charles rolls his head to the side, just catching Erik’s eye.  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says.  “You had a child.  Before Peter and Wanda.  I wanted to know her name.”

Erik holds very still.  “Did you,” he says at last.

“You told me I should ask,” Charles says with a sigh.  “I’m sorry if--if I should have waited, if it’s none of my business.  Just tell me.  I don’t have to--”

“If I don’t tell you,” Erik says.  “Will you take it from me, the next time you’re in my mind?”

“I might.”  Charles doesn’t like it either, but it’s a fair question.  “I might not mean to, but the things I want to know… sometimes I can’t help seeing them.”

“Sounds like you could use some training,” Erik says.  He’s cool and smooth even as he adds, “But not with this.  She was born Anya Eisenhardt.  We changed her name the same time we changed ours.  She would be, today, twenty-one.  Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“Not by half,” Charles admits.  “You owe me no explanations, my friend.  I only wished, selfishly, for a name to go with the memory I stole.”

Erik nods once, accepting that without either forgiveness or condemnation.  “Anya,” he says again.  It’s so much more than enough.

“Thank you,” Charles murmurs.

“I’m going for a run,” Erik tells him.  "Should I assume the boundary remains unchanged?”

Charles glances from him to the clothes he left at the end of the bed.  He wasn’t planning to go for a run when he came back from his shower, that much is clear.  “Yes,” Charles says.  “I’m afraid you’ll find the trails somewhat overgrown, but the old boundary markers remain.”

Erik nods, but before he pulls away, he lifts their clasped hands and presses his lips to Charles’ fingers.  He lets go without another word.  Charles watches him stand, pulling yesterday’s messily folded sweatpants and sweatshirt from the pile on the chair.

Hank’s mental warning is welcome.  If not for the distraction, then for the fact that it saves Charles from having to come up with parting words.  He has his hand to his temple before Erik finishes dressing, following Hank's focused attention, and Erik sees it when he turns and stops short.

“Charles?” he asks warily.

“Hank,” Charles replies, frowning down the driveway from the window by the front door.  “Government car.  Not the CIA, he doesn’t think.  Too obvious.”

Erik stares at him long enough that Charles looks away, thanking Hank absently.  “What?” he asks, reaching for his chair.  “You can still run; just go out the back.  We’re not going to invite them in for breakfast.”

“This is your security,” Erik says.  “Hank?  Watching the front door?”

Charles shrugs, grabbing at his pajama bottoms to swing his legs over the side of the bed.  “I think he has an alarm on the gate,” he says.  “No one’s gotten past him yet.”

“How are you still alive?” Erik wants to know.

“Well, to be fair.”  Charles braces one hand on the solid nightstand and the other on the arm of his chair, easing himself forward until he can lean over and get both hands on the chair.  “Most people aren’t actually trying to kill us.”

He can feel Erik watching as he lifts himself into the seat. The old habits are there, if a bit clumsy after years of doing without, but it’s still a minor victory when he doesn’t drop himself on the floor under that heavy scrutiny.  “Hank and I can handle them,” he says, rolling over to the dresser.  “You needn’t worry.”

“You and Hank,” Erik begins.  He doesn’t finish the sentence aloud, but Charles catches it anyway.

“We are something of an unholy partnership, aren’t we.”  The thought makes him smile.  “No less than you and I, I’m sure.”

“You said there would be a plan,” Erik says.  

“There is a plan,” Charles counters, collecting clothes in his lap before wheeling to the closet.  “Defend the school.  We talked about this last night.  Extensively, if I recall.”

Erik is eyeing him when he turns around.  “The plan lacks a certain specificity.”

“I think it’s very specific,” Charles says.  “You’re on boundary metal and electromagnet design.  Hank has surveillance, and Alex is in charge of teaching.  He’s become quite good at logistics; have you noticed?”

“I notice he’s spending a lot of time with Darwin,” Erik says.

“I have government agents to baffle and manipulate,” Charles says over his shoulder.  “I’m going to take a shower now.  Have a nice run.”

Erik definitely sounds amused when he asks, “How long do you expect those government agents wait?”

“If they get bored,” Charles says, pushing the bathroom door open, “they’re welcome to leave.”

“Can I tell Hank you approved the electromagnet?” Erik calls after him.

“Not until I’m done with him.”  Charles pauses in the doorway, trying not to smile.  “Please listen to his concerns about electrical disruption in the lab.”

“Where?”  Erik feigns surprise.  “Is there a lab in the house?”

“He’s not knocking on our door,” Charles points out.

“That was your tradeoff,” Erik says.  “Not mine.”

Charles holds up his hands.  They’re not going to kill each other, and maybe it isn’t any of his business after all.  Surely the two of them can reach some kind of compromise.

“Charles,” Erik says.  The levity is gone from his tone when Charles pauses.  “Watch yourself.”

It’s likely the FBI come calling this time, only hours behind their rivals and less willing to play at being friends.  Charles doesn’t know what he’ll tell them, but he doesn’t know what they want yet either.  Erik’s concern is entirely justified.  On some level, it’s even gratifying.

On the other hand, Charles isn’t the escaped felon with nothing but the thin veil of death to keep him from being hunted outright.  He nods to Erik, but he says what he must. He understands that Erik has no more reason to heed him this time than any of the others.

“Be careful, my friend.”

Chapter 6

The FBI agents are, if nothing else, more entertaining than the CIA.  There are two women on the back porch with Hank when Charles rolls out, and two men still in the car on the other side of the house.  Charles raises an eyebrow at Hank, who just shrugs.

"Good morning," Charles greets them.  Without waiting, he adds, "Are your friends in the car afraid of sunlight?"

It's a relatively warm morning, but it's still February in New York.  He doesn't see why the women had to get out if the men were just going to wait in the heated car.  At least Hank got them something warm to drink.

When they look at each other, he realizes he wasn't supposed to know about the other agents.  "Ah," Charles says.  "Are you the decoy, then?  While we're speaking to you, the others get out and snoop around?  Not very sporting.  Or legal, I'm afraid."

"We're not here to snoop," one of the women says.  Claire is her name.  Her husband is an agent as well, and she was promoted from his assistant last year.  "We're here on behalf of the president, who's interested in working with... people like you."

Charles laughs aloud.  He's not sure if it's because of her uncertainty about the word "mutant" or just the fact that this all seems so very familiar.  Or her evasion regarding the men in the car, whom it seems are their backup.  She and her partner may be full agents, but they're clearly not trusted in the field alone.

"People like me," he repeats, smiling at her.  "Mutants, you mean?  The government has tried to recruit us before.  I think if you ask the CIA, you'll find we're more trouble than we're worth."

"We're FBI," the other woman says.  "I think you'll find we have a different perspective on many things."  She stands up, holding out her hand.  "Dani Moonstar."

He shakes her hand, and he gets as far as just became an agent this morning and I don't think he's interested in women at all before her faint psionic manifestation makes itself known.  She's a mutant.  She's not only unaware of it, she's not convinced there's any such thing.

"Have you indeed," Charles says thoughtfully.  He glances at the other woman, who also stands.

"Agent Dunbarton," she says.  "A pleasure to meet you."

It isn't, and he knows that before he shakes her hand.  He's kept them waiting for almost an hour, and they weren't inclined to like him before that.  They've been sent here to appeal to his baser instincts: pride, arrogance, lust.  

Their agency has made it very clear that he's more important than both of them put together, and they've been instructed to do anything he asks in order to ensure his cooperation.

"Charles Xavier," he says, letting go of her hand.  "The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.  Unfortunately, I'm afraid your trip has been in vain.  I've no interest in re-entering government employ, no matter which letters come with the title."

"Employment isn't necessary," Claire-who-won't-give-her-first-name tells him. "If it suits you better, consider it an exchange of favors.  The office of the president is not without resources."

"No," Charles agrees, catching Hank's eye again.  "I'm sure it's not."  They've been instructed not to threaten us, he thinks.  And yet they want our help very badly.  For what, I wonder?

Mutants in the news, Hank thinks.  The world is getting more dangerous.  That's what they said, anyway.  It's accompanied by the peripheral doubt that they have any idea who he is: the CIA files on Hank were destroyed, and he wasn't on camera when he changed on the White House lawn.

"Tell me," Charles says, "what it is you want from me, exactly."

"Your assistance," Claire replies, smoothly replacing the word in her mind, which was cooperation.  Too threatening?  They haven't sent women solely because of his reputation, then.  The FBI is going to extremes--up to and including "promoting" harmless office workers--to make sure he feels both superior and at ease.

"Look," Claire adds, "I'll be blunt with you.  We don't know exactly what you can do, but we've seen what other mutants can do.  And we've seen you control them.  The president would much rather have you on our side than on theirs."

"Right," he says.  "You're here to bribe me, then."

Claire doesn't protest the word.  "Will it work?" she asks.  "You're a wealthy man, Dr. Xavier, but everyone wants something."

"We're aware your school has been decimated by the war," Dani says.  She sounds just sympathetic enough that he thinks she's either very good or very bad at the role they've assigned her to play.  "Perhaps there are draftees you'd like to have back?  Or maybe you have loved ones who need more aid than you can provide.  The government is willing to make its gratitude for your support... far-reaching."

"I see," Charles says slowly.  

The White House demonstration of force is as close as he's ever been to President Nixon, but it's close enough.  The man is self-serving and single-minded, but he believes in the ends justifying the means.  If he's given the FBI orders to accommodate Charles, he'll likely follow through for as long as it gets him what he wants.

"There is one thing," Charles says at last.  He almost smiles at their obvious satisfaction.  His request is as good as agreement, as far as they're concerned.  "Something the CIA couldn't do for me.  Perhaps you'll have better luck."

Are you sure this is what you want to use their goodwill for? Hank thinks at him.  He's thinking of Raven, of Moira, of Magda and her children.

The greatest power should be used to correct the greatest injustice, Charles replies.  Erik may not be the most deserving, but he is the most gravely wronged.

To be fair, Hank thinks, he's also a murderer and a traitor, not to mention a danger to all humanity.

"We've been given reasonable discretion to make promises," Claire is saying.  She doesn't like it, and she likes him even less.  Dani isn't personally offended by him, but that's only because she's generally unimpressed.  He thinks both reactions are probably fair.

"Oh, you won't like this," Charles says, putting two fingers to his temple under the guise of resting his head on his hand.  They're already thinking of their backup team in the car.  "But I appreciate your stamina on a winter morning, and your courtesy in the face of blatant rudeness on my part, so I'll tell you."

That gets Dani's attention, at least.  More empathic than telepathic.  Prone to visions, too.  Interesting that she doesn't see anything unusual about that.

"Erik Lehnsherr," Charles says.  "Magneto, as you might know him.  One of the dangerous mutants you'd like me to control.  I'd like him exonerated."

Amusingly, Dani finds this a reasonable request.  Claire is irritated with him for asking something that isn't on their pre-approved list of favors to grant.  Neither of them is appalled by the idea, nor are they confused by his wish to clear the name of a dead man.

Not because they know, he's quite sure.  They assume Magneto is alive, since Charles asked for this, which makes them at least twice as smart as either Greg or James.  But they don't know he is, nor are they aware of any logical reason he could be.  They've already written it off as need-to-know.

The men in the car may not be so quick to overlook it, Charles thinks.  But if he can get them out of here without having to answer the question directly, they'll all have the option of plausible deniability later on.  Should they need it.

"And in return," Claire says, "you'll see that he works on behalf of the United States government, rather than against it."

Charles laughs, lowering his hand and beaming at her happily.  If she's going to try, she'll have his full support.  "You give me too much credit, I'm afraid.  But I will work with you against threats like Magneto if you clear my friend's name.  That I promise you."

"I don't have the authority to make that kind of deal," Claire says grudgingly.  Warningly.  "But I'll be sure that someone who does hears your conditions."

"I wouldn't ask for something I could do myself," Charles tells her.  "I understand it's problematic.  When it's done, let me know what I can do in return."

Hank is standing up now, clearly aware of his intent.  "Are you finished with your coffee?" he asks.  "You’re welcome to take it with you if you'd like."

Dani follows smoothly, but Claire is a little slower to accept prodding.  "We'll be in touch," she says.  "We are, of course, very interested in any knowledge you might have of mutant organization or movements.”

“Well, you should start here, then.”  He smiles at her as she stands up, reaching into her coat for something that isn’t a weapon.  “We’re reopening our school for mutant children.  So far it’s drawn quite a crowd.”

“I’m sure,” Claire says.  She thinks he’s mocking her, which is just as delightful as he could have asked, but she hands over a business card nonetheless.  “Thank you for your time, Dr. Xavier.”

It’s not incorrect.  Still, he’s committed now, so he tells her, “I prefer Professor.”

“Professor,” she repeats.  “Thank you for your time.”

Their courtesy isn’t lost on him, even as Dani steps forward to shake his hand again.  If he couldn’t hear what Claire was thinking, he’d probably think them both very polite.  “Thank you,” he says, careful to take the hand he’s offered as an equal, without patting it as he once would have.  “It was nice to meet you.”

“This way,” Hank says.  He’s quiet about it, as unobtrusive as a tall young man can be, but he isn’t going to let them walk back to their car alone.  And neither of them will be taking a shortcut through the house.  Charles did promise no more government agents inside, and he means to keep that promise.

It’s Logan who appears at the edge of the porch as soon as the agents have turned the corner.  Charles sees Hank look back, just once, and not at him.  When he looks over his shoulder, Logan swings up beside him.

“Government’s real interested in you,” Logan mutters.  He’s staring at the place where the three of them vanished.

“So it would seem.”  Charles frowns at him, because he can feel the agents retreating and right now the man beside him is the bigger curiosity.  “Can I ask you something?”

Logan doesn’t move.  “Shoot.”

“Why are you still here?” Charles wants to know.  “Don’t get me wrong, we’re grateful to have you.  And certainly you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.  I’m just not sure what holds you here.”

Logan waits a long moment before answering, and his mind is oddly blank.  “What keeps you here?” he asks at last.

Charles blinks.  This is his home, really.  At least in some sense of the word.  Not in the way that he grew up here, but… well.  It’s where he found as much peace and purpose as he’s ever known, once upon a time.

“I suppose I’ve nowhere else to go,” he admits.

“Yeah,” Logan agrees, and Charles understands that his answer is the same.  “Ain’t that the truth.”

They wait in silence until Hank returns, giving Logan a nod and Charles the all-clear.  “You were right,” Hank says.  “The ‘driver’ was talking to someone in the back when we arrived.  But I don’t think they got out of the car the whole time we were gone.”

“No,” Charles says, frowning again.  “Agent Dunbarton was telling the truth.  They weren’t here to sneak around.”

“They wouldn’t have to,” Logan says bluntly.  “Anyone can just drive up.  You warn your boyfriend to stay out of sight?  Or do you not care if they know you’re harboring him?”

Charles knows that if he lets that pass unchallenged, Erik will be his “boyfriend” for the foreseeable future.  On the other hand, it’s hardly the most important point of conversation, nor is it entirely untrue.  Erik is, at the very least, his past and current paramour.

“I think that’s the most I’ve heard you say in one go,” Charles says, because sometimes his brain and his mouth don’t seem to be connected at all.  “I mean, the you from the future was quite talkative, but you haven’t seemed to--

“Sorry,” he adds quickly, catching Hank’s expression.  “Yes.  Right.  Where were we?”

“Anyone can drive up,” Hank reminds him.  “And you didn’t warn the kids this time.”

“The children have every right to be here,” Charles points out.  “I only mentioned the CIA’s presence last night because so many of us have history with them.  We hardly have the same concerns with the FBI.”

“Except Erik,” Hank says.

“Erik knew the FBI was here,” Charles says.  Which really isn’t the issue, so he adds, “It’s a fair point, regardless.  Our early warning system leaves something to be desired.”

“You know what would slow them down,” Hank says.  “Locking the gate.”

“We’re not locking the gate,” Charles tells him.

“Uh.”  Logan looks from one of them to the other.  “Why not?”

“Because it’s a symbolic barrier between us and the rest of the world,” Charles says.  “There are too many barriers already, and if someone shows up here looking for help, the last thing I want them to see is another locked door.”

"Yeah?" Logan says.  "What about the ones who are already here?"

Charles frowns.  "I... don't want them to see barriers either?"

"What about safety?" Logan counters.  “They should be able to walk around outside without tripping over the feds.  Unless you don’t think the government cares about a bunch of dangerous mutants a few hours north of the nation’s capital.”

"Well," Charles says.  Maybe he should rethink that phonebook listing.  But if they’re going to advertise the school, they can't stay private or insular.  Not this time.  “Perhaps there’s some sort of middle ground.”

“Controlled entry is the middle ground,” Logan says.  "Sometimes good fences make good neighbors."

“And yet there’s something that does not love a wall,” Charles murmurs.

“Are you--”  Hank looks torn between fondness and exasperation, and the best bit is that it’s largely Logan he’s amused by right now.  “Are you actually using Robert Frost to make this argument?”

“Oh, like you’ve been doing so well,” Logan grumbles.

“No, he’s right,” Charles says.  “Before I built a wall I’d ask to know what I was walling in or out.”

“It’s not a wall,” Hank says.  Just like that, exasperation is winning.  “It’s a gate.  Which means, by definition, that it can be opened.”

“I don’t want it to appear locked,” Charles tells him.  “And we’ll need some kind of intercom, so that people can request entry.”

“I can do that,” Hank says.  

Of course he can do that.  He’s probably already built the system and planned its installation.  “Fine,” Charles says.  “That’s fine.  

"Thank you, Hank,” he adds, because he’s not always a sore loser.  “And Logan.  I… appreciate your input.”

“Uh-huh.”  Logan’s reply is as much a grunt as anything, but that’s more what Charles has come to expect since his future self disappeared.  It’s worth remembering that the man who quotes Robert Frost and welcomes Charles’ telepathy is in there, no matter how clearly he does or doesn’t express himself.

“I’ll get it done this morning,” Hank says.  It only confirms Charles’ suspicions of his preparedness, but then he adds, “So we're assuming the CIA and the FBI aren’t talking to each other?”

“Evidence suggests that's the case,” Charles agrees.  “Although both FBI agents were relatively new; it’s possible they aren’t far enough up in the hierarchy to know what’s going on.”

“They came on behalf of the president,” Hank says.

“Feds never talk to each other,” Logan says at the same time.  “It’s their one redeeming quality: independent operation.”

“Valid points,” Charles says, though his mind has just drawn a complete blank on the topic.  Not because he’s suddenly and unnecessarily aware of Erik, doing a cool-down lap around the house.  “Which brings me to our next line of defense, though it's still largely theoretical at this time.”

Hank looks interested until Charles says, "I've given Erik permission to install an electromagnet under the lawn.  Wherever Sentinels would be most likely to land, and dependent on your approval of the location, of course."

Hank is frowning, but he doesn't reject it out of hand. "Something big enough to scramble their systems would also scramble all of ours," he says.

“Theirs are operating rotary cannons,” Charles points out.  Has Erik really been running all this time?  He doesn’t know whether to be impressed or concerned.  “It’s a tradeoff I’m willing to make.  And if it’s controlled by some sort of switch somewhere, then it’s something anyone can operate.  Even a very small and frightened someone.”

“I’m not sure that training children to use something that can disable every piece of electronic equipment on the grounds is the best idea,” Hank says.

"It levels the playing field better than giving them all guns and teaching them to shoot," Charles says.  He'll take destruction of property over loss of life any day.

"Is that Erik's suggestion?" Hank asks.

"No," Charles says, then blinks.  Erik is tightening his circle to come around the corner, and he's slowed to a walk.  "What?  No.  He suggested the electromagnet.  And possibly a jamming field; what do you think about that?"

"I can jam radio signals," Hank says.  "As long as you don't care whether it's legal or not, it's not a problem.  Guns, though.  What's our school policy on that?"

"On children having guns?"  Charles is trying to remember if there's any kind of radio jamming that is legal.  "Our policy is no.  What about audio surveillance?"

"I scan for that," Hank says.  "Every month or so, but I can do it more often if you want.  It's better to find and disable surveillance than it is to run a jammer all the time.  I mean, a jamming signal is pretty easy to trace, and it definitely makes you look paranoid.  Plus it would affect us more than anyone else, so we'd need countermeasures to get through our own security."

"Right," Charles says. Erik is leaning against the porch railing now and no one has so much as glanced at him.  It's a bit disconcerting.  "When did you start scanning for surveillance?"

"Same time your draft number came up," Hank said.  "There are several government agencies that would have reason to wonder why either of us are disqualified from service."

"The fact that you have to shoot up every day to stay normal isn't enough?" Erik asks.

"I'm sure they'd be very interested in the serum," Hank says.  "I'd rather no one else gets their hands on it."

"Does it work on any mutant?" Logan asks.

Hello, Charles thinks, because apparently no one else is going to.  How was your run?

"It should have some kind of effect on most X gene mutations," Hank says.  "Probably.  It's targeted for me and Charles, so it's least harmful to us.  I wouldn't suggest anyone else try what we use without extensive testing."

Strange, Erik thinks.  It's the same out there.  And different, as all things are with time.

Out loud, Erik says, "So it's a weapon."

"It could be used as one, yes," Hank says.  "Are you carrying a gun right now, Erik?"

Erik only raises an eyebrow at him.  "Under my sweatshirt?"

"It wouldn't be the first time," Hank replies.

"No," Erik says. He's trying very hard to be neutral about it.  "I'm not carrying a gun."

Hank wanted to know if you suggested arming the children, Charles thinks, though he has no idea what that has to do with anything.  It occurs to him only afterwards that the information is probably more inflammatory than helpful.  I've no idea why, he adds, rather weakly.

"I'm worried about having them in the school," Hank says, and now he's clearly addressing Charles.  "Erik and Moira don't have New York licenses, let alone concealed carry permits, and I don't know that there's anywhere in the residential wings safe enough to keep them away from kids like Scott."

"Scott?" Charles repeats, momentarily diverted by the specificity.

"He can cut through metal," Hank says.

"Ah."  Charles ponders this: it shouldn't be a surprise, considering Alex's own ability, but somehow it is.

"I don't have a license," Erik says, "because I don't own a gun."

"You don't--"  Hank frowns.  "You don't own a gun?"

"I own guns," Charles says.  "Erik uses them to practice sometimes.  He doesn't take them off the property, and I'm sure he would never brandish them in front of a child."

Both Erik and Logan are skeptical of this last, but as they say nothing, Charles ignores them.

"The ones in the bunker?" Hank says.

Charles only nods.  They rarely leave the vault, and they're never stored elsewhere.  Hank knows that as well as he does.

"What about Moira?" Hank asks.  "Her federal dispensation disappeared with her resignation."

"She left her CIA issued weapon at the police station," Charles says.  "I didn't ask what she brought with her from Virginia, but they screen commercial airline passengers now.  She would have had to get it on the plane."

Logan snorts.  "Not a problem," he mutters.

Charles glances at Erik, who shakes his head slightly.  What Erik is capable of getting past a baggage inspection is probably somewhat different than Moira.  Still, neither of their skill sets should be underestimated.

"Fine," Charles concedes.  "I'll speak to her about it."

"I'll get the gate intercom up," Hank says.  Before Charles can thank him he adds, "Charles says you want to put metal under the lawn and run current through it.  Fight off Sentinels with an EMP."

Erik is still paying attention, because he says warily, "That's right."

"It's a good idea," Hank says.  "Can we talk about where it goes and how strong we can make it?"

Erik's hesitation is so brief as to be unnoticeable.  That wasn't what he expected Hank to say, not to him, so he waited to see if Charles would reply.  "Of course," he says.

"If you have time this morning, I'll meet you at the gate in an hour," Hank says.  "Otherwise, maybe tonight?"

There's a flicker of consciousness that says Erik won't be here tonight, and Charles tries not to notice.  "An hour is fine," Erik says.  "What are we doing at the gate?"

"Setting up an intercom that will ring at the house," Hank says.  "So we know who to unlock the gate for.  Or at the very least," he adds, glancing at Charles, "who's coming through before they get to the house."

"Oh?" Erik says.  He's also looking at Charles.

"Yes, you've won," Charles says impatiently.  "We'll lock the gate."

It makes Erik frown.  "You were adamant about not locking the gate yesterday," he says.  "What changed?"

"The FBI showed up," Charles says.  "And Logan pointed out that some of the children might feel safer if the grounds aren't constantly being frequented by unannounced government officials."

Erik glances at Logan, gives him a slight nod, and gets a stare in return.  Charles thinks that's progress.  But then Hank adds, "They didn't seem surprised by the idea you might still be alive," and Erik puts that together much too quickly.

"Did you ask them to pardon me as well?" he wants to know.  "You don't have to protect me, Charles.  I've managed this long on my own."

His tone is mild, but the mental whiplash is bitter and accusatory.  Charles pulls back from the sting of it and struggles to find a polite response.  "It isn't all about you, Erik.  The presence of a wanted man on this  campus will do us no favors."

That wasn't it, Charles thinks.  Erik is angry, and shamed, and angry about feeling shamed.  He's willing to accept that it was Logan's argument that won this fight.  He isn't willing to be seen as a liability.

"I'm sorry if my being falsely accused and wrongly imprisoned for eight years is inconvenient for you," Erik says smoothly.  "I created a cover for exactly that reason, yet you seem determined to destroy it with your fantasy of exoneration."

"I'll ask whatever favors I want," Charles tells him.  "The only thing I'll apologize for is not doing it before."

"You didn't need me before," Erik says.  "Why risk your facade of normalcy for the man who set your sister free?"

It's low and mean and Erik knows it.  Erik is trying to hurt him.  No matter their differences in Cuba, the rift rent wide between them, Erik can not forgive being abandoned to government custody like the mutant boy he once was.

"We did need you," Charles says evenly.  "You think the Brotherhood went on without you?  You think the mutants you incited to rebellion lived comfortable and productive lives without you there to protect them?  Why do you think it took us six years to get this school off the ground if not because we became a halfway house for every runaway teenager and displaced adult on the eastern seaboard!"

Logan doesn't bother with a graceful exit.  He just turns and walks away, disappearing--into the house instead of away from it, for once--without another word.  Hank looks like he wants to do the same.

"Did I make you face the hopelessness most of us feel every day?" Erik counters.  "I thought that's what you wanted: to identify them, to find them, to give them a better life.  You were supposed to protect them, Charles.  You owed them that."

You owed me that, he thinks but doesn't say.

"You promised to protect them," Charles says, as calmly as he can.  "I want them able to protect themselves.  Don't you see, a movement that isn't sustainable without its leaders isn't sustainable at all."

You proved that, Charles thinks.  Logan isn't the first mutant Raven has sent him, and Janos brought Azazel himself when the man was tranqed and half-crushed by a military tank.  The only one of Erik's band Charles never saw again was Angel.

"Well," Erik says with a small smile, "what a wonderful opportunity to practice your philosophy, then.  After I took your advice and turned myself in, I suppose you did me a favor by letting me protect myself all the way to federal prison."

"I didn't think you'd do it," Charles snaps.  "And if you could have refrained from escaping for more than a month at a time, maybe we would have been able to find you!"

Erik eyes him with disdain while his mind slams wall after wall between them in an effort to hide his desperate wish for a pretty lie.  "You can't expect me to believe you tried and failed.  That's not in your nature."

"We did look," Hank mutters when Charles closes his eyes against the pain in Erik's mind.  "They moved you too often.  We couldn't risk drawing attention to the school."

"Too few of them looked human to maintain your cover?" Erik says pleasantly.

Charles puts his hands to his temples, heedless of what it looks like.  "We can't fight the whole world, Erik!  We did what we could--we dealt with the legacy you left, and we did what we could!"

"Look," Hank says.  He recognizes the gesture even if Erik doesn't want to, and he's worried.  "Maybe now isn't a good time."

"It's fine, Hank," Charles mumbles, forcing himself to pull his hands away.

"This is the time we have," Erik says.  His thoughts are screaming in Charles' head, almost too loud to hear him speak, but it doesn't matter.  Charles knows what he's going to say.  

I want to know why you didn't come for me, Erik thinks.  Says.  It's so hard to know now, when they're both thinking exactly the same thing.  Erik wasn't the only one left behind, after all.

"I would have come for you," Erik tells him.  Possibly out loud.  Probably not.

Charles stares back at him.  "Would you?"

Erik's mouth twists in something that shouldn't be a smile, and the too-warm air around them feels suddenly sharp and cold.  "I guess that's my answer, then."

It isn't snowing, but everything is white.  He can't feel anything, can't see or hear anything except Hank's voice whispering, Charles.  He and Erik weren't speaking, then.  He of all people should have noticed when Erik stole into his mind.

Hank's hands are on his shoulders as he shudders with the force of his gasp.  The cold air makes him cough, and Hank's fingers tighten, his thoughts carefully calm and focused solely on the empty porch.  

It's meant to be grounding, Charles knows.  Erik's absence is anything but.  He should have known teaching someone to hold his mind also meant teaching them to let it go.

Chapter 7

“Charles,” Hank says. His voice is careful and calm, and at least he waited until Charles can breathe again. Until the porch feels real, and he pats Hank’s hand on his shoulder in silent thanks. “Would you tell us if Erik was hurting you?”

“It’s fine,” Charles tells him. His throat is raw from the coughing, and the words don’t come out as smoothly as he’d like. “We were just a bit stuck, that’s all.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Hank says steadily.

Charles tries not to know where Erik is and fails. Erik is inside and upstairs, moving quickly and focused on only one thing. As Charles taught them. The constant mental loop of, I need a shower, all I want is a shower, I’m going to take a shower, is enough to make Charles’ attention slide off and retreat reluctantly back to the porch.

“Yes,” he lies. “Maybe. I don’t know, Hank. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You keep saying it’s fine,” Hank says. “It doesn’t look fine to me.”

“What doesn’t look fine?” Charles says impatiently, but he knows. He knows before Hank says it, and Hank knows that he knows, so he doesn’t pull any punches.

“You and Erik,” Hank says. “It looks like he’s psychically attacking you. Alex and Moira say this isn’t the first time.”

“He isn’t,” Charles says. “What do you--of course he isn’t--he’s not attacking me. Why would you think that?”

“Why wouldn’t we?” Hank counters. “You don’t just flinch, Charles. You physically pull away from him, you hold your head, and you’re semi-catatonic until he leaves or you do. I’ve seen it three times this week, not even counting your meltdown in Cerebro, and Alex and Moira say they’ve seen worse.”

That makes Charles raises his eyebrows. He knew they were talking about him. He didn’t know they were this worried. He probably should have known.

“Alex saw you collapse,” Hank says, without waiting for him to ask. “Moira says you yelled at Erik to stop. What do you want us to do, stand by and let the two of you fight it out until someone wins?”

“Look,” Charles says. “There’s clearly been a misunderstanding. Neither of those incidents were Erik’s fault, and I don’t know what you’ve seen but I’m sure it wasn’t--”

“It wasn’t Erik’s fault,” Hank says, speaking over top of him. “Of course it wasn’t. You know, that would be more convincing if it ever happened when you were talking to someone else. But it doesn’t. It’s only Erik, and you’ve never been reasonable about him. Even before he left, you were--”

He stops, frustration taking him farther than he might have gone otherwise. He knows Erik is Charles’ weak spot. Charles doesn’t have to admit it, Hank knows, and for the most part he lets it lie.

But maybe now there’s too much left unspoken. With so many people around, the old secrets are more dangerous. If they’re all going to stand together--against the world, as Raven would say--they deserve to know who they’re standing with.

“In love with him,” Charles says out loud. “I was in love with him.”

Hank is only the second person he’s said it to, and it sounds exactly as awkward and uncomfortable as it feels. “Was?” Hank repeats quietly.

“Am,” Charles says with sigh. “That sounds depressing, doesn’t it? Or hopeless, or… or something. I don’t know what. I don’t have the faintest idea what I’m doing, Hank.”

“Okay,” Hank says slowly. “I mean… that’s actually kind of reassuring.”

“Is it?” Charles asks, rubbing his hands together. “Can we go inside? I’m starting to feel remorse about leaving you all out here while I got dressed. Well, only you, really. It’s quite chilly out.”

“I noticed,” Hank says dryly. Still, he collects the coffee cups and follows Charles in. He sets them down again when Charles pauses just inside the door. It’s warmer inside, but it’s less private, and they won’t make it as far as the kitchen alone.

His hands are cold again from the rims, and rubbing them together feels a little too much like wringing them. He does it anyway because he doesn’t know what else to do. “I’ll admit,” he says, while Hank tries to slouch enough that he’s not twice as tall as Charles, “when it comes to Erik, I’m… I’m compromised, yeah? But I’m quite sure he isn’t hurting me on purpose. Everything that--that happens, between us… it’s at least as much my responsibility as it is his.”

Hank gives him a look that’s entirely too shrewd and he focuses on the part Charles is trying to ignore. “But he is hurting you,” he says.

“I’m sure we’re hurting each other,” Charles says. “He doesn’t know how to do this either; he can’t--” He breaks off before he can spill more of Erik’s secrets than are his to share. “We’re both lost, Hank. We’re feeling our way. Logan’s message…”

He doesn’t know how to finish that, but Hank doesn’t expect him to. “I know,” Hank says after a moment. “It made me wonder, too.”

Charles tries to smile. “Not the most encouraging glimpse of the future, certainly.”

“No,” Hank says, but that isn’t what he wants to talk about. At least not directly. “Charles, you taught Erik to resist telepathic intrusion. You taught all of us. If he’s using that training aggressively, on you or anyone else, you need to make him stop.”

Charles can hear the warning in that, as Hank no doubt intended: Erik is plenty dangerous as he is. He has a tremendous amount of power on his own, and he’s been fascinated by telepaths since he learned of their existence. Since he learned of Charles’ existence. If he figures out how to coerce someone who has the mental power to match his physical strength, there will be no stopping them.

Once upon a time, Charles worried that he would be the one coercing someone like Erik. Well. It was always Erik, of course. Not someone like him, but Erik himself--the two of them together would usher in the new age of human evolution.

Now, he has to admit Hank is right to be concerned. There are moments when he misses Erik so fiercely that he would do almost anything. If Erik caught him at such a moment--if he asked for something Charles has the power to give… Charles’ grasp on reality is more tenuous than it used to be. Years of psychic isolation have not made him more resistant to the lure of Erik’s mind.

“Charles?” Hank doesn’t move, but he’s watching closely. He can see Charles’ uncertainty, that much is clear. “Do you think we made the future worse? By…”

Hank doesn’t want to say it, and Charles doesn’t want to hear it.

Hank says it anyway. “By freeing Erik,” he says. “Or by telling him what’s going to happen. He tried to kill Mystique--what if he does worse, trying to stop it?”

Charles is shaking his head, because he can’t think that. He can’t. “No, he promised,” he says. “No more killing. He promised me, and I believe he’ll keep that promise.”

“For how long?” Hank asks.

“For--” Charles swallows, shaking his head again. “For as long as he’s here, I guess. That was our agreement. That he could stay, that he could… join us. As long as he--followed the rules.”

“Whose rules?” Hank says carefully.

“Mine,” Charles says, but the word twists and he can barely get it out. He doesn’t know what gives him the right to make rules. He’s no bastion of moral superiority, no example or inspiration to others. He’s not even a success story, these days.

Hank is gentler than he should be when he says, “That’s good. Your rules are good, Charles.”

He doesn’t pretend it’s a laugh. “But they don’t work, do they?” He has nothing to show for the lines he drew in the sand, most of them now so blurred he can’t remember exactly where they are. “They’ve done nothing but scatter us, weaker and worse off than we were when we started.”

“You know that’s not true,” Hank says. “Look at Alex. He turned his life around because of you. He found Scott. Look at Darwin and Eva, or Sean and Moira. They’d never have met each other if not for you. If not for this.

“Look at Erik,” Hank adds. “I mean, I’m not saying he’s the best thing to happen to the world, but he’s not dead, right? He’s alive because of you. Maybe he’ll come around. Who knows; stranger things have happened.”

This time Charles does manage a laugh, and he’s so very grateful for it. “Yes,” he says, “well, coming from you. That doesn’t mean very much, does it?”

Hank shrugs, but he’s pleased by the acknowledgment.

“Pass me those mugs,” Charles says. “I might as well do something useful around here. I’ll wash the dishes while you work your magic on the gate.”

“You might talk to Alex,” Hank says, and Charles understands that this is an order thinly veiled as suggestion. Hank doesn’t want to leave him alone right now, but he knows Charles won’t let him hover. “I think he has some questions about curriculum equivalency.”

Charles doubts this, given that Alex used to know equivalency for grades 5-8 backwards and forwards. They haven’t changed that much in his absence. But he takes the mugs from Hank and he nods. “I’ll find him,” he says.

He does, too. He passes Peter in the hallway--or Peter passes him, but he gets a “good morning” either way--and he manages to wash the mugs before Moira catches up with him and demands an update on their visitors. He fills her in, too aware that Erik isn’t in the room they’ve been sharing. He used the shower in the room next door. His own room, where he’s currently rearranging the furniture.

Charles tells himself it’s a good sign. It’s reassuring. It means Erik isn’t leaving, and he should be happy with that. Not disappointed that Erik is carefully avoiding any possibility they’ll run into each other by accident.

“This is a terrible plan you have,” Moira is telling him. “You know that, right? The idea that the government will just pardon Erik and everything will be fine? It’s ridiculous.”

“Yes,” Charles says absently. “I’m told it’s less a plan and more a fantasy, really.”

“It is,” Moira says. “Who told you that? Because they’re right. It’s never going to work, and all you’ll do by pushing it is to convince them you know something about Erik that they don’t.”

“That’s what Erik says,” Charles agrees. “That’s the point, of course. I do know something about Erik that they don’t. I know he’s innocent, and I would have that recognized in court.”

“Erik is a lot of things,” Moira says, “but innocent isn’t one of them.”

“He’s innocent of the charge that sent him to prison,” Charles says firmly. “I’m not interested in debating whether he deserved to be there or not.”

“Because he did,” Moira says.

“And that, surprisingly, is not how the justice system works,” Charles says. “Or not how it’s supposed to work, anyway. Last I knew, we’re meant to convict people of crimes they’ve actually committed.”

Moira rolls her eyes. “You’d all be in prison if that were true,” she mutters.

"Oh, that's not fair," Charles protests. "Darwin wouldn't be." He thinks about it, frowning. "Probably."

"Magda would like to take Wanda shopping," Moira says without deigning to address that. "Apparently the clothing issue for an eight-to-eighteen-year-old is a little strange. Especially since she hasn't actually seen herself as an eight-year-old for the last ten years."

"Really," Charles says. It's a successful diversion, even if he still knows exactly where Erik is and what he's doing. "Why did she want everyone else to see her that way?"

"You think it was voluntary?" Moira asks, raising her eyebrows.

He mirrors her expression. "Doesn't she?"

Moira looks surprised. "I don't know, I guess--maybe we didn't ask. I can't remember now."

"You assume her powers were out of her control," Charles says. "I assume she learned something when she was eight that made her... not want to change." No one's questioned Wanda's obvious telepathy, or the fact that she recognized Erik on sight. If Charles had to guess, he'd say Magda told the twins about their father when they were eight.

"Well, that's--" Moira shakes her head once. "Good, I suppose? If it means she probably won't do it again by accident."

"You mentioned clothes," Charles says. He doesn't think there's any guarantee Wanda will stay the age she looks now, but then, he's also fairly sure she can appear in whatever wardrobe she chooses. She's much better at controlling her powers than Peter thinks she is.

"Right," Moira says. "I'm sorry to ask this, but Magda isn't going to tell you about their financial situation. Is there any chance you'd be willing to help out with some of the kids'... things?"

"Of course," he says quickly. Magda didn’t go to work today and isn't likely to for the rest of the week. Charles knows she'll stall them as best she can, but the chances of her returning to Virginia must be declining rapidly. "Whatever she needs. She'll not accept money from me, though; you know that as well as I."

"What, from her husband's wealthy lover?" Moira says. "I can't imagine why not. I'll use the usual cover, if you don't mind."

"Certainly." She's very convincing when it comes to her imaginary "use it or lose it" government expense fund. "How long do you think that's good for, now you're not an agent anymore?"

"Oh, another few months at least." Moira flashes him a wry smile. "Government bureaucracy, you know. Very slow moving."

"Indeed," Charles agrees, smiling back. "Lucky for us, it seems. You'll be going with them, then?"

"Yes," Moira says. "I think Peter's going to stay here. You'll keep an eye on him, won't you?"

Charles lets out an incredulous huff. "I think there are very few people who can keep their eyes on Peter," he says. "I'll be here if he has questions, yes. I'll try to keep him from pulling the house apart at the foundations, but short of that, I make no promises."

"That's probably as much as we can ask," Moira says. "Sean's out with Warren; I think they're flying around the lake. They should be back by lunchtime."

“Excellent,” Charles says. “Cam tells me we’ll have a cook by Wednesday, but in the meantime, she’s offered to provide the evening meal. Past experience suggests there will also be sandwiches for lunch.”

“Oh, save me one, would you?” Moira is disappointed to miss lunch, which is an appropriate reaction given the inventiveness of Cam’s sandwiches. “Especially if there’s anything fried in them. Sean will eat all of them otherwise.”

“You have my word,” Charles says with a smile. “I’m off to find Alex, per Hank’s instructions. You’ll likely see him at the gate on the way out.”

“Do we need anything to get back in?” Moira politely refrained from gloating over the locking of the gate, but she was both pleased and relieved to hear about it. “Key? Code? ID?”

“Ask Hank,” Charles says. “I’ve no idea what he’s doing with it. Oh, and don’t take the car you drove to the airport. If the CIA is still in the area, they may be looking for that one.”

“If they’re watching the house, it won’t matter what car I take,” Moira says. “You’ll have to admit I’m here eventually.”

Charles shrugs. “I’m sure you’d come back to visit. We’re still friends, after all.”

“Yes,” Moira says, and for once she doesn’t sound resigned to it. “Yes, we are.”

The fact that she apparently plans to stay is almost as good as her tone. He rides the warm glow of it down the hall to Alex’s classroom, where Eva and Scott are playing one of the projector math games while Darwin and Alex argue over history and politics. They don’t stop when Charles hesitates in the doorway, although Darwin waves him in and Alex nods at him.

Eva asks him to play with them, which sounds more entertaining than discussing curriculum equivalencies and definitely better than arguing about international imperialism and modern day civil rights. Especially when Scott seconds the request. Scott likes Eva well enough, but he’s eager to see and interact with adult mutants--or anyone he considers an adult, which includes Warren and Peter. Charles is happy to balance their influence to the best of his ability.

Unfortunately, playing with the children doesn’t take up enough of his attention. He probably would have been better off in the discussion of politics after all, since the alternative is his ongoing hyperawareness of Erik’s movements. He doesn’t miss Erik’s visit to the lab--though he’s relatively sure Erik doesn’t actually step inside--but Hank isn’t there, and Erik moves on after a brief hesitation.

He doesn’t stop in the kitchen, and Charles wonders if it's considered fretting that he’s concerned about whether or not Erik had enough to eat before his hour-long run. It probably is. He asks Scott and Eva what they had for breakfast to make up for it.

Hank is out at the gate already, and Charles sees him through Erik’s eyes before he’s even aware of his location. He tries very hard to let go then, to let Erik alone, because if he’s riding Erik’s consciousness so closely that it’s drowning out the rest of his senses then Erik can probably feel it. Eva could sense him, after all, and Erik has reason to be much more sensitive to Charles’ presence than Eva does.

It only partly works. Eva asks him if he can talk to her without saying anything again, and that’s enough to startle him into doing it. Her mind is harsh and glittery, which is enough of a distraction that he forgets to follow Erik for almost a minute. Can you hear me? he asks silently.

“Yes,” she says out loud. “Now I can. You were far away before.”

Scott looks from him to Eva and back.

“I just asked if Eva could hear me,” Charles says. “In her head. What do you mean, I was far away?”

“You were talking to someone else,” Eva says. The projector light flickers over her hand as she traces a new path through the numbers. “Talk to me again.”

You mean like this, Charles thinks.

“Yes,” she says, at almost the same time.

He nudges her gently, psychically, with interest instead of words, and she lifts her eyes to him inquiringly. Charles smiles. You don’t need words to understand me, he thinks.

“Are you talking?” Scott wants to know. “Can you talk to me too?”

Scott’s only had one direct experience with his telepathy, so Charles feels obliged to remind him, “I’m a telepath. Hearing my thoughts inside your head can feel a little… strange.”

“I know,” Scott says, surprising him again. “Alex told me.”

“Did he,” Charles murmurs. You should both be able to hear me now, he thinks, careful and quiet in their brilliant minds. You won’t be able to hear each other unless you both want to.

Scott tilts his head. Why would we be able to hear each other? he thinks, very clearly. “How can we hear each other?” he asks out loud. “We’re not telepaths. At least, I’m not.”

Scott looks at Eva, but she’s looking at the projection again. “He can make us hear what he hears,” she says. “Like what he’s listening to outside.”

Hank is telling Erik to stop triggering Charles' telepathic defenses. Charles is absolutely not listening from inside Erik’s mind, but he might be using Hank’s awareness to monitor their conversation. Being attuned to Hank as he is, he can feel the flicker of recognition when Hank notices him, but Hank doesn’t say anything.

“You’re remarkably sensitive to psionic fields, my dear,” Charles says absently. “Can you always tell when people are paying attention to you and when they’re not?”

Erik tells Hank that he’s not doing anything he and Charles haven’t discussed, and it’s none of Hank's business besides.

“Yes,” Eva says. “I guess so? Darwin says I’m good at adapting.”

That makes Charles smile, even as Hank snaps back at Erik. Either Charles isn't telling him everything, he says, or Erik is a sadistic bastard who likes having his partners incapacitated. Charles would protest except that he’s not supposed to be hearing this at all, and he knows exactly how much Hank will tolerate.

"Well, Darwin would know," Charles says. "It's probably better you don't hear what I'm hearing outside, though. I shouldn't be listening myself."

Erik is saying that Hank's the one who likes his partners hobbled, shackled by an illusion of normalcy, which is both uncalled for and irrelevant.

"Alex told me that sometimes you can't help it," Scott says. "You don't mean to listen, but you do anyway."

Hank replies that at least he hasn't actually paralyzed anyone, which is about as fair as any of Erik's comments.

"That's true," Charles agrees. "I hear people's minds the way you hear their voices. We're all sitting here, talking to each other right now, and you couldn't very well stop listening to me, could you?"

Erik asks if they’re going to talk about Charles or the school’s defenses, and Hank tells him it’s the same thing. It’s a sobering reality, that Charles’ money and privilege protects these grounds as well or better than any walls. He knows Erik resents it as much as he’s willing to use it.

"I could cover my ears," Scott offers.

“That might help,” Charles says. “Unless I started yelling. You’d still be able to hear me then, right? Even if you did cover your ears. Some people think very loudly.”

Erik accuses Hank of making the school vulnerable with his gene-suppressing serum. It’s a logical counter to Hank’s rebuke, and it’s nothing he hasn’t said before. They really should have expected it.

“Do I think loudly?” Eva asks.

“No,” Charles says, finally aware that Alex and Darwin have given up any pretense of their own conversation to listen. “At least, not that I’ve noticed. Your thoughts are sharp and shining, but they’re very polite.”

Hank tells Erik that Charles never would have agreed to the spinal treatment with all its side effects if the new Cerebro hadn’t nearly killed him. He couldn’t use it without you, Hank is saying. Not at first. Not until Alex and I learned to help.

“What are my thoughts like?” Scott wants to know.

“Yours are remarkably clear,” Charles says, glancing over at Alex. “I think your brother must have provided you with some instruction.”

You should have let that machine die, Erik tells Hank.

Alex nods, but it’s Darwin who speaks. “So, wait,” he says, “you can’t not listen to our thoughts? Even when we’re in another room or something?”

He thought it would help us find you, Hank says simply.

“The farther away you are,” Charles says, struggling to keep his voice unaffected, “the easier you are to ignore. I’m less likely to overhear you by accident if you’re on the other side of the house, for example.”

Unless you’re Erik, he thinks to himself. In which case I’ll want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone, and I will follow you helplessly to the ends of the earth. No matter my promises not to. And in the end it won’t matter, because you’ll go farther than I ever could, with you forever looking back at me as though I’m the one who left you behind.

Did he tell you to say that? Erik asks.

No, Hank says. But he is listening. I don’t know if you can tell.

“So you can ignore us,” Darwin is saying.

I can’t, Erik says. How do I even know who I’m arguing with, then?

“As much as you can ignore a conversation being held in the same room with you,” Charles says, “yes. Sometimes it’s easier than others.”

He doesn’t take us over without asking, Hank says. You know that.

“Sure,” Alex says. “Like when it’s boring.”

How? Erik asks. How do I know that?

“How do you know if it’s boring without listening to it first?” Eva wants to know.

I guess you have to trust him, Hank says. The way he trusts you. You don’t hurt him, he won’t control you. Basic survival instinct. Even before friendship, let alone… well. Family, I guess.

“I’m sure your thoughts could never be boring, my dear,” Charles tells her. “But I do have rather a lot of thoughts of my own, and often I’m distracted by them. So it’s not as though I always notice what everyone is thinking.”

We’re not family, Erik says. Charles isn’t my family.

Charles closes his eyes. He reminds himself that he shouldn’t be listening at all, that they’re not loud or nearby or any of the things he’s just said he can’t help overhearing. Except that one of them is Erik, so he can’t stay away.

“You said it’s like being in a crowded room, right?” Alex asks. “At a party. Everyone's always talking at once, so it's noisy, but you can’t hear what any one person is saying unless you concentrate on them.”

Well, he’s mine, Hank tells Erik. He’s the only family I have. So get your fucking priorities straight before I bury you.

“Yes,” Charles says softly. The house has become a party his ex is at, and no one knows whether to ignore him, threaten him, or make nice. Least of all Charles, who can do anything except pretend he doesn’t care. “That’s an apt description.”

Chapter 8

Once the children grow bored with his telepathy, he finds they’re willing to talk about their own abilities. He’s even able to listen, after the conversation between Erik and Hank turns to metal and electricity. Eva holds out her arm shyly, and Scott tells him, “I set things on fire.”

“Do you now,” Charles says, inspecting the proffered arm closely. Her skin isn’t really purple, nor does it appear to be skin at all. “Eva, may I touch your arm?”

She looks at Darwin first, but when he nods she says, “Yes. But everyone says my skin feels funny, so you might not like it.”

He can hear Darwin thinking, loudly and messily, that no one should tell Eva that her skin looks or feels strange. Charles assumes that’s directed at him. He presses his fingers gently against the top of her arm, and tiny scales shift and shimmer under the weight. “That’s very nice,” he says, smiling at her. “I like your skin very much.”

He holds out his other arm to her and adds, “Does mine feel funny to you?”

Eva pats his arm the same way he’s touched hers and she shakes her head. “No,” she says. “Your skin feels like Darwin’s when he’s not adapting to anything.”

Even now that he can see it up close, he can barely feel the difference in the pads of her fingers. They’re smooth and warm--maybe a little drier than he expects a child’s hands to be, but that could be coincidence. She has hair on her head, long dark hair that straggles over her ears and shoulders like so many other girls, but there’s no fuzz on her arm.

“That’s really quite brilliant,” Charles says, staring intently at her skin before he catches himself and pats her hand awkwardly. “I mean, you’re very beautiful, but of course you know that. It’s such a fascinating color you have, not pigment at all, but entirely structural. Does it protect you from paper cuts, by any chance?”

She looks at Darwin again, then frowns up at Charles before either of them can speak. “What’s a paper cut?”

Charles laughs, patting her hand again. “I think that answers my question, then,” he says.

“She doesn’t scratch or bruise easily,” Darwin says. “But I don’t get paper cuts either, so it’s never come up.”

“A paper cut,” Charles tells her, “is a small cut in the skin caused by a something very thin, like a piece of paper. It’s usually unexpected and surprisingly painful.

“Scott?” he adds, catching his eye. “Paper cuts? Painful, yes?”

Scott nods quickly.

“Ever set a piece of paper on fire?” Charles asks with a smile.

Scott hesitates. “Yes,” he says. The sunglasses make it hard to tell where he’s looking, but his body language is more confident than his mind. “Not on purpose, though.”

“Can you do it on purpose?” Charles asks. The answer is yes, according to Alex, but he’s curious to know what Scott will say.

“I think so,” Scott says. “Probably. But it’s too dangerous to try.”

Charles tries not to look gleeful. Alex says it’s disconcerting when he does that. “You know, your brother once said the same thing,” he tells Scott. “We have a safe room where you can test your powers, if you’d like.”

“But I--” Scott is afraid to tell them how dangerous his powers are, and Charles has to stay very still to keep from interrupting him. “It isn’t just fire. I destroy things. By… looking at them.”

“You can’t destroy this room,” Charles says, but he remembers Alex and he adds, “Probably. If you can, that just proves we need a better room. Care to test it out?”

Scott’s uncomfortable now, but it isn’t because he doesn’t want to. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he says quietly.

Charles aches for him and for the memory of Alex: locked in a cell that could never hold him, resigned to solitary confinement because that’s where he thought he belonged. “Neither do I,” Charles says. “I could, you know. But I learned how not to. So did Alex. You can too, if you’re willing to work at it.”

Scott lifts his chin and definitely does not look at Alex. “I am,” he says. “I want to be able to control it.”

“Good for you.” Charles does look at Alex, because Scott’s young and he’s Alex’s brother. If their mutations are as similar as they sound, Alex should be able to offer a fair amount of guidance. “Do you want to give it a go now, or are you in the middle of something?”

Scott doesn’t answer, but Alex just holds up his hands. “It’s up to him,” he says.

There’s another moment of silence, and then Eva asks, “Can I watch?”

The bunker has an observation window now, so Charles says that’s Scott's choice as well, and maybe that’s what makes Scott agree. Or maybe it’s just that he doesn’t like wearing glasses all the time, and thinking about it makes him want to take them off all the more. He trusts them enough to try it, anyway, and he lets all of them watch, which is delightful.

Scott isn’t exaggerating when he says he destroys things by looking at them. His power, though it flares and sputters unpredictably, looks every bit as explosive and alarming as Alex’s. Unlikely his brother’s energy, though, Scott appears to channel it through his eyes alone. It makes him exceedingly good at anything resembling target practice.

“That’s really very good,” Charles murmurs to Alex, as they watch Scott gain confidence in the bunker’s ability to withstand his power. He’s lit up three stationary paper targets already, and “burned” is perhaps less appropriate than “disintegrated.”

“He’s okay when he’s calm,” Alex says. Scott has a rhythm to it: find the target, close his eyes, lower his glasses and then open his eyes. “It’s worst when he’s scared. But he’s not great at surprises either.”

“Mm, not like anyone else I know.” Charles doesn’t look away from the window, but he smiles when he feels Alex glance at him. “How did he come by the glasses?”

Alex’s pause answers the question as effectively as his thoughts. “I don’t know,” he admits. “He won’t let anyone else touch them.”

Charles lowers his voice further. “Can he see without them? Without disintegrating anything around him, that is?”

“Yeah,” Alex says, too slowly for the truth that’s in his mind. “But… I mean, he’s trying to control it now. And you can see--well. He’s not like me; he doesn’t have to turn it on. He’s trying to turn it off.”

They watch another paper circle turn to ash and dust, not even illuminated by Scott’s power long enough to catch fire. He closes his eyes immediately, but he doesn’t push his glasses up before he peeks again. Even from the side, Charles can see those eyes spark red before Scott hastily slides his glasses back into place.

Charles understands the feeling.

Eva thinks Scott’s power is much more interesting than her own, but Scott gets tired of disintegrating paper more quickly than Charles expected. Between the two of them, the children are easily bored--until Alex and Darwin go into the bunker. They send Scott out, and once the door is closed they start showing off.

Charles finds them fascinating to watch, but it’s a bit of a surprise to him that the children are so entranced. Surely the old game of “try to knock Darwin over” is less interesting to an audience than it is to the participants. Charles enjoys it for what it reveals about Darwin’s ability to change his molecular structure, but the children stand pressed up against the window for a long time, just watching.

Perhaps the most interesting part is their lack of alarm. Scott must be particularly aware of how destructive Alex’s power can be, but he watches his brother throw it at Darwin with awe and pride rather than fear. Eva is also completely unconcerned, but Charles can tell she’s used to Darwin being invincible. It’s part of the foundation of her world that no matter what happens, Darwin will be fine.

Not unusual for a parental figure, Charles thinks. But of course Darwin is uniquely capable of living up to that ideal. He wonders, not for the first time, how Darwin and Angel came to be separated a second time. He wonders too how long Alex has been a part of their life, or if he ever stopped. Alex and Darwin are careful not to think of the past around him, though, so Charles doesn’t ask.

Hank joins them for lunch. So does Cam, to Eva’s clear delight, and it makes Charles re-evaluate her lack of female role models. Scott is fascinated by adult mutants. Why wouldn’t Eva be? Aside from Wanda, she has no present physical proof that girl mutants grow up be adults at all. And Wanda isn’t the most convincing case.

Erik appears in the kitchen as they’re finishing their sandwiches, but he only asks to borrow Darwin before disappearing again. Charles can’t decide if he’s surprised that Darwin goes with him or not. Hank and Alex exchange glances, and then Hank offers, “I think he wants to test some safety measures for the EMP.”

Alex gets it right away. “You mean he wants to electrocute Darwin,” he says bluntly.

Hank shrugs. “I think he wants to not electrocute Darwin, actually. But yeah. Pretty much.”

“What’s an EMP?” Scott asks.

“It stands for electromagnetic pulse,” Alex says. “It fries electronics.”

“Depending on its intensity and duration, it can overload a variety of electrically powered machines,” Hank says. “Lightning is a natural EMP. If it hits your house, it can knock out the lights. Erik wants to make an artificial one, in case he needs to take out, say, a giant robot.”

“In case one of us needs to take out a giant robot, you mean.” Alex is clearly on board with the plan to be as honest with the children as possible. “Erik’s a walking EMP generator; he doesn’t need a machine.”

Charles hasn’t seen Darwin and Eva separated for more than a few minutes since they arrived, but she doesn’t seem uncomfortable until she turns to him and asks, “Is Erik trying to protect us from the humans?”

Over by the counter, Charles sees Cam pause. She’s slicing apples for Scott and Eva, which is very kind of her. She’s always been comfortable around mutant children, which is why she’s still here, but for a moment, Eva’s question makes her very aware that she’s outnumbered.

“No,” Charles says carefully. “Erik is trying to protect us from the Sentinels. Have you seen them on television?”

“Yes,” Eva says, pulling apart the remains of her sandwich.

“The big purple robots that shoot at people,” Scott says. He doesn’t say “mutants” or “humans,” he just says “people,” and Charles is so grateful that he doesn’t wonder if that’s Alex’s influence until later.

“Unfortunately,” Charles says. “Yes. The military doesn’t seem to have completed testing on them yet. I’m sure they’ll be much safer the next time we see them.”

“It could be a while,” Hank says. “They were pretty thoroughly discredited during their first demonstration.”

Alex thinks of armor that doesn’t work and weapons that jam, equipment he was told to use even after everyone knew it was defective. He doesn’t say anything, and Charles thinks, maybe not that honest. There has to be a middle ground between telling children nothing and telling them everything.

“I hope so,” he says out loud. “I’d prefer never to see them again, myself.”

“Here you go,” Cam says, sliding the plate of apple slices onto the table between Eva and Scott. “The red ones are a little sweeter.”

“Thank you,” Eva says automatically. She climbs up onto her chair, kneeling on the seat to reach the plate, and Scott copies her even though he doesn’t have to, right down to the “thank you.”

“Yes,” Charles says, catching Cam’s eye with a smile. “Thank you, Cam. This is truly delicious.”

Hank and Alex echo him, and Cam beams back at them. She sets aside the rest of what she’s made for the boys, for Sean and Warren and Peter, whenever and wherever they turn up. Charles only just remembers to ask that one be labeled for Moira, too.

He catches Alex’s passing curiosity that he asks on Moira’s behalf and not on Erik’s, but Erik had his chance and chose not to eat with them. Charles is doing his very best not to care. It’s not as though Erik is his family, after all.

That isn’t fair and he knows it. Erik has a terrible habit of saying what he thinks others will say before they can use it to hurt him. Charles knows this better than anyone, and he’s heard Erik do it over and over again. He shouldn’t have been listening in the first place.

It doesn’t stop him from tracking Erik’s presence around the grounds that afternoon, nor does it keep him from being acutely aware when Erik vanishes. There’s no steady distancing of his awareness, nor is there any alarm before he goes. Erik’s consciousness isn’t lost, it’s just… gone.

Charles can’t help being impressed that Azazel still moves quickly enough to avoid being picked up telepathically.

Erik’s absence at dinner is more noticeable than it was the rest of the day. They eat in the dining room for the first time, with Alex and Sean and Logan all helping Cam to set and serve the table. Magda and Moira are back, and Eva begs Darwin to sit next to them while Wanda takes seats for her and Peter on the other side of the table with Warren and Scott.

Charles finds a place set for him at the head of the table, which used to make sense when the room was overcrowded and it was the easiest space for him to maneuver. Now, even with all of them, they take up less than half the room, and sitting at either end of the long table seems ridiculous. He makes Hank take the other end in revenge, which earns them a snicker from Alex, but at least he doesn’t say anything inappropriate in front of the children.

Alex sits between Darwin and Charles, and Sean joins Moira at the other end. It leaves the space on Hank’s right for Logan, while the chair on Charles’ other side remains conspicuously empty. He tells Cam to join them and she does, but Alex must decide that saying nothing is weirder than saying something.

“No Erik tonight?” he asks casually.

“He’s running some errands,” Charles says, as smoothly as he can. It’s probably not untrue. “He’ll be back later this evening.”

Alex nods, and that’s the last Charles hears about it. The children talk loudly enough to fill up the room, which is charming and also something of a relief when he doesn’t feel like making conversation. He compliments Cam on the food and thanks Alex for his enthusiastic passing of dishes, but otherwise he lets the chaos alone.

It isn’t until he turns on the light in his bedroom later that he thinks he might not be the one Erik was avoiding. There’s a second dresser in the room now, and the chair that held Erik’s old clothes is empty. Charles stares at the furniture for a long moment before he dares to open one of the drawers: Erik’s shirts, new and old, line the bottom of it. Three of his coats are in the closet. And there’s a note on the nightstand that Charles uses to get himself in and out of bed.

Charles, it says. Hank tells me you overheard our conversation at the gate. If you have something to contribute, I’m listening.

It’s not a particularly friendly note, but Charles thinks that the furniture makes Erik’s intentions clear. Erik is hurt and unsure, but he isn’t leaving. It’s an improvement over every interaction they had between Cuba and Washington.

It is, perhaps, several steps back from where they woke up this morning, but if they could sleep their way out of this mess they never would have separated in the first place.

He leaves the light on when he goes to bed. Not because Erik’s ever needed it before, but because it seems the thing to do. He doesn’t expect to sleep well with or without the light, so it hardly matters to him.

He’s grateful for it when a knock pulls him out of a fitful doze. His head is sharp and stinging, and it takes him too long to put that together with the empty space beside him and the knocking sound coming from the door. He sits up quickly, his heartbeat fast and afraid. “Come in, Azazel.”

The door swings open and Azazel strides in, bold and impatient as his gaze sweeps over the room. Charles is no more discreet, taking any thought that escapes those prickly defenses. There’s only one thing at the front of Azazel’s mind, and it’s Erik’s voice saying, Get Charles.

Charles is already throwing the blanket back when Azazel says, “Magneto sent me. Will you help?”

“Yes, of course,” Charles says. It’s urgent; he doesn’t have time to change. “Fetch my sweater, would you please?”

Hank, he thinks. Erik’s in trouble.

Hank wasn’t asleep, for which he’s grateful. There’s a vague impression of the lab around him as he looks up. Okay, he says, but the acknowledgment is mostly nonverbal. Should I get Alex?

Azazel is back with his sweater before Charles can get a hand on his chair. He’s managed to lift his legs over the side of the bed, but Azazel’s impatience is catching. No, he thinks at Hank. Sean is in the lab with him, and Alex is… busy. Bring Sean. My room, as quickly as possible please.

“Thank you,” he says aloud, taking the sweater from Azazel. “If you give them half a tick, Hank and Sean are on their way as well.”

“There are children in danger,” Azazel says. It’s true, but the words are mostly to convince Charles. Two of them are unreachable, trapped in a confined space while the third helps dig; a telepath will be of no use. The image of a burning church and the sound of sirens--

There’s already a telepath there, Charles realizes. “Emma,” he says aloud. “You went looking for Emma Frost.”

Azazel gives him an even look. “There are times when I understand why Magneto wore that helmet,” he says.

The sweater is sloppy over his pajamas, but it’s February at night. Azazel hasn’t come far enough for a change of time or season, and Charles would rather not freeze. He can hear Sean in the hallway as he levers himself into his chair. Sean and Hank burst into the room at a dead run and only Azazel’s teleportation saves him from a collision.

“Thank you,” Charles tells them. “Azazel, if you would?”

He can feel Sean’s irritation that Hank isn’t even out of breath, Hank’s skepticism about trusting Azazel, and Azazel’s sudden focus on a location that’s decidedly not here. There’s a hand on Charles’ arm, indignation from Sean as Azazel pushes him into Hank, and the air is dark and cold and loud. Charles draws an unsteady breath as every mind but theirs is screamingly different.

“Okay,” Sean is saying, and the tension in his voice sounds foreign and forced. He has to yell to be heard over the sound of the sirens. “Some direction, here?”

Charles squeezes his eyes shut, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, but the world doesn’t go white and blessedly warm until Hank puts a hand on his. He can see Erik, then, his focus narrowing to the cloaked figure in the middle of a flattened church. Emma Frost is at his back and there’s a child scrambling away from them, a blond boy unsteady in the debris.

There are fire trucks everywhere when he opens his eyes. It’s only then that Charles notices the billowing smoke, the first responders ignoring everyone Charles can’t look away from, and the ambulance sheltered behind the water line. “Get the boy,” he tells Hank. “Make sure he’s all right.”

A little help? he hears in his mind. Emma’s smooth thoughts are creaking under the strain.

There are children under the church, and Erik is tearing it apart to get them out. They’re confined, constricted somehow--buried, most likely--and Azazel can’t reach them. Emma is pushing every thought she can away from their silhouettes in the devastation, but it isn’t enough. There are too many people, too much attention, and Erik can’t go any faster without risking injury to the children.

"Sean," Charles says. "Cover me, please."

"Uh," Sean says. He shakes his arms out the way he used to before he flew. "From what?"

"Everyone," Charles says, closing his eyes again. "Don't let anyone touch me."

He presses his fingers to his temple and stretches outward, absorbing Sean's skepticism and Hank's determination and Erik's relief in a single flash of friendly welcome. Then it's Azazel's chill and Emma's anger and the children: she taught, she hid herself and them, they know her as "Miss January" and she promised them they would be safe.

He lets them all be and sinks into every other awareness he can reach. He turns them, freezes them, holds them all while Emma's influence melts away. Then it's just him and the humans around them, a lone mutant paramedic and another among the sidewalk gawkers.

He doesn't know how long he holds on. He feels Azazel move, distant like the far away prick of brambles as he flits from one place to another. He feels Erik, bright and shining and calm at the center of the storm. He feels flashes of the others, enough to know they’re safe, that Sean’s still at his side.

He hopes they realize the fire now burns freely with no one to put it out. If there were fewer people, he could selectively alter their perception, allowing them to continue what they were doing without noticing Erik and the others. It’s what Emma was trying to do. Perhaps together--

But they don’t have time. There’s no time to make such an attempt, no time to learn to work together, and there are too many of them. He uses the only other skill he has. It’s brute force, no finesse, his strength against their will.

He controls every mind he can feel, save for those few he first identified as his.

He doesn’t hear Sean scream the first time. Or he does, but he doesn’t recognize it. There’s no accompanying burst of danger or fear, and he really is very distracted. So it’s not until the second time that he thinks perhaps he should try to find out what’s happening.

Charles! Erik’s mind explodes into his, hot and unyielding like the metal Charles can feel all around them. Stop this! We need to go!

He can’t. He’s in all of them, everyone he can sense, and there’s nothing else to grab onto. Nothing to show him the way back. Erik’s mind flared inside his and vanished, so he waits. When it reappears, he’s ready: Charles claws at the awareness that slams into his own, and it engulfs him, solid and relentless and so filled with sensation he can barely stand it.

But he is standing. Erik’s holding him. For one brief, blissful moment, everything is quiet.

“Why am I always standing,” he mumbles.

“Makes you easier to hold,” Erik whispers. But when his lips brush against Charles’ temple, there’s some sort of apology there. “Call off your dog. Sean won’t let anyone touch you, and Azazel can’t move you without physical contact.”

“Wait,” Charles says, opening his eyes. He winces at the onslaught of fear and adrenaline, sirens and strobe and everyone screaming to be heard. Wait, he thinks. Pushing the thought at Erik and Azazel and Sean makes something in his head ache with strain, but they’ll never understand him otherwise.

“Professor,” Sean says. He has no trouble making himself heard. “Are you okay?”

No, he thinks, and when he tries to project yes instead he’s afraid it gets muddled somehow. Hank and Emma and the children are gone. Erik is on the ground, still where Sean knocked him down with the force of his scream, and Azazel is tucked into the shadow of a tree. They’re not the center of attention, but they won’t escape notice forever.

Is there any way, Charles thinks, as clearly as he can, to make it look less like you, specifically, destroyed this building?

“You mean, can I use metal to make it look like I didn’t use metal to pull the walls apart?” Erik stares up at him, torn between bemusement and worry. “No.”

“Just tell them a pro-Magneto group did it,” Sean says impatiently. “They’re not as destructive as the real thing, but they have their moments.”

Charles gets the gist from his mind. He doesn’t have the energy to argue. Just pushing the idea at as many of the first responders as he can reach almost costs him his consciousness. The ring of Sean’s voice penetrates the fog when he tells Erik to back off.

“Then take care of him!” Erik snaps. “He looks like he's about to fall over!”

"Since when do you care!" Sean retorts. "You stay away from him! I thought that's what you're good at!"

It’s all right, Charles thinks, or tries to. It’s all right, Sean. Let’s go home.

He’s not sure if the message gets through, because it’s Sean who puts a hand on his shoulder. Azazel must take his hand and Erik’s, because the cacophony of thoughts is torn from his head only to have the clatter and concern of friends flood in. Charles decides that he doesn’t like teleporting at all.

They’re in the infirmary, a loud bright mess of children and concern and confusion. He thinks maybe it’s quieter under the thoughts, that the infirmary itself doesn’t echo with antagonism. He thinks he might be able to tell soon. It’s not as bad as the night with Cerebro.

“Sean,” Hank is saying. “Is he all right?”

He tries to say, I’m perfectly fine, but even he can tell the words don’t go anywhere. No one so much as looks at him, and he doesn’t know why he can’t bring himself to speak, but then he hears Emma’s voice. “He says he’s perfectly fine.”

“He doesn’t look fine,” Erik says. He pushes himself up and starts forward again. No one asks why he was on the floor, but Sean gets in his face before he can take more than a couple of steps. “Get out of my way, Banshee.”

“Back off or I make you,” Sean counters.

It sounds familiar, and Charles wonders where Peter is. Only then does he realize he can’t tell. The thoughts pounding through the infirmary are harsh and close, but his awareness of the minds around him is confined to the immediate vicinity. Like being caught too close to a lightning strike, he thinks, and the temporarily blindness of the aftermath: he can sense shapes and motion but nothing at a distance.

“Charles.” Hank’s voice is still coming from the other side of the room, and Charles is distantly aware that he’s treating a young woman. When he squints, he can see them through the noise. “Do you need someone to focus for you?”

Yes, he thinks. He doesn’t need it for himself; he isn’t in danger of dying or losing consciousness. But apparently he can’t talk, and he isn’t stupid enough to ignore a warning sign like that. Losing control of his own body says nothing good about his ability to stay out of other people’s.

“He says yes.” Emma isn’t bothered by having to speak for him. If anything, she seems amused by it, but it’s irritating Erik something fierce.

“All right,” Hank says. “Can you help Illyana clean up the rest of these scrapes? Let me know if you find anything deeper than the skin, any numbness or tingling, or if you start being unable to move any part of your body.”

“I can do it,” Erik says. “I can anchor him.”

The silent flash of protest from Sean is angry and all-encompassing, and yet Charles still hears Hank say, “I’d rather you didn’t. He responds too strongly to you. It’s probably better if you don’t give him any reason to latch on to your mind right now.”

Hank’s right, he realizes. He’d rather have Erik too, but Erik’s quiet space will take over everything he can see, hear, feel, or think. Hank’s will only mute it.

Through the mess of minds and movement, he hears Hank murmur to Sean, “Piotr is Illyana’s brother, Doug is their friend. Can you help Emma make sure they’re okay? Get them some water, maybe some clean clothes?”

“Yeah, sure,” Sean says. “Erik. You want to get the kids a change of clothes?”

Charles misses Erik’s answer in the implacable rush and light of Hank’s clever mind. It’s bright and gentle and it makes the room snap into focus like glasses, like blinders, like vision that isn’t his. Every thought but Hank’s is silenced or subsumed, and it’s a blessed relief.

“Thank you,” he whispers. To his horror, he hears the words come out in Hank’s voice.

Bugger, Charles thinks. Sorry.

“It’s okay,” Hank says. That’s his voice too, but they’re his words, and Charles relaxes just slightly. Can you think? Hank asks.

He can think, respond, follow logically. He’s better off than he was last time they were here, and maybe Erik’s right. Maybe Cerebro is bad news. Maybe the strain of what he can do, himself, is safer than overreaching with a machine.

Are you hurt? Hank asks. You hate teleportation. Did it mess you up?

No, Charles thinks, looking carefully around the room. It’s like looking at a projection, three-dimensional and immersive, but unreal just the same. Hank is filtering everything for him and Charles didn’t even ask. I’m okay, I think. Just the--holding everyone. I don’t ever… I don’t do that much. It’s hard to let go.

Are you worried you’re going to take over someone here? It’s clumsy and Hank knows it, but when Charles is in his head he doesn’t have much choice about how it comes out. He’s only faintly apologetic for how it sounds.

A little, Charles admits. He can’t deceive Hank either, at least not without trying a lot harder than this. Less now.

Do you want some serum? Hank asks.

Yes, Charles says honestly. But it’s not that bad, and someone has to keep an eye on Emma. I’ll be all right.

Emma brightens, the color around her sharper when Hank focuses on her. I thought Emma was dead, Hank says. I thought Erik thought she was dead. Hell, I thought Azazel was dead.

Emma is bandaging a long, shallow scrape on Illyana’s left arm. She looks over at them pointedly, and Charles knows she’s hearing everything they think. Sean is right next to her, but she’s tolerating his presence quite peacefully as he and the young friend--Doug--hover with cups and popsicles for Illyana and her brother.

Popsicles, Charles thinks. That was a good idea. He wonders how long those have been stashed in the infirmary.

That was me, Hank says. They’re a good way to get electrolytes into dehydrated kids.

It reminds Charles, gently, of where he is and who’s helping him. Emma wanted us to think she was dead, he thinks. It seems to be going around, though he still has no explanation for Azazel. She created a new identity and took a teaching position that introduced her to Illyana and Doug. She’s been helping them shield their mutations from their classmates for some time.

He can feel Hank’s skepticism as his own, has to remind himself that it’s not. So that went well, Hank thinks.

They followed her when she went to meet with Erik, Charles thinks. They got caught in the crossfire. He and Erik really need to talk about these nighttime missions of his. Especially if the school is going to be riding to the rescue.

The crossfire? Hank is confused but not alarmed: he can tell Charles doesn’t expect Erik and Emma to turn the house into a battleground. But it does leave the question of how exactly they came under attack during a clandestine meeting.

Unfortunately, the real answer is just as troubling, at least in terms of their short-term security. The children weren’t the only ones who followed Emma, Charles thinks. Someone recognized her. And when she met Erik, they recognized him too.

Chapter 9

There's a variety of reasons why Charles feels supremely silly sitting in the brightly lit infirmary with two children he's just met.  He's the only person in the room wearing pajamas.  He's the only person in the room whose mutant powers are so out of control that he needs a keeper.  And of all the people in the room, he is most acutely aware of how skeptical these things make the aforementioned children.

"It's very nice of you," Illyana is saying.  "Everything you've done for us, really."  She includes Erik in her look, and why wouldn't she?  To her they're all the same.

"But we'll wait for Miss January to get back," she continues.  "We won't be able to sleep until then, anyway."

"Of course," Charles says.  Illyana's tousled hair doesn't quite hide her horns, and he's fairly sure she's sitting on her tail to keep it out of the way.  Her brother has patches of steel in place of skin.  Without Emma's telepathic projection to cover them, they're quite obviously mutants.

Doug's mutation is invisible, so Emma and Azazel are returning him to the residential school he came from.  They're already going to have one angry family on their hands, and Charles is just as happy to limit the damage.  He can’t quite ignore Erik's conviction that Emma isn't planning to come back for the other two at all.

“There’s no need to wait in the infirmary, however.”  Charles catches Hank’s eye just long enough to see him shake his head, confirming their wellness.  “Your teacher will find you just as easily in the parlour upstairs, and we’ll all be more comfortable there.  Shall we?”

Illyana and Piotr look at each other, but they start to move when Sean tells them there’s a TV and offers to help them carry their things.  Hank is cleaning up, so there’s no one overtly listening when Charles says quietly, “You’ll come with us, of course.”

Erik glances at him.  He’s still wearing his heavy cloak, arms folded and a forbidding expression on his face.  “I’m no good with children, Charles.”

“Yes, I’m quite aware,” Charles says dryly.  “Nonetheless, you brought them to us.  You’ll be a familiar face, if nothing else.”

“Emma brought them,” Erik points out.

“And you brought Emma,” Charles counters.  “In the future, I’d like to know more about where you disappear to at night if there’s a chance I’ll be going along.”

There’s a long moment of quiet, inside his head and out, interrupted by the rustling of clothes and the feigned inattention of Hank and Sean.  Then Sean says loudly, “Okay, to the parlour it is.  Here we go.”

“Thank you,” Erik murmurs, glaring after Sean and the children.  “For what you did, for… coming to us.  When Azazel asked.”

“I came when you asked,” Charles corrects him.  He turns to wheel out of the room, adding, “I’ll do it again.  The point is that you could give me a better idea of what I’m walking into when I do.”

“I could,” Erik agrees, unfolding his arms and pushing his cloak over one shoulder as he follows.  “But where would be the fun in that?”

Charles tries very hard not to smile.  He fails, but he does try, and he thinks that should count for something.  “You just like seeing me go about in my dressing gown.”

“Oh, is that what this is?”  Erik eyes his cardigan-and-pajamas combination, but there’s a shift of air announcing Peter’s presence: between them and the lift, where Sean waits.  Peter’s walking backwards in front of them, but it’s clear he knows who’s in the hallway and why.

“Are you having a sleepover?” he asks.  “Late night television, midnight snack?  Is there a uniform, because I have one of those track suits.”

Charles frowns up at him.  “Why does everyone think it’s a uniform?”

“Because when you put your initials on it, it becomes a uniform,” Erik says.

“It’s not my initials,” Charles says.  “It stands for the school.  And how did you get one, anyway?”

“So, a logo makes it a uniform too,” Peter says.  “Everyone else has one.  Wanda can’t sleep; can we crash your welcome party?”

“Hey, uh, we’ll meet you upstairs, okay?” Sean calls.  “I’m going to show them where the stairs are, for… you know.  Safety reasons.”

“Thank you, Sean,” Charles replies.

“Why can’t she sleep?” Erik wants to know.

"Gee, Dad, I don't know."  Peter has a way of saying "Dad" that makes it sound like "loser," Charles thinks, not for the first time.  "Maybe it's because she's in a strange house, hundreds of miles from anything she knows, surrounded by, let’s see, crazy people.  Or maybe it’s because she’s telekinetic and magical.  Like I know.”

“Yes,” Charles interrupts, before Erik can say anything like--what he would say.  “You’re welcome to join us in the parlour.  The TV room,” he adds.  “I assume you know Illyana and Piotr have had a difficult night; you’ll be kind to them?”

“I know that?” Peter says.  “How would I know that?  I don’t know things; that’s not my power.  Do you have to push the button for the elevator, or do you just wait until it gets tired of being on another floor?”

Peter gets more sarcastic when he’s uncomfortable, Charles thinks.

The lift doors slide open untouched, and Charles smiles.  “Thank you,” he says.  He doesn’t address Erik directly, because Erik didn’t wave his hand.  Perhaps he’s practicing subtlety.  “Peter, allow me to rephrase: Illyana and Piotr have had a difficult night.  Be kind to them, please.”

“Yeah, okay,” Peter says, but he’s gone before Charles can register his reaction.

“Can you read him?” Erik asks.  He follows Charles into the lift with an off-handed push at his cloak to make sure it clears the doors.  Charles tries not to smile again.

“Not well,” he says.  “He thinks much faster than he speaks, if you can believe that.  It’s not easy to keep up.”

“What about Wanda?” Erik wants to know.  “You asked if she’s a telepath.  Does she read minds?”

“Well, I suppose you could ask her,” Charles says.  “She must have some degree of psychic ability, as she was able to duplicate Hank’s presence in my mind for several seconds.  And I’m relatively certain she recognized you based on her mother’s memory of you.  How far it goes, though, I couldn’t say.”

“You mean you don’t know,” Erik says, “or you couldn’t say?”

“I don’t know,” Charles says, frowning.  Hank helped him quiet the crush of proximity in his head, but it’s mostly just a lower volume of static.  Trying to read Erik right now is like staring into the sun.  “I’m not keeping information from you.  Least of all about your own children.”

Erik shakes his head once.  “I didn’t mean--”  He pauses, and his discomfort is obvious even without the way the doors stay closed once they’ve arrived on the main floor.  “You were very keen to keep student information private, once.  I thought perhaps--she hadn’t given you permission to share.”

Erik is right, of course.  Though for much of the time he refers to, Charles’ loyalty to him superseded all others.  “They’re your children,” he says again.  “I won’t hide anything about them from you.”

“You trust me that much,” Erik says flatly, and Charles wonders why he shouldn’t.  Why Erik would say a thing like that.  Whether he can ask what’s behind it without provoking fear or anger or worse.

In the end, not saying anything isn’t much of a choice either, so Charles tells him, “Of course I do.  You have it in you to be a good man, Erik, and you’ll not convince me otherwise.  No matter how you may try.”

There’s a long moment where Erik doesn’t speak, but the doors still don’t open.  Then he says, abruptly, “You don’t have to explain, not now.  Just tell me yes or no.”

Charles wishes that he knew what was coming, that he knew what his expression looked like, that he had any idea how Erik would read him or his reactions right now.

“Did you ever come after me,” Erik says.  “After I turned myself in.”

The word “yes” seems inadequate for the angry words and lonely nights that punctuated their frantic scramble to save as many as they could in the wake of Erik’s headlines.  It was a horrible time, filled with days where he felt like he was fighting everyone: humans and mutants, his own friends, himself when his attention slipped.  He didn’t know how to do any of it alone.

“Yes or no,” Erik repeats, just as Charles settles on “yes” for lack of anything better.

“Yes,” he says again.  “Yes, Erik, I--we--”

“That’s fine,” Erik says, waving his hand at the doors.  “That’s enough.”

“I’d rather you let me finish,” Charles says to Erik’s back as he strides out into the hallway.  He wonders, if he doesn’t move, will Erik let the doors close behind him?  And if the doors do close, will Charles abandon Sean and the children for the sake of his pride?  How far will they go for their dramatic gestures these days?

Erik turns back to him.  The doors stay open.  Charles thinks at least he’s easier to look up at from a distance.

“It was far from unanimous,” Charles tells him.  “I was convinced of your guilt.  Unfairly, I’ll admit, but everyone knew where I stood on… civil protest.  Nonviolence was the doctrine we established.  It was the only way to maintain a semblance of order among our disparate group of refugees.”

“And now?” Erik asks, when he pauses long enough to be interrupted.  “If they’re attacked, would you have them submit?  Or will you allow them to fight back?”

“Everyone must be able to defend themselves,” Charles says, pushing himself carefully out of the lift.  “I never disagreed with you on that.”

“No,” Erik agrees, watching him.  “Only on what constitutes appropriate defensive action.”

It’s an argument he’ll only start anew with a single word.  He wants to--oh, how he wants to say, killing people with their own weapons is not a defensive action, or better still, there’s no death another death will solve.  But somehow what comes out is, “I looked for you for years.”

Erik doesn’t move.  “I waited for you longer.”

“I gave you poor advice,” Charles says steadily.  “I’d change it if I could.”

Erik looks at him for a long moment, but Charles is very accustomed to staring upward.  He won’t look away, not now.  “I suppose you did,” Erik says at last.  “If Logan’s to be believed, you did change it.  This,” he adds, gesturing at everything and nothing.  “We both did.”

“Yes.”  The static in his mind is a low rumble now, less like a maelstrom of chaos and more like thoughts he can almost hear.  He doesn’t know if it’s all Erik, or if it’s everyone--still muted by Hank’s influence, perhaps, buried by filters he doesn’t know he’s using.  “I’d like to think so.”

“Would you?” Erik asks.  It’s more curious than confrontational.  It feels… a bit nostalgic, he thinks, or regretful, but it’s hard to know whether that’s really Erik or just him.  “Is this what you hoped for, when you followed Peter and Logan into the Pentagon?”

Nostalgia or not, it's not an easy question, and Charles doesn’t shrug it off.  “No,” he says honestly.  “I wanted you and Raven.  All of us together again, the way we were.  

“The way we could have been, then,” he adds, when Erik opens his mouth.  “The way I imagined us.”

“How did you imagine me?”  Erik finally takes a few steps back, almost to the wall.  It’s not much of a concession, but it does ease the angle a little and Charles appreciates the gesture.

“Much as you always were, I expect.”  He’s aware of the ironic twist to his smile as he says it.  “Proud.  Driven.  Fighting for the cause.”

The rumble in his head shifts enough that he knows Erik recognizes it, despite his impassive expression.  “And how did you find me?”

Without knowing what Erik wants to hear, he has only the truth.  “Softer than I remember,” he admits.

Erik is staring at him again, or still, given that he never stopped.  

“I hope you don’t take it amiss,” Charles says quickly.  “It isn’t weakness I perceive.  It’s only… a fault of my memory, I suppose.”

“I’m softer now,” Erik repeats.  He sounds vaguely amused.  “And that isn’t my weakness, but yours?  For remembering me stronger than I am?”

“Not weaker, I said.”  He’d be more indignant, but he’s fairly certain Erik’s teasing him.  “I think perhaps… some of the good times got lost in the muddle.  Seeing you again--”  

Charles breaks off before he can add, It made me remember why I fell in love with you.

“I remember,” Erik says quietly.  He hasn’t taken his eyes off of Charles.  “Why I fell in love with you.  That day, and every day I’ve seen you since.”

“Every night, you mean.”  He makes the joke half-heartedly, distracted by Erik’s echo of his own thoughts.  “It’s funny--I was just thinking that.”

Erik doesn’t move, but he clearly understands the implication.  “You think I’m hearing your thoughts again?”

“Are you?” Charles asks.  He’s worried it’s worse than that, but if that’s what Erik jumps to, he’ll take it.

“Not that I can tell,” Erik says.  “Nor does it feel like you’re speaking through me, though admittedly I’ve less experience with that.  Is it outside the realm of possibility that we simply thought the same thing at the same time?”

“No,” Charles says slowly.  It wouldn’t feel like that if he made it not feel like that.  Though to be quite fair, that may be beyond his ability at the moment.  “I suppose it isn’t,” he adds with a brief smile.  “We do have habitually poor timing.”

“One of us does,” Erik agrees.

Charles feels his breath escape in something that’s almost a laugh.  “You’re very judgmental for a man who escaped the New Mexico facility mere days after I figured out how to get to you.”

“Did I?”  Erik braces his hands on the wall behind him and leans a bit, his expression bordering on fond.  “I apologize if my bid for freedom was inconvenient for you.”

“It was,” Charles tells him.  “I’ll have you know I spent a lot of time on that plan.  And you made it look altogether too easy.”

“It earned me several months of sedation,” Erik offers.  “If that’s any comfort.”

Because Erik thinks that’s normal.  That it’s some sort of fair trade: cause trouble, get put to sleep.  Charles feels his smile fade.  “It isn’t,” he says quietly.

“Uh, hey,” Hank’s voice says.  “Everything okay here?”

Charles glances down the hallway, where Hank must have taken the stairs up from the lower levels and stumbled on them before reaching the foyer.  “Yes,” Charles says.  “We’re fine, thank you.  Erik, you should probably know that Hank thinks you’re abusing me.”

Hank stiffens, not quite hiding his exasperation with the disclosure.  Charles is more interested in Erik’s reaction, which involves raised eyebrows and a pleasant smile.  Angry, then.  It’s to be expected, but he can’t have the two of them working at cross-purposes.

“You must admit, it’s not a groundless accusation,” Charles continues.  “It seems Hank and Alex have been keeping track of each time we’re psychically…”  He gestures between them.  “Removed, and assigning the blame to you.

“As I usually come out the worse for those experiences,” he adds, “it’s not unreasonable that they might jump to the wrong conclusions.”  He deliberately doesn’t mention Moira, as Erik doesn’t need more cause to war with her.  “What they fail to consider is that it’s my power that’s out of control.  If anyone is being attacked, I think it’s fair to say it’s you.”

“Look,” Hank begins.

“No,” Erik says sharply.  “That’s unacceptable.”

“I don’t necessarily think you’re doing it on purpose,” Hank says, “not all the time--”

“Of course you do,” Erik snaps.  “Or didn’t you accuse me of being a sadistic bastard who enjoys causing his partners pain?”

“Technically, it was one half of an either/or suggestion,” Charles says.

“You accuse me of hurting you, and then you take the blame for it yourself?” Erik counters.  “I won’t accept that.  Either we find a way to stop this, or I stay away from you until your powers are--until your mind is…”  He visibly flails for a word before settling on, “Better.”

“I like option number two,” Hank offers.  “Stay away.”

“I’m quite clear on what you think,” Erik says without looking at him.  “Charles?”

“I don’t know how to stop it,” Charles says.  “There’s no use in us avoiding each other, and I won’t stand for it besides.  I want you here, and I want you with me.  I see no other way but forward.  As we are.”

“Hank says it’s hurting you and you’re not telling me,” Erik says bluntly.  “That’s no way to move forward.”

“I didn’t tell you this morning,” Charles says, “because you stormed off before I got the chance.  You’ve been aware of the effects, and their extent, every other time.  Most of the time you’ve shared them; you’re simply more… stoic, than I am.”

His head must be clearing, because he’s distinctly aware that Erik thinks puppies are more stoic than he is.  Charles raises his eyebrows, and the corner of Erik’s mouth quirks upward in acknowledgment.  It’s not the first time the comparison’s come up.

“He’s not as psychically sensitive as you are, either,” Hank says.  “Just because he experiences it doesn’t mean he knows what it’s like for you.”

“No,” Charles agrees.  “That’s why I tell him.”

“Unless he storms off,” Hank says.

“Are you planning to join us in the parlour, Hank?” Charles asks pointedly.  “I can imagine what the children will end up watching with Sean in charge of the television.”

Hank holds up his hands in surrender, but the warning look he gives Charles leaves no doubt what he’ll do to Erik if they have this discussion again.  Charles should probably talk to Alex as well, though he doesn’t expect it to have much effect.  He could solve the problem more effectively by regaining control of his own power.

“I don’t know how to do that for you,” he remembers Logan saying.  “You’re right, I don’t.  But I know someone who might.”

If only his future self were available on a consultation basis.

“Charles,” Erik says, before Hank is out of hearing range.  Even before he’s out of sight.  “Would you tell me if I were hurting you?”

He sees Hank stop in his tracks.  Charles doesn’t look at him, but he’s no more interested in answering the question from Erik than he was when it came from Hank.  “I’m perfectly capable of making judgments about my own health and well-being,” he says.  “Recent evidence to the contrary.”

“The quality of those judgments is open to question,” Erik says.  “I want you to tell me if I hurt you.  Are you capable of that, or must I resign myself to Hank’s constant interference?”

Hank hasn’t moved.  Not to turn back or to walk away.  It isn’t the first time Erik has grudgingly accepted Hank’s role as Charles’ de facto brother, but it may be the first time Hank has heard him do it.  

“I rather think Hank will interfere no matter what,” Charles tells him.  “Fortunately for me, as it’s likely the only reason I’m still here.”

Erik doesn't look at Hank either.  “Then perhaps you’ll take a lesson from him,” he says.  “I’d appreciate more participation from you when it comes to keeping you alive and well.”

“Excuse me,” Charles says, raising his eyebrows.  "Until you stop calling me out of bed to firefights at bloody midnight, your messages are a little mixed, my friend.”

Erik pauses, and Charles is aware of Hank padding silently away.  He disappears around the corner before Erik says, “I’ll work on that.”

Charles glares at him.  “Don’t not call me,” he says, turning to roll in the direction Hank’s gone.  “Keep yourself safe too.  That's all I meant.”

He knows Erik won't promise that, can't, if he continues these secret missions he's running at night.  Meeting with Azazel, and now Emma?  If Erik is trying to re-establish his own team, then Charles doesn't know how he's meant to feel about that.

“Charles,” Erik says from behind him.  He hasn’t moved when Charles swings back around.  “It wasn’t supposed to be a firefight.”

“I know,” Charles says, surprised.  “The children were seized by your attackers; you didn’t know they were there.  You toppled the building to slow the spread of the fire.  To keep it away from them.  I’m not unclear on what happened, Erik.”

Erik straightens, leaving the wall behind.  “But you don’t know why I was there.”  There’s a long bench around the corner, and he slides onto it so he’s addressing Charles at eye-level.  “I’m not looking for a fight.  I’m just trying to find the people we were responsible for, to make sure they’re…”

Alive, Charles thinks.

“To make sure they don’t need anything,” Erik finishes.  “At least, anything I can provide for them.”

“Or me,” Charles says impulsively.  “My resources are at your disposal, of course.”

Erik smiles a little.  “That’s a dangerous proposition, old friend.  And I think you know it.”

“You just said you’re not looking for a fight,” Charles points out.  “And they’re my responsibility too.  Let me help you.”

Erik is searching his expression, but whether it's for the meaning behind his words or the courage to ask, Charles can't be sure.  He does nod, once, and maybe he's about to say something when a whisper of ice precedes Hank's warning.

"Emma's back," Charles says aloud.  He'd be lying if he said he wasn't surprised, and Erik looks much the same.  

"Frankly, I didn't expect that," Erik says.  He doesn't get up until Charles rolls backwards to turn.  "Will she stay?"

"I'm not the one to ask," Charles says.  "She's welcome, if she needs a place to go.  But I doubt someone of Emma's ability is often in need."

The answer does something complicated to Erik's emotions, but Charles can't see his expression or interpret the reaction.  All he says is, "I suppose she might feel... an affinity for the children."

"Don't we all," Charles murmurs.

Even the humans of the future would take the children last, he knows.  Keep them off the news, they said.  No one wants to see dead kids, no matter what they can do.  Inhibitor collars don’t work on children.  Not with their mutations still manifesting.

He never thought he’d see Emma fleeing the school she ran.  Taught at?  No, she ran the Massachusetts Academy.  He’s quite sure.  By mutants and for mutants, it’s been a beacon for years.  It’s terrible how things have changed when tails and telepathy are enough to send her and her students into hiding.

He frowns at the wall.  There may or may not be a genetic mural splashed across its surface.  He can’t quite make it out as the light flickers, and Erik… Erik is here.  Erik is seated in front of him.  He’s been gone so long, and Charles knows what he’s going to say.

“Charles?”  Erik’s voice sounds young and unsure.  For all that he expected war, he never wanted it.  The threat is no longer on the horizon, something they must somehow stave off--it’s here, it’s all around them, and it’s the only world their children know.  “Are you--what’s wrong?”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Charles whispers.  Erik looks the way he remembers him, all dark hair and impractical cloak, with no helmet to shadow his face.  “You know we can’t leave.”

“Charles.”  Erik sounds concerned, but they can’t.  The children must shelter in place, and they’re safer here than anywhere to which they could reasonably evacuate.  Erik’s sanctuary is certainly not set up to receive them, even if they could reach it.  “Are you with me?”

“Stay with me,” Charles murmurs.  “Once the Sentinels are equipped with inhibitor collars, our political recourse is exhausted.  We will live in a country without mutation--or we must live apart from it.”

“Charles,” Erik says urgently.  “Look at me.  Do you want me to get Hank?”

“Hank died trying to save Raven.”  He doesn’t want to talk about it, but maybe Erik didn’t know.  “I’m sorry, my friend--”

“Hank!” Erik yells.  “Hank, come here!”

Charles winces, putting a hand to his temple and reaching out with the other.  “Really, Erik, must you,” he mutters.  “Give me your hand.”

“I’m not going to make it worse,” Erik tells him.  “And I’m not leaving you alone.  Hank!”

“What’s wrong, what did he do--”  Hank comes skidding around the corner, looking and sounding like a vision that shouldn’t be there.  Like a memory suddenly made solid.    “Are you all right?  What happened?”

“I think he’s seeing the future again,” Erik says.  “Logan’s future, or something he got from Cerebro, I don’t know.  Can you--”

Charles sees him wave out of the corner of his eye, but all of his attention is focused on Hank.  Hank, who isn’t dead.  He’s standing right there.  “Hank?”

“Why didn’t you just--”  Hank squats down next to him and touches his hand, and everything is suddenly brighter and more real.  Illyana and Piotr are safe in the parlour, watching Star Trek with Sean and Emma.  Azazel is gone.  Hank thinks maybe they can all just take a room for the night and talk to Adele in the morning.

“You said it hurt him,” Erik is saying tersely.  “Forgive me for taking you seriously.”

“And I said it didn’t,” Charles mutters, turning his hand over to clasp Hank’s gratefully.  “Thank you, Hank.  Just a memory I shouldn’t have, I'm afraid.”

Hank doesn’t say, From where? out loud, but he might as well have.

“From Logan,” Charles says.  “From the future.”  He doesn’t know what makes him add, “It doesn’t go well for us.  Or the children.”

“That’s why we’re going to change it,” Hank says.  “Believe me,” he adds, with something like a smile.  “I, uh.  I have a personal stake in it.”

He knows that he dies, Charles realizes.  Hank dies.  And Raven.  And so many others.  He can’t--

“Everyone seems pretty calm in the T--in the parlour,” Hank says.  “Maybe if you got some sleep, you know, stopped seeing kids everywhere--”

“No,” Charles says sharply.  Then again, more quietly when he hears how desperate he sounds.  “No, I’d like to see them.  Just as a sort of… reassurance.  Then I’ll go to bed.”

“Perhaps I should go,” Erik says.  “If I triggered your--whatever you saw--”

“No!”  He remembers telling Erik to stay; why is no one listening?  He squeezes Hank’s hand harder before letting go, taking a deep breath.  “Stay, please.  It was only the thought of Emma with children, and there’s no avoiding that, is there.  Please stay.”

He’s still leaning on Hank’s mind.  He wants Erik’s, but if Erik’s not offering then he’ll not take it.  Not this time.  He has to learn to control this somehow.

Erik holds out his hand.  There’s no expression on his face, but the gesture itself is one of uncertainty.  Charles focuses fiercely on the hall, the foyer beyond, the house as it is here and now and the people in it.  When he takes Erik’s hand and grips it tightly, he can still feel Hank’s awareness, and Erik’s doesn’t overwhelm it.

It doesn’t overwhelm him, and maybe that’s all he needed to prove.  “Thank you,” Charles says quietly.

“I’ll go,” Hank offers.  “Uh, let the others know you’re okay.”

He’s surprised Sean didn’t come running with Hank, now that he thinks about it.  “Thank you,” Charles says again, but Hank’s already turning away.  He lifts a hand to indicate he heard, but he doesn’t look back.

Neither of them says anything for a long moment.  They just sit, hands clasped, in the hallway behind the foyer.  It’s late, Charles thinks.  He would wonder how Erik gets by on the amount of sleep he does, but Erik’s always been odd that way.  He sometimes thinks, a bit whimsically, that perhaps it’s a secondary mutation.

“Are you going to let them all fall asleep in front of the television?” Erik murmurs at last.

“If it keeps them happy and out of my hair?” Charles replies.  “Yes, absolutely.”

That makes Erik smile, and Charles is more relieved than he expected.  “Are you planning to fall asleep in front of the television with them?” Erik asks.

“Only if you do,” Charles says.  Because he would sleep on a couch with Erik.  He would sleep anywhere with Erik, but if they have the choice, they might as well pick something with pillows and enough space for both of them.

“It seems I’ll be wherever you are.”  Erik doesn’t move, and the conviction behind those words is heartwarming.  Charles isn’t ready to test them.

“Perhaps here, then,” he says, rubbing his thumb over the backs of Erik’s fingers.  “Just for another minute.”

Chapter 10

"I could have done without the lecture from Emma," Charles says later, when they're getting ready for bed.  Well, Erik is undressing.  Charles only took off his sweater and hoisted himself into bed, and now he's leaning back against the pillows to enjoy the view.

"That's what she does," Erik says.  He's tossed his coat on top of his cloak and is in the process of removing his shirt.  One of the new ones he brought with him, Charles can’t help but notice, but he doesn’t know what that means.  "She lectures.  I think it's part of the telepathy mutation."

“Yes, very amusing,” Charles says absently, watching Erik’s belt unwind itself without being touched.  “Will she really keep a teaching schedule for her students?”

“You’re the mindreader.”  Erik strips efficiently, which is as entertaining as it is disappointing.  "Will she?"

"I don't see the future," Charles says.  It takes him a moment to interpret the look Erik is giving him.  "Well, sometimes.  But most of what I've seen I'd rather not have happen, all things considered."

"But some of it?"  Erik pauses to look from his clothes to the bed.  He's very obviously deciding how much to wear.  "I'm doing laundry tomorrow; shall I take yours as well?"

Charles blinks.  That’s… not what he was expecting.  "You don't have to do that," he says.  "Adele and Kenneth do the laundry.  Just leave it in the closet by the door."

Erik is pulling a clean pair of sweats out of the dresser.  "I don't need someone to wash my clothes for me," he says over his shoulder.

"You just offered to do mine," Charles points out.  "If it's the appearance of weakness you're trying to avoid, then I don't appreciate the implication."

Erik pauses.  Plain as the spoken word, Charles hears him think, I don’t want to fight about this.  It’s unclear whether he meant Charles to overhear or not, but the thought is sincere.  Erik is still shirtless when he turns around.  "Is this all right?" he asks.

Charles smiles, partly in relief and partly in pleasure.  "You're lovely, darling.  I’d encourage you to wear less, except this room is hardly off limits in the event of emergency.”

Erik raises an eyebrow.  “I hope Azazel knocked,” he says, turning out the lamp on Charles’ dresser.  It’s the same light Charles left on for him, still burning when the call for help came hours ago, and without it the room disappears into darkness.

“He did,” Charles says.  The words are loud in the black, but not out of place.  Not with Erik’s mind a rush of thought coming faster and closer while he listens.  “He even waited until I invited him in.”

“Good.”  Erik’s voice is there, on the other side of the bed.  Only in retrospect did Erik worry about how Azazel might interpret his order to “get Charles.”  Apparently Azazel’s sense of self-preservation is as finely honed as ever.

“Can you see by the shape of the metal around you?” Charles asks the darkness.  He can tell where Erik is, and he can tell where Erik thinks he is, but he can’t tell how Erik knows without--well.  

Diving into Erik’s mind uninvited has gotten them into as much trouble as it’s gotten them out of, lately.  It won't stop him as often as it should, but this time it's enough.  The bed shifts while he waits for Erik's answer.

“No,” Erik says, voice quieter as he settled in.  “It only orients me in a space I already know.  Too much non-metal to get shapes or the layout of someplace foreign."

"What about someplace where there's more?" Charles wants to know.  "Like a kitchen, or a..."  He somehow manages to keep himself from saying "submarine" the moment it pops into his head.  "Kitchen," he finishes weakly.

"I've not been in many kitchens with the lights off," Erik says.  He sounds amused, but Charles hears the lack anyway.  Erik hasn't had occasion to wander around a house at night because he hasn't lived in one.

"Here, though," Charles says.  "Or at the CIA base?"

"The more metal, the easier it is to find my way," Erik says, shifting the blankets around.  "Your turn.  Are your powers focusing on me without your conscious direction, or do you do it on purpose and then get... trapped, somehow?"

"That's..."  He closes his eyes for a moment, but of course it doesn't make any difference.  "I don't know," he says at last.  "Both.  Whether I do it on purpose or not, I--I can't control it."

"And it's just me this happens with," Erik says.  He feels conflicted about this.  "Not anyone else?"

"No," Charles says with a sigh.  "I'm afraid it's everyone.  You're the person whose head I happen to be in the most often, so naturally you're experiencing the worst of it."

“The worst of it,” Erik repeats after a moment.  He’s quiet again afterwards, and Charles can feel him wondering how much to say.  What it’s all right to ask.  Finally he says, “It’s unpleasant, then?”

It’s easier in the darkness, somehow.  “I don’t like being out of control,” Charles says quietly.  “But it’s not unpleasant, no.  Not… not with you, certainly.  With some people it is.  But I do--I like to be in other people’s heads.  I’ve never denied that.”

“It’s your power,” Erik says.  He sounds gentle and sincere, and more unsure of himself than the words would suggest.  “You should be able to use it.”

“I should be able to control it.”  He feels Erik’s unspoken resistance to this, and he adds, “No one would argue that Alex, when he first came to us, should have been able to use his power whenever and wherever he felt like it.  It was too dangerous.  Mine is no different.”

“Your power doesn’t decapitate solid metal statues,” Erik says.

“My power could lobotomize a city block,” Charles counters.  “I don’t like being out of control; it isn’t safe.  Not for those around me, not for… anyone I’m aware of.”

Erik doesn’t say anything at first, and Charles can feel him moving the blankets about again.  “Is that why you agreed to the treatment?” he says at last.  “Because your powers were out of control and you were afraid of what you might do?”

Charles is almost positive Hank didn’t tell him that.  Erik has always been too perceptive for his own peace of mind.  "Cerebro enhances my range," he murmurs.  "I could do a lot of damage if I lost control at the wrong moment."

"To yourself," Erik says, with a vehemence that's not unexpected.  "Why did you use it without training someone else first?"

"I didn't train you," Charles points out.

"That machine is dangerous," Erik says, and Charles is tired of hearing it.

"Your war on humanity is dangerous," he snaps.  “Of course I’m afraid of what I could do.  I’m also afraid of what you could do.  Can we talk about something else, please?”

He hears every single thought Erik doesn’t say: I didn’t mean dangerous to them, and, I’ll do what you won’t if you force me to, and, why are you afraid of your own power?  It’s a cascade of surprise, anger, and regret.  It’s so intense that it takes Charles a moment to realize what’s missing.

Erik doesn't feel afraid.  Not this time.  Not over this.  It’s no different from a dozen other arguments they’ve had, and yet there’s no undercurrent of ruthlessly suppressed fear when Erik remarks, “You brought Sean with you tonight.”

Charles breathes, deeply and carefully and it doesn’t catch.  It’s all right.  They’re all right.  

“He was with Hank when I got your message,” Charles says.  He thinks about leaving it at that, but it there’s no reason not to acknowledge it.  “Apparently his loyalty to me trumps his displeasure with you.”

“I suspect that describes everyone in this house.”  Erik’s voice is unconcerned in the darkness, but he remembers a different time.  A time when Hank agreed with him, and Alex asked him for advice.  When Sean wasn’t afraid of him.

When they weren’t waiting to choose sides, because they already had.  They’d chosen each other.

“I’m not going to tell you about Alex, you know,” Charles says.  It isn’t the most appropriate change of subject, but they have to stop reliving this.  Somehow.  Eventually they’re going to have to face the future, even if it's nothing more than the end of everything.  “No matter how much you don’t ask.”

He can hear Erik smiling.  “We’ll see,” he says.  He thinks Charles underestimates his own desire to make pronouncements.  Charles thinks that’s funny coming from someone who went on national television without a script or backup plan.

“I’m sure your rejoinders would be more pointed if you shared them aloud,” Erik says.

“I’m not,” Charles replies, flipping the blankets up to make sure there’s room to wiggle into a more comfortable position.  “I can think I’m very clever as long as there’s no one to judge me.”

He feels the soothing wash of Erik's fondness surge over him as he maneuvers his legs farther down the bed.  All Erik says is, "Extra pillow?"

"No thank you."  He pulls one of his own around, tucking it up against his back as he curls into the blankets.  It puts him lower than Erik’s voice, but maybe Erik is planning to sleep sitting up.  It wouldn’t be the first time.

After a moment, Erik says more quietly, “Human pillow?”  His tone is light, a joke that can be brushed off if Charles doesn’t take it seriously.  His mind isn’t joking.

Now he’s human, Charles thinks.  But he doesn’t say it, and he does want Erik, so he murmurs, “Yes, please.”

He doesn’t offer to move, and Erik doesn’t ask him to.  They used to be better at negotiating how they shared the bed.  They didn’t have a stray bullet and ten years of guilt between them, but they had other issues in the old days.  Maybe they just weren’t so tired then.

Erik finds his wrist unerringly in the dark--his watch arm--and lets his fingers rest on Charles’ skin as he eases closer.  When they’re close enough to bump arms and breathe the same air, Erik slides their fingers together and lifts Charles’ hand onto his stomach.  “All right?” he whispers.

Charles slides his hand farther across Erik until their arms are wrapped around him.  He wiggles close enough to make it comfortable, pressing his forehead against Erik's shoulder and closing his eyes.  "S'good," he mumbles.  When he feels Erik's fingers tighten in his, he squeezes back.  He could stay like this all night.

The next thing he knows is the light of morning and the careful calm of Erik's wandering thoughts.  It's unfair, Charles thinks, that he should sleep so well on these rare occasions when he wouldn't mind a touch of insomnia.  He can't tell if Hank's right, then, that the discomfort keeping him up is largely psychological, or if it's entirely physical and the presence of another body is just enough to override his autonomic response.

"It's definitely you," Erik murmurs.  His voice is heavy and slow, though his thoughts are not, and Charles can detect the slightest flicker of embarrassment when his words come out more roughly than he intended.

His power's back online, then.

He doesn't try for words, just makes an inquiring sound as he burrows into Erik's side.  His side, he realizes belatedly.  Not his arm.  Because Erik's arm is around him, now, and he's propped up against the pillows more than he is lying down.  Has he already been up?

"I can feel it when you wake up," Erik says.  "So that's new."

Charles makes a derisive sound and tries to roll onto his back.  He makes it about halfway.  That's new? he thinks.  Compared to what?  You getting stuck in my head?  Me using your powers?  You hearing what I think when I'm not even trying?

"Good morning to you too," Erik says, and now he sounds amused.

You started it, Charles grumbles.  He tips his head back to see Erik, not quite sitting up but smiling down at him nonetheless.  Not running this morning?

"Hank stopped by," Erik says.  "I didn't want to wake you, but I unlatched the door for him in case it was important."

Charles is awake enough that he hears all of it at once: there was a knock on Charles' door before the sun was up, and Erik cared more about holding him than seeing who it was.  He opened the door anyway, which means this isn't just "not a secret."  This is something Erik will broadcast at the slightest opportunity.

"Apparently," Erik is saying, "it was important enough that he was willing to open the door, but not important enough that he would either wake you or tell me."

On the scale of house emergencies, that’s actually pretty discriminating.  Still, Charles reaches out right away.  Hank?

Oh, hey.  Hank doesn't seem surprised to hear him, but he's busy and it shows.  Just a minute.

"You can speak, yes?" Erik inquires.  "I assume you're just choosing not to, but if I have to get Emma, neither one of us is going to be pleased."

Charles huffs out a breath of amusement.  "No," he agrees aloud, and his voice isn't much better than Erik's was.  "I imagine not.  She's still here, though?"

Erik shrugs, his arm moving between Charles' shoulder and the pillow.  "I haven't left this bed.  And they don't knock on the door to tell me things, clearly, so I've no idea."

"I'm sure Hank would have told you if it was important," Charles says.

Darwin and Eva left to get Angel, Hank says without warning.  They left her a note; she made it to Grand Central.  Alex is brooding.  Emma wasn't kidding about classes; she's got Illyana, Piotr, and the twins listening to a Civics lecture right now.  She wants you to train them this afternoon.

They're words, but they're concise and concentrated, like Hank made notes about what to pass on when Charles woke up.  What are you doing? Charles asks.  Not that it's any of his business.

Planning a science lesson, Hank says, and his thoughts are tinged with exasperation and a hint of happiness.  Emma says she's handing them off after lunch and we'd better be ready.

Charles puts a hand over his eyes, but he thinks, I suppose that's fair.  We'll need some sort of schedule.

Yeah, Alex is on it.  Hank's peripheral thoughts indicate he's not sure Alex is capable of doing anything useful at the moment, but Hank's too busy to worry about it.

Charles wonders where Scott is, what Warren is doing, and whether or not Magda could be convinced to teach Literature.  Of any sort.  He wants to ask if Sean is helping, if Moira has disappeared, and whether or not Adele got the new rooms sorted this morning.  He wants to ask everything, and he knows Hank would share what he has if Charles insisted.

But Hank was still awake last night when Charles called him to help Erik, and he's already back in the lab this morning.  He's doing at least three things at once while Charles lies in bed and hopes Erik will keep rubbing his arm just like he is.  Hank has shouldered enough of the burden lately.  The least Charles can do is get out of bed and join him.

He fumbles for Erik's free hand and brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to his skin before he tries to sit up.  It doesn't go well, with the blankets tangled around him and the pillows both, and Erik's arm in the way of the mattress when he goes to brace his hands.  But Erik pushes himself out of the way as soon as Charles struggles, kicking the blankets back as he goes.  It makes enough space for Charles to maneuver.

"I'm not sure why I feel compelled to tell you this," Erik says, "given yesterday's conversation with Hank, but I could hear you talking to him just now.  Thinking at him.  Whatever you call it, this--"  He waves in the general vicinity of his temple.  "I could hear it."

"Really," Charles says, his frustration with the blankets dissipating.  "That's… unexpected."  So much so that the rest of what Erik says doesn't register until afterwards, and he frowns.  "Wait, which conversation with Hank?"

"In the morning, at the gate."  Erik is watching him when Charles cranes his neck to look, sitting straight and careful without leaning against anything at the head of the bed.  "When he told me I was hurting you, and you didn't deny it."

He didn't realize they were still having this argument.  "You weren't talking to me," he says.

"It sounds like you haven't been talking to me either," Erik replies pointedly.

“I thought we had this conversation last night,” Charles complains, rubbing his hand over his face again.  “I distinctly recall insisting that I can make decisions about my own well-being.”

“Yes, and those decisions have been going so well for you,” Erik says.  “Don’t make me another instrument of your self-destruction.”

Charles twists around enough to glare at him.  “That’s a little heavy for so early in the morning, don’t you think?  Especially coming from someone who disowned me.”

It’s Erik’s turn to frown, and Charles doesn’t know if it hurts more or less that he doesn’t even know what they’re talking about.  “What?”

“You’re very willing to tell people we’re sleeping together,” Charles says.  “And look, I don’t expect you to make sweeping declarations about romantic attachment.  It’s fine.  But stop saying it to me if you’re just going to deny it to everyone else.”

“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Erik tells him.  It’s true, too; he’s genuinely confused.  In his mind, he’s willing to claim any affiliation Charles will let him have.  “I haven’t denied anything.”

It’s only the fact that he reacted to “sweeping declarations about romantic attachment” that makes Charles tell him.  Erik hasn’t said they’re sleeping together, after all.  He’s only shown it.  By moving furniture, by opening the door this morning.  He wants people to know, but he hasn’t told them because Charles hasn’t.

He wants to.  If Charles said “I love you” in the parlour, with everyone listening, Erik would say it back in a heartbeat.  And Charles shouldn’t know that, he wouldn’t know it if Erik wasn’t pushing it at him now with every subconscious part of his mind.

“You said I wasn’t your family,” Charles blurts out.  “Yesterday.  When Hank told you to trust me like family, you said we… you said I wasn’t.”

Erik is silent.  His carefully ordered thoughts tumble past awry to verge on chaotic.  It is, Charles thinks distantly, exactly the sort of time Erik’s power could kick in involuntarily.  Like a spillway, an overflow outlet, the surplus energy is nothing compared to what he can wield when he channels the entirety of his focus into something.  But it’s more than enough to make metal move.

“I said--”  Erik’s voice is just as controlled as his thoughts aren’t, but he can barely make himself continue.  “What I--feel, and… what I think Hank will accept from me…  They’re two very different things.”

“I appreciate your concern for Hank’s opinion,” Charles says.  “I’m quite grateful for it, really.  And to be fair, I’ve no right to be called your family.  You said it--”

His voice breaks, and he didn’t realize, he wasn’t paying attention.  So consumed by Erik’s pain and consternation that he almost couldn’t feel his own.  But it hurts.  And admitting that it hurts is foolish and embarrassing, because this part of Erik was never his to lose.

“You didn’t say it,” Charles mutters, looking away.  He rolls his shoulders to ease the stiffness in his back as he stares down at his legs.  “You thought it, when Magda first brought the twins here.  And the other night, when we were--when I made you.”

He shakes his head, because he knew even at the time that it couldn't be true.  That it shouldn't be.  “You didn’t say it,” he repeats.  “And I’ve no claim on you, of course.  Not on your loyalty or your time.  Except maybe your nights,” he adds, trying to smile.  “Thank you for--”  He gestures helplessly at the bed, the room, everything.  “This.”

“No claim on me?”  Erik sounds incredulous, he feels so surprised he’s angry.  Charles can suddenly, without any effort at all, pick out every metal object in the room.  “You think--Charles, what exactly do you think I’m doing here?”

“Well, it’s not as though I haven’t asked you, is it,” Charles says impatiently.

“I am joining your band of human-loving mutants,” Erik hisses, “because I love you more than I hate them.  I love you, do you hear me?  I love you so much I’d suspect you of implanting it directly in my brain except for two things: one, you obviously have no idea what you’re doing, and two, I don’t care.  I want this.  I want you.  You have every claim on me a person could possibly have, and the only way you could think otherwise is if you’re being willfully blind.”

The metal is distracting, more distracting than he would have expected given the magnitude of Erik’s confession.  He’s trying to push it off, out of his awareness, and he can’t.  “I don’t,” he begins, and he waves irritably at the stupid lamp: the largest, brightest metal in the room, it won’t stop shining at him.

The lamp tips off of the dresser and crashes to the floor.

“Bloody hell,” Charles mutters.  “Erik, could you not--”

“I didn’t,” Erik says at the same time.

“No, I did, your powers--”

Erik gets it before he finishes speaking and Charles knows full well the warning is for his sake.  “This isn’t the safest time to be poking at things in my head, Charles.”

“I’m not doing it on purpose!” Charles exclaims, staring at the lamp.  It’s still terribly bright and eye-catching and somehow he can’t look away.  “It’s just there!  I’m not looking for it!”

He feels Erik take a breath.  He doesn’t hear it, can’t see him, but it flows through him like the action was his own.  Reaching for calm.  The image in Erik’s mind is…

Him.  Stumbling against the elevator wall, shaking his fist out.  Everything is white and silver and sopping all around them, his own clothes soaked through and irrelevant.  Erik, on the ground, staring up at him after the searing flare of violence is exhausted: the last person I expected to see today.

The moment between rage and serenity.

The metal is gone from Charles’ mind so abruptly that it leaves a mental afterimage behind.  He can see where it was, the patterns of it following his awareness.  The bright star of the lamp lingers in front of his eyes for several seconds no matter where he looks.

“Thank you,” Charles murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.  It hardly matters.

There’s a soft clink, and when he looks again, the lamp has settled itself back on top of the dresser.  It switches itself on, then off again.  Not broken, then.  Still.  It's Charles who knocked it over both times.

Erik doesn’t ask.  He wants to, Charles can tell.  But he wants to hear Charles acknowledge him more.

“I’m afraid,” Charles says after a moment.  There’s nothing else he can say that will be enough.  “That you’ll ask me to do something.  Something… wrong, something I don’t believe in.  And I’ll do it.  I’ll just do it--because you asked.  Because I love you, and I don’t want to lose you again.”

He hears Erik’s wry humor before opens his mouth.  “I’m afraid I already have,” he says.

“You don’t believe in this,” Charles says, still staring at the lamp.

“I believe in you,” Erik says steadily.  “I’m willing to let that be enough if you are.”

He doesn’t have a choice.  If there’s any sort of claim here, it’s nothing but reciprocal.  No single moment exists when he was or will be able to turn Erik away.

“Perhaps we should get married,” he says, and he has no idea where it comes from.

The icy chill from Erik is unexpected.  “Don’t mock me.”

Charles refuses to twist again, so he shifts backwards instead.  One slide of his hands, and then another, and he’s pushing the pillows back so he can fit into the space beside Erik.  Just when he doesn’t have to look back over his shoulder anymore Erik moves.

The undignified scramble off of the bed is unexpected and strange.  Most especially coming from someone as self-possessed as Erik.  Charles stares at him, open-mouthed, because he knows.  He doesn’t have to ask.

Erik stares back at him for a long moment, his emotions for once reflected on his face.  “You saw it,” he says at last.  He sounds resigned, and Charles’ heart aches for a secret that didn’t have to be.  “I know you saw, so don’t--just.  Don’t.”

“Erik,” he says.  He tries not to be gentle, tries not to sound sympathetic or soothing or anything that will set Erik off.  “I didn’t mean--because of that, but I wasn’t… I wasn’t joking.  I only meant--because it would make us family.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Erik snaps.  “No law would recognize a union between us.  I’m already married, besides.  If not in jest, you’ve succumbed to terminal stupidity.”

“In jest then,” Charles says, as evenly as he can.  “But that’s not to say I didn’t mean it.”

“I’ll claim you as family to anyone who asks,” Erik says.  “If you’ll only tell me I can.”

“You can,” Charles says without hesitation.  “I want you to.”

Erik isn’t angry now, or cold.  He isn’t even shocked.  His expression is embarrassed and his mind is charmed--or maybe it’s the other way around--but all he says is, “I hope you realize how much harder you're making it to get rid of me.”

The answer is so obvious that he doesn't know why Erik bothered to say it.  “Good,” Charles tells him.

Chapter 11

The day is blissfully free of government intervention.  They’re largely too busy to notice, given that the house has been pressed back into service as a school while Charles wasn’t paying attention.  They’ve gone from a few relatives to a functional student body almost overnight.  Adele needs more people, Cam’s kitchen staff isn’t ready, and they’re making up lesson plans on the fly.

It’s the most fun Charles has had in ages.  Their biggest concern is that Darwin and Eva haven’t returned yet and Hank is right: Alex is angry and unfocused in the concentrated chaos, so Charles sends him to work with Erik outside.  He diverts Scott to Emma’s class, now some combination of history and geography that Charles doesn’t question, and gathers everyone else he can find for an emergency strategy session.

“Everyone” turns out to be Hank, Sean, and Moira, though Warren shows up halfway through and lurks in the doorway of the lab until Charles waves him in.  “Warren, good,” he says.  “Were you invited to Emma’s class this morning?”

“Yeah.”  Warren’s wings are tight against his back.  He’s not wearing a coat, but the hooded sweatshirt thrown over his shoulders more than half covers them.  “I already know all that stuff.”

“Excellent,” Charles tells him.  “We’re going to split everyone up into training groups after lunch, and I was hoping you’d be able to help Hank with Wanda and Peter.”

He’d keep Warren with him, except that he’s quite certain Emma won't just hand her students over to him without extensive warnings.  She’ll likely stick around for much of the session, and Warren is more comfortable with Hank anyway.  Whether he’ll be any better at putting up with Peter than the rest of them remains to be seen.

“Sure,” Warren mutters.  “I guess.”

“Splendid,” Charles says.  "Thank you.  Emma and I will work with Illyana and Piotr, and Sean is going to take Scott back to the bunker for some more target practice.  In the meantime, Adele and Cam could use our help.”

“I call Cam,” Sean says immediately, and Charles smiles.

“Thank you, Sean, but you and Hank are excused.  I’d like you both to cover science lessons tomorrow morning, so take whatever time you need to plan.  I know you’re shooting in the dark when it comes to your students’ background, but you’ve been here before.  Do your best.”

He knows that Hank already has enough potential science lessons to cover an entire semester, but letting him and Sean off will give the two of them time to discuss how they might work together.  And then, after the first five minutes, Hank has plenty of other projects.  He can either put Sean to work or not.  If not, well.  Charles won’t turn him away from the kitchen a second time.

“I have some ideas,” Hank is saying.  “You want two tracks?  A higher level and a lower level?”

“Whatever you think,” Charles says.  “Warren, what topic would convince you to attend Hank’s science lecture tomorrow?”

Warren looks startled and defensive, folding his arms so that his sweatshirt pulls more snugly against his wings.  “I don’t know,” he says.

“Biology?” Hank offers.  “Genetics?  Physics?”

“Meteorology,” Sean says.  “For flying.”

Hank glances at Warren before nodding.  “Meteorology it is.”

“Moira,” Charles says.  “Would you be willing to assist, either Cam in the kitchen or Adele with the rooms?  Just until lunchtime today; we’ll have more people tomorrow.”

“We will?” Moira asks, raising her eyebrows.

“Well, in the kitchen, at least.”  Cam has assured him they’ll have a full kitchen staff by tomorrow, and the children will be required to care for their own rooms once they’re set up and stocked.  “Housekeeping is a work in progress.”

Moira sighs.  “Housekeeping it is, then.”

Charles flashes her his brightest smile.  “Thank you,” he says.  “Truly, I appreciate it.  I’m afraid I’m less useful in the rooms than I am in the kitchen, so I’ll assist Cam.  Warren?  Do you have a preference?”

“For cooking or cleaning?”  It’s here that Charles expects the greatest resistance, but Warren doesn’t sneer.  All he says is, “I can clean.”

“Very good,” Charles says, pleased.  “Why don’t you and Moira come with me, then, and I’ll show you the teachers’ room on our way to Adele.  If you’re going to work with the staff, you should be aware of all the staff areas.”

The teachers’ room is uninspiring after all these years.  It’s neat and well-kept, being close to the center of the house and not closed off like most of the classrooms.  But everything that made the place personal, or even useful, has been put away to protect from dust and sun and time.

“Well,” Charles says, looking around after he’s turned the lights on.  “I suppose this room will need some work as well.”

“Where’s the refrigerator?” Moira wants to know.

“Sorry?”  Charles glances around too, as though it might appear if enough people look for it.  “What refrigerator?”

Moira gives him an innocently curious look.  “If I tell Adele that you said something is okay, how likely is she to take my word for it?”

There’s one right answer to that question, and he tries not to smile.  “Very likely,” Charles says.  “She always did like you best.”

“We practical women have to stick together,” Moira replies.  “Do you still have teacher mailboxes?”

“In the back,” Charles says, pointing toward the closet they converted.  “We’ll have to re-label some of them, I suppose.  You’re welcome to one, if you like.  And Warren, if you’re going to tutor.  Otherwise you’ll have one in the student mail room.”

Warren looks up from the old atlas of paper airplanes.  “Tutor?” he repeats.

“We’d welcome your assistance with the younger students,” Charles says.  “Your own studies should come first, of course.  I’ll understand if you don’t have the time.”

“No, I can--I can tutor,” Warren says.  “I mean… English, at least.  And I know French, if you teach that.”

“We do now,” Charles tells him.  “We’ll have your mail sent to the teachers’ room, then.”

He drops them off with Adele after that and makes his way to the kitchen.  He isn’t a skilled cook by any means, but he can follow instructions when it comes to chopping and mixing, which is enough to get him on the sandwich production line.  Cam splits her time between supervision, supply lists, and interrogating him on how many people total and who can eat what.

By the time lunch rolls around, he thinks he deserves one of those sandwiches as much as anyone.  Logan has clearly figured out the new schedule, because he shows up with Emma and the children for as much lunch as he can fit on his plate.  Alex returns as well, though Erik does not, and there’s still no sign of Darwin and Eva.  Hank and Sean are still downstairs, so Charles sends a gentle reminder to Hank before checking in with Moira.

Charles? she thinks back at him.

As clear as ever, he thinks fondly.  Am I intruding?  I only meant to remind you of lunch.

No, it’s fine, Moira replies.  She’s always had a lovely knack for telepathy.  We’re eating with Adele and her staff.  Magda joined us a while back, so she’s here too.

That’s kind of her, he thinks.  Give her my gratitude, if it seems appropriate.

Right, I will.  Moira’s emphasis is heavy on the “if it seems appropriate,” which she thinks it does not.  So she won’t.  That’s all he asked, and he trusts her judgment.

See you for the evening meal, then? he asks.

Wouldn’t miss it, she answers.

He doesn’t remind her to send Warren to Hank after lunch.  If Warren wants to be a role model for the younger students, he’ll have to do some things by himself.  It’s not a test, exactly.  Just a… measure.  To see where they stand.

Alex doesn't leave when Charles splits them into their pre-arranged groups after lunch.  Which is good, because Emma does.  "It's your school," she tells him.  "Try to teach them something."

"Ah, yes, thank you," he says.  "For that, really."

She nods, and he doesn't see her again until supper time.  On the other hand, Alex asks, "Can I help?" and Ilyana and Piotr are not unwilling to accept direction in Emma's absence.  So Charles thinks it comes out about even, in the end.

At three, or close enough, he calls a halt to discussions of mutation and physical variability and exactly how much Piotr's metal skin can take before it starts to heat or ring.  Illyana has a fascinating manifestation of the same, except that it comes and goes with her will and she refuses to let them see it more than once.  It accompanies a particularly mean-looking sword, so neither he nor Alex are inclined to argue.

They end their training, at any rate, and Charles offers them a tour.  Illyana, who has by far the more challenging attitude of the two, wants to know, "Do we have to?"

"No," Charles says.  "You're welcome to wander as you please.  Heed the locks and warning signs, though; they exist for your own safety.  Supper is at six."

"Where will you be?" Piotr asks.

"As I said," Charles reminds them.  "Giving a tour.  I plan to collect the other students and make sure they can find everything they need.  The teachers, too.  Many of us are recently returned, and I don't want any confusion over which classroom is which."

Or whose is whose, but he doesn't say that aloud.  Emma took over his study this morning, which was amusing in its audacity and somewhat embarrassing in its disarray.  He can ensure she has a classroom stocked with liquor and chess, if that's what she wants.

"We'll go with you," Illyana says.

Charles is careful not to look at Alex, but if he tried he thinks he could hear the young man rolling his eyes.  "Very well," Charles says.  "This is my study.  I teach most of my classes from here.  It does not belong to Emma, no matter what she may have told you."

"It's messy," Illyana says frankly.

"Yes," Charles agrees.  "And you may keep your own rooms as neatly or as messily as you wish, provided they don't threaten your health or anyone else's.  Shall we move on?"

“Don’t you have room inspections here?” Illyana asks, but she’s following him as he rolls toward the door.

“Only if you need them,” he says over his shoulder.  “Students are responsible for the state of their rooms.  As you can see in my case, that’s not necessarily a good thing.”

“But you’re not a student,” Piotr says.

“We’re all students here,” Charles tells him.  “Some of us are also teachers.  It’s our policy to be respectful of everyone, no matter what role they currently occupy.

“You’re aware of the foyer and the parlour, of course,” he adds, before either of them can reply.  “The residential wings are upstairs, and the labs and practice rooms are downstairs.  This way to the classrooms.”

“And medical,” Piotr says.

“Medical’s downstairs too, yes,” Charles agrees.  It’s not hard to understand, given where they started last night, but it gets Illyana’s attention nonetheless.

“Are you reading our minds?” she asks.  “Miss January says telepaths can’t help reading minds, but you said all mutations are controllable.  Does that mean you don’t have to read minds if you don’t want to?”

“All mutations are controllable,” Charles says.  “Elevator,” he adds, nodding to it as they round the corner.  “What kind of control is possible depends on the mutation itself.  Some mutations can be activated or suppressed according to a mutant’s will.  Others can not.  Warren--you met Warren, did you not?”

No image appears in their minds, so he presumes they did not.  “Well, you will,” he says.  “He’s just ahead, with Hank and the twins.  He has wings, you see.  He can control his wings, but he can’t make them go away.  He can’t choose to stop having wings.”

Charles can hear Piotr worrying that he’ll never be able to make his skin revert the way Illyana’s does.  That maybe her mutation is different, or her skin is different--that she’s more normal than he is, somehow.  Charles opens his mouth to say something but Illyana overrides him.

“Are you saying you can’t stop reading our minds?”  She sounds very challenging about this, but it’s more because she wants Emma to be right than because she wants him to be wrong.

“Yes,” Charles says calmly.  “Among other things.”

Alex, who has done an excellent job of not thinking about Darwin all afternoon, suddenly and loudly wonders if telepathy makes being homosexual easier.  Because you can tell if other people are or not.  Charles has heard the thought before, and he’s so completely unqualified to talk about this that he’s grateful Alex hasn’t asked.

He will, though.  Every time Alex thinks about it and Charles doesn’t say anything, he grows more confident.  He’s been watching Erik destroy every polite fiction the rest of the house might have built around them.  And he’s been less careful with Darwin than Charles has ever seen him with anyone.

DON’T COME IN.  Hank is thinking even louder than Alex, and Charles holds up his hand.

“Wait, please,” he says.

“Wanda, the professor’s in the hallway,” Hank is saying from inside the classroom.  “Would you collapse your magic, please?”

The only sound is the whisper of displaced air as Peter appears in front of them.  “Hey,” he says.  “Did you know Wanda can shapeshift?  Hank says your sister can do it too; can we meet her?  Do you guys have the same parents?  Did they have metal skin or horns or anything?  That tail is really cool, by the way.”

“Not that we know of,” Illyana says.  

It’s funny, Charles thinks, that he doesn’t recognize his own strategy of focusing on only one of Peter’s questions until he sees someone else do it.

“All clear!” Hank calls.  “Come in; we were just practicing!”

Peter disappears again, and Charles follows him through the door.  “This is Hank’s classroom,” he says over his shoulder.  “He often teaches from the labs as well.

“Hello,” he adds, to the room at large.  “Sorry to interrupt.  We’re done for the day, so I’m giving a tour.  How are you?  Do you all know each other?”

“I’m Peter,” Peter says.  “Everyone knows me and Wanda.  What about Warren?”

Warren raises his hand and waves once.  He’s not wearing his sweatshirt anymore, and his wings are loose and relaxed over his shoulders.  “Hi,” he says.  “I saw you in Emma’s class this morning.”

“You have wings,” Illyana says.  She sounds very confident, but she feels less so.  When she sneaks a glance at Charles, he nods encouragingly.

“You have horns,” Warren replies.

Illyana tips her head to one side like she’s thinking about this, but her tail curls up behind her and peaks over her left arm.  “And a tail,” she says.

Warren cracks a smile.  “Right on.”

“I’m Illyana,” she offers.  “My brother’s Piotr.”

“Hello,” Piotr says obediently.

“Hey,” Warren says.  “Nice to meet you.  Both of you, I mean.”

“I’m Hank,” Hank offers, to save them trying to out-awkward each other.  He knows the signs well, Charles thinks fondly.  “Sometimes I’m blue,” Hank adds.  “So… class dismissed?”

“I thought everyone could use some time to relax,” Charles says, though Hank already knew the plan.  “To settle in, perhaps.  We’ll likely set aside this time for independent study in the future, but right now, everyone has plenty of other things to do.”

“Like eat?” Peter says hopefully.  “Are there any sandwiches left?”

Charles doesn’t bother to answer, because Peter is suddenly holding one.  “Yup,” he says.  “Plenty of sandwiches.”

“Where are you going on your tour?” Wanda asks.  She sounds quiet and a little dreamy, and Charles desperately wants to ask her about shapeshifting.  But she isn’t thinking about it, and it’s none of his business until she makes it his business, so he resolves to question Hank thoroughly later instead.

“Wherever you’d like,” he tells her.  “So far we’ve seen my study, the foyer, and Hank’s classroom.  I thought we’d stop by the bunker as well, to see if Scott or Sean would like to join us.”

“What’s the bunker?” Illyana wants to know.

“It’s a sort of safe room,” Charles says, though privately he’s surprised that Peter didn’t get to the answer before him.  A credit to Cam’s sandwiches, no doubt.  He wonders how much Peter normally eats - it can’t be proportionate to his metabolism, or he’d never stop.  “Where you can exercise your powers without worrying about destroying anything.”

From the doorway, Alex snorts, and Charles tries not to smile.  “Unless you’re Alex.  Let’s go see if it runs in the family, shall we?”

It does run in the family, as it turns out.  Scott’s only managed to melt the door, though, and Charles points out that this is a vast improvement over Alex’s first days in the bunker.  It makes Alex ask if Erik’s ever been in here, to which Charles replies, quite honestly, that Erik learned to control his powers in a place much harder to destroy than an underground bunker.

“Is that the man Miss January was meeting last night?” Piotr asks.

“Yes,” Charles says.  “Scott, Sean, would you care to accompany us on a tour?  I’m taking requests, so if there’s any place you’d like to see--”

“I can’t,” Scott interrupts.  “I can’t go with you.  I might--break something else.”

Piotr is eyeing the melted door warily, but Illyana is studying Scott.  "What do you do?" she asks.

"I set things on fire," Scott says.  "With my eyes."

Illyana doesn't blink.  "That sounds useful."

"I hate it," Scott mutters.  "I wish I wasn't a mutant."

Charles exchanges a look with Hank, but before either of them can speak, Illyana says, "Me too.  But Miss January says it makes us special, because we can do things other people can't."

"We all wish we could be normal sometimes," Hank says.  "But since we're not... it makes sense to take advantage of the things we can do, instead of worrying about the things we can't."

"And believe me," Alex says.  "Coming from Beast, that means something."

"Thanks a lot, Havok," Hank mutters, and his is an eye roll Charles can't miss.

"But I destroy things!" Scott protests.  "How am I supposed to take advantage of that?"

"At least you can wear glasses," Warren says.  "So people can't tell."

"At least your wings are pretty," Illyana snaps.

Warren gives her a genuinely surprised look, but he must know what she means because he replies, "Your horns are pretty."

She opens her mouth.  There's a split-second hesitation before she tells him, "Humans don't think so."

"Humans are stupid," Peter says, and Charles can hear Alex in that comment.

"Most people have a hard time accepting things they don't understand," Charles says, hoping to intervene before things degenerate.  "Human or mutant, or somewhere in between.  Since we're all here, together, we'll make a good faith effort to understand each other.  Then maybe we can help other people understand too."

Peter is actually listening, and Warren--for all his occasional bitterness and teenage rebellion--is convinced that humanity will accept him.  When he's older, maybe.  Or when he's richer.  He thinks that's how the world works.

Illyana is the most skeptical, but it's Wanda who asks, "What do you mean by somewhere in between?"

"Well, at the end of the day, we're all mutants, aren't we."  It's his favorite topic, and he sees Alex and Hank look at each other out of the corner of his eye.  "All of humanity exists because of mutation.  The ability to walk upright, to digest milk as an adult, to see into the ultraviolet: all mutations.  Even red hair, freckles, blue eyes--these are genetic mutations as common to humans as they are in the so-called mutant population.  Where do we draw the line between human mutation and mutant genetics?  We share more than 99% of the same DNA, you know."

Sean may be speaking to him now but he isn’t entirely forgiven.  Alex is doubtful too, but Sean’s the one who says, "Other people have red hair.  I've never met anyone else who can knock things over by screaming at them."

Charles raises his eyebrows.  "If your definition is uniqueness of ability, then neither Emma nor I are mutants."

“But your mutations are active,” Alex says.  He sounds careful but sure of himself.  “That’s how the military classifies us.  Active versus passive mutations.”

Three of the identified mutants in Alex’s unit were active, one passive.  Charles knows what he means, and he knows that Alex considers all of them mutants.  Out loud, though, he asks, “Does that rule out Warren, Illyana, and Piotr, then?”

“No, of course not.”  Alex is frowning at him.  “It’s just a classification.”

“An arbitrary one,” Charles agrees, “like mutant versus human.  Someone drew a line and put some people on one side and some on the other.  It’s not scientifically sound.”

Alex shakes his head.  “Not everything runs on science, Professor.”

“That is unfortunately true, my friend,” Charles says.  “Scott, no one’s going to make you leave this room if you don’t want to.  But I can tell you from personal experience that it will get very boring, very quickly if you do not.”

Scott doesn’t look like he wants to stay in the bunker.  “What if I hurt someone?”

“Well, try not to, there’s a good chap,” Charles says.  “You’re doing fine now.  Do you expect that’s going to change?”

“Something could happen,” Scott insists.  “There could be an accident.”

“Yes,” Charles agrees.  “There could be.  Do you know, when I was much younger, I thought it would be a brilliant idea to surprise my sister on the landing at the front of the house?  She was certainly surprised.  So surprised she fell down the stairs and broke her arm.

“That arm could have been her head,” he continues.  “Even without our powers, she could have died.  Sometimes bad things happen whether we mean them to or not, and hiding away won’t change that.  It only keeps us from being able to fix things afterwards.”

“Was that your shapeshifting sister?” Peter asks.  “Why didn’t she change shapes to something that didn’t have arms?  Or something with more arms?”

That makes Charles very curious about Wanda’s purported shapeshifting, but he has to admit, “You know, I’ve never seen her do that before.  She always has a basically bipedal, bilaterally symmetrical... humanoid sort of shape.

“Hank?” he prompts, in case there's something he missed.

Hank startles.  “What, you think I’ve… seen her, what--turn into a cat or something?”

Charles raises his eyebrows at that.  “Have you?”

“Well.”  Hank clears his throat.  “Not like a… four-legged cat, or anything.  No, not at all.  Nothing like that.”

“Maybe we should have this conversation later,” Alex drawls, and he sounds amused enough to convince Charles.  Hank is thinking very determinedly of cats--normal, mostly adorable, four-legged cats of the feline variety--and Charles probably doesn't want to know any more.

"Right," he says.  "Of course.  The answer is, Peter, that I don't know if there's something she could have done to keep from being injured.  I do know that it's often hard to think clearly in an emergency situation, and the less practice you have with your powers, the harder it is to use them in useful ways.  Especially under pressure."

"So can we meet her?" Peter asks.

"I'm afraid she hasn't been home… much," Charles says.  "Not recently, anyway.  If she stops by though, yes.  You may certainly meet her."

He feels something click in Alex's mind but he doesn't know what it is until Alex blurts out, "You saw her.  You saw what happened in Paris, right?  She was the blue girl.  His sister, I mean.  Raven."

“Mystique,” Hank says under his breath.

“Whatever.”  Alex has clearly been corrected on this recently, but Charles thinks he used Raven’s preferred name to her face.  He’s backtracked now out of respect for Charles.

“Wait, that was your sister?”  Peter is squinting at Charles.  “You’re not blue, are you?  Do you use your telepathy to make people think you’re not blue?”

“Why do you all have so many names?” Wanda asks thoughtfully.

Hank and Alex look at him, but Sean laughs, so as far as Charles is concerned that means he gets to answer the question.  “Sean will tell you,” he says.  “And no, I’m not blue.  Shall we continue our tour while we talk?”

It’s mostly an excuse to turn his back on any conversation he doesn’t feel like being a part of.  He expects it will only be marginally successful.  Scott comes with them, however, and Sean does tell Wanda the story of their original code names.  Hank manages to make it sound vaguely rational when he explains the school’s initial anonymity policy.  Sean then contributes a humorous anecdote about his CIA alias, and even has the presence of mind to mention that Emma’s last name is not in fact January, so by the time Charles has led them to the north exit he has to wait for their attention.

He appreciates their preoccupation.  The grounds are still free of snow and the paths nearest the house were tidied by the grounds crews last week.  Still, the pool is covered, and there’s nothing particularly spectacular about February gardens.  He’s just as happy to have them look out the windows, point in the correct direction, and then move on.

Grounds crews, he thinks, as they wander from one door to the next.  They’ll need more permanent staff to keep up the exterior as well as the interior if this is to be a respectable institution again.  It’s embarrassing to know he isn’t entirely sure who’s in charge of the gardens now.  Anything beyond the walls of the house--and to be fair, much of what’s inside it--has been Hank’s domain of late.

“Selene McDaniels,” Erik says from behind him.

It’s not that he didn’t know Erik was there.  It’s that with his voice comes the image of a woman Charles has seen many times, whom he spoke with about the additional crews last week, and whose name is in fact the answer to a question he didn’t ask.  “You must be joking,” Charles says without turning around.

The children are crowding through the door in their long sleeves and sweatshirts, coatless, with Sean egging them on while Hank points out the hangar lights and retractable bay doors.  Only Alex turns at their words, and he raises an eyebrow but doesn’t move away from the window.

“You’re aware that most of your employees are women, I suppose?” Erik asks.

Charles holds one wheel and swings the other around, staring at him.  “How are you reading my mind?”

Erik looks very amused.  “Frustrating, is it?” he asks.  He has no idea, but he isn’t particularly concerned with it either.  “Now you know how the rest of us feel.”

“I wasn’t even thinking about you!” Charles protests.  “I was deliberately paying no attention to you at all!  Well, almost none.  You shouldn’t have been able to hear a single thing I thought.”

“Lucky guess?” Erik offers.

“Wait,” Alex says.  He sounds much less careless about it than Erik does.  “Erik is reading minds now too?”

Charles shakes his head, but he doesn’t look away from Erik.  “Only mine, apparently.  It is, I’ll admit, somewhat disconcerting.”

“Just yours,” Alex repeats.

“Everyone knows what you’re upset about, Havok,” Erik says.  “Or should I say whom.”

“Don’t be cruel,” Charles admonishes him, but Alex, bless him, doesn’t so much as flinch.  Even mentally, it’s like Erik didn’t say anything at all.

“When I’m upset,” Alex remarks, very calmly.  “You’ll know.”

Charles smiles, and Erik tips his head slightly in acknowledgment.  “Are you giving them a tour, then?”

Charles glances outside, where everyone except the three of them is now clustered around Hank, trying to find traces of the Blackbird’s existence among the paraphernalia of the more conventional private jet.  “I think Hank has things under control,” he says.  “We missed you at lunch.”

There’s nothing conventional about private jets, Erik thinks.  Hank always has things under control; it’s the only reason you’ve survived as long as you have.

Out loud, he just says, “Did you?”

Charles’ smile widens.  “I heard that, you know.”

Erik eyes him.  “Do you have any idea what your powers are doing?”  The words are fond and surprised and somehow pleased, all at the same time.  It should be disturbing that Erik likes him a bit out of control, but right now, Charles only feels relief.

“None whatsoever,” he says recklessly.  “Walk with me?”

Chapter 12

“I know what you’re going to ask,” Erik says, pacing the slow roll of his wheelchair away from the doors.

Charles can’t help but smile.  “I suppose that stands to reason, given that you seem to know everything I’m thinking right now.”

Would that that were true, Erik thinks ruefully.

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Charles reminds him.

Erik seems unexpectedly troubled by this.  “So I’m not the only one,” he says.

“To know what someone else is thinking?” Charles replies, frowning a little.  That’s not right, but Erik accepts it and there’s an odd bit of echo.  “No.  Do you like it?  I find it somewhat distracting, but nothing is the same without it.”

“No,” Erik says.  He’s thinking of white walls and silence--nothing but silence and angry thoughts, as far as his mind could stretch.  “No, it isn’t.”

In the space of a few seconds, Erik has gone from genial to bitter memories Charles would rather not be part of.  He isn’t part of them, and that’s what makes them so disturbing.  He’s gone in the future, too, so far out of Erik’s reach that it will take the destruction of everything they know to bring them back together.

It’s a pitiless place, the future.  Charles is trying so hard not to think of it that Erik’s words come as a surprise.

“Can I not think of the past, then?”  Erik sounds stiff now, angry and wounded at the same time.  He knows what Charles is trying to avoid, and why.  He thinks it unfair that Charles should get to avoid the future when Erik had to live through the past.  Worse still if he can’t even acknowledge it for fear of being a trigger.

It isn’t the past that’s the problem, Charles thinks to himself.  He has the presence of mind not to say it, but Erik can hear what he’s thinking and for the first time Charles knows how damning that feels.  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounds,” he says quickly.

Erik doesn’t answer immediately.  That he’s aware of Charles’ dismissal is obvious; that it infuriates him is equally so.  But he’s quiet, and the white walls turn to water, melting under ubiquitous sprinklers and Charles’ undeniable presence.

“You rarely hold us accountable for our thoughts,” he says at last.  “It’s only fair that I extend the same courtesy to you.”

Rarely, Charles thinks.  They won’t get through this if he lingers on it, but he still doesn’t know how to deal with what they were.  “I can’t change what happened,” he says carefully.  “But I fear even more what we’ve yet to do.”

Erik tips his head, irritated that it all comes back to this, and--somewhere in the back of his mind--vaguely reassured by the same.  “Ask what you have to ask, then.”

Charles considers not asking, just to be contrary.  Just as Alex doesn’t ask the questions that he knows Charles knows he has.  Whatever the cause, Charles thinks, having someone else reading his thoughts does provide fascinating insight into other people’s reactions to him.

“Will you teach a class?” Charles asks, because it’s clear Erik won’t answer the question until he does.  “Of your choosing, of course, and on your schedule.  I think the children would find your perspective valuable.”

“Do you?” Erik counters.  “I recall a time when you threatened to throw me out for contaminating them with my views.  When was that…  Two days ago, I believe?”

“I misspoke,” Charles tells him.  “Out of fear.  You’ll also recall my desire for a united front.  There is a place for you here, Erik, whether you see it or not.”

“I’ll not advocate peaceful coexistence,” Erik says.  “I told you, I won’t be your mouthpiece.”

“Actually,” Charles says, “I think you said you wouldn't be my dog.  Fortunate, really, as any of the children might have allergies, with none of us the wiser.”

No hint of amusement touches Erik’s thoughts.  “Charles,” he says.

“The choice of subject is yours,” Charles insists.  “I prefer it not be ‘How to Start a War with, and Subsequently Subjugate, All of Humanity.’  But neither need it be ‘How to Get Along with Everyone.’  Perhaps something more straightforward, like languages, or basic travel skills for the culturally inept.  Something you have experience with.”

“You think this is funny,” Erik says flatly.

“I think you saw it coming,” Charles says.  “You’re welcome to do whatever you like around the house, including nothing.  But you knew I would offer this, so I’m not sure why you’re trying to warn me off without actually saying no.”

“Yes,” Erik snaps.  “Of course I’ll teach; you know I will.”  In his mind it sounds like, Of course I’ll do anything you ask, and he knows that, and he knows Charles knows.  It makes him more angry rather than less.  “I can’t promise it will meet your standards.  For anything.”

“Erik,” Charles says quietly.  “I haven’t met my standards once in the decade since I lost you.  Come to supper this evening and let me pretend.”  That I deserve this, he thinks.  That this can work.

Erik stares at him.  “That was the next question,” he says abruptly, and Charles understands that he’s reeling from more than the conversation.  “I knew you were going to ask, but I didn’t--that isn’t how I expected it.”

“No,” Charles agrees.  “In many ways, telepathy isn’t as useful as you might think.  But you must be aware there’s a follow up."

“Where am I going tonight,” Erik says.

“Indeed.”  Charles studies him as best he can when Erik slows, drawing even with the bench by the stairs but waiting until Charles pauses to sit down.  “You don’t have to tell me, of course.  But I assume Azazel is coming, and he’s welcome to join us for the meal if he likes.”

“He won’t,” Erik says.  “He eats with--he eats at home.”

Charles knows perfectly well whom it is Azazel eats with, whom he lives and sleeps and loves with.  But Azazel never told him, and Erik doesn’t say it, so Charles just nods.  “Tell him he’s welcome on the grounds, at least.  He needn’t come and go so quickly, if he ever has reason to stay.”

Erik gives him an odd look, and then--as though it’s a revelation--says, “You hate Azazel.”

“I don’t hate him,” Charles says evenly, and it’s only partly a lie.  “His mental presence is unpleasant for me.  I dislike being around him for that reason, and his--well.  I disapprove of his tactics and I have few good associations with his power.  Other than that, I’m sure he’s perfectly deserving of your respect and loyalty.”

“You hate him,” Erik repeats, leaning forward.  “Yet you tolerate him… why?  Because he’s useful to me?”

Charles raises his eyebrows.  “Because he’s your friend, Erik.  As long as he doesn’t threaten the children, he’s welcome here.”  He doesn’t mention the encounter with the tank.  It probably isn’t relevant.  Surely if Azazel thought it important, he would have brought it up himself.

“What tank?” Erik says, searching his expression.  “Or is that--”

Erik pulls back abruptly, as though suddenly aware of his own intensity.  “Forgive me,” he says.  “This--hearing what you don’t say.  It’s--”  Fascinating, delightful, intriguing, he thinks.  “Distracting,” he says.  “As you warned it would be.”

“You see how it’s difficult to tell the difference sometimes,” Charles offers.  “Between what people say and what they think.”

Erik blinks.  There are footsteps and voices from down the hall before he can answer, but Charles knows he understands.  Finally, after so long, Erik knows that Charles can’t just turn off their thoughts.  He can keep himself from taking over other people’s minds, but he can’t stop being aware of what those minds think and feel.

“The interior access is below medical, actually,” Hank is saying.  “The hangar for the Blackbird is several stories, so we’ll have to descend to deck level to reach it.  Professor,” he adds, nodding to Charles and Erik as his group of students and reinstated teachers reaches them.  “Erik.”

It’s Erik’s name that makes Charles realize Hank has switched back to “Professor” for him.  “Hank,” he says with a smile.  “Continuing the tour on the lower levels?”

“Well, they’re interested in the jets,” Hank says.  “I thought we’d go see the Blackbird, at least.”

“Yes, that sounds very entertaining,” Charles agrees.

“Are you the man who killed the president?” Illyana asks Erik.

“No,” Erik says.

Charles thinks that’s fair, and Hank hides a smile as he waves the children around the corner.  “We’ll have to go down several flights of stairs,” he says.  “The hangar is locked, so you’ll want to stay close by to keep the automatic doors from closing between us.”

Are there any automatic doors in the lower hangar? Erik wonders.

It’s an idle thought, suspicious, but not directed at Charles.  Still, it’s no use pretending he can’t hear, so he offers tentatively, Not that I recall.

Erik gives him a sharp look, but he doesn’t object.

“Are you coming with us?” Scott asks as he passes.

“Ah, no,” Charles says, and he barely manages to avoid looking at Erik.  “I think we’ll check with Cam to make sure she doesn’t need any help with supper.  You go and have a good time.”

Alex gives him a look that says, very clearly, Cam doesn’t need you and Erik making out in the kitchen, and Erik’s reaction is immediate and unmistakable.  They’re too close right now, Charles realizes.  He isn’t in Erik’s head--he didn’t think he was in Erik’s head--but Erik might as well be in his.

“You want any help?” Sean asks.  He means it, and it’s a peace offering, and Charles knows Erik is about to snap at him.

Don’t, Charles thinks.

Erik doesn’t.

“Thank you,” Charles is saying, only he's in Erik's head after all and this is a far greater disaster than anything he hoped to avoid with Sean.  He can feel Erik’s surprise turn to helplessness, anger, a surging desire to lash out.  “But no.  I expect she’s fine, we’re just--”

Not, Erik thinks, with a cold fury that is entirely deserved.  Your.  DOG.

I can’t, Charles thinks frantically, I didn’t mean to, I’m not.

“It’s fine,” he tells Sean.  “You go on.”

Sean goes.  Charles has no idea if he meant to or not.  He can’t tell if he and Erik are alone in the hallway because no one else needs to be there or because he’s keeping them away.  He can’t tell if the metal he feels around him is about to shut down or come alive.  He can’t tell if he’s hurt Erik, if Erik wants to hurt him, or if his power is slowly strangling them both.

It doesn’t feel like he’s holding onto anything.  There’s nothing to let go.

Something between them crumbles anyway.  The hallway warms, the colors turning richer and the sounds growing muffled as everything but the pounding of Erik’s thoughts falls away.  Come here, he’s thinking, over and over again.  Come here, come here, come here, come back.

Charles hasn’t gone anywhere.  Still he startles at the feeling of Erik’s hand on his arm--not his arm under Erik’s hand--and the now slightly surreal pressure of socks and shoes against his feet.

You held me in your mind, Erik thinks, and with it comes the memory of Charles pulling him against the kitchen table and tumbling him into his own bed.  I couldn’t pull away from you then, there.  Why now?  Why here?

“I’m sorry,” Charles whispers, but it isn’t real.  This is Erik’s quiet space--

Your quiet space, Erik thinks.

And he just took over Erik’s body and mind involuntarily.

“Yes,” Erik says.  “I did finally realize you weren’t doing it on purpose.”

“I’m so sorry,” Charles repeats, staring at the opposite wall.  “That was--inexcusable, I know, there’s nothing I can say but I want you to understand--”

“Charles,” Erik says.

“How terrible I feel, how much I want to control this, I would never--”

“I know,” Erik says, louder, speaking over him now.  “I can hear you thinking, Charles.  I know how you feel.”

He stares at the wall, frowning at the woodwork that’s almost a frame.  The colors on a mural that isn’t there are--darker than they should be.  There’s nothing to see.  What is he looking at?

“I don’t know if we’re safer in here or out there,” Erik says.  “This is your vision, isn’t it?  Of the future, when you thought I’d come to--when you thought I’d come back.  Why are we seeing it here?”

In my head, he means, but the boundary between their minds is so weakened that Charles doesn’t know why he would ask.  Why wouldn’t something from his head be in Erik’s?

“This isn’t the future,” he says quietly.  “It’s just a… ghost.  An afterimage.”

“Still shouldn’t be here.”  Erik is eyeing the wall when Charles tears his gaze away, and he looks--troubled.  More so than his dismissive tone would imply.  “Can you let go of me now?”

Charles looks down at the hand on his arm.  He’s not at all sure who has hold of whom, but the hall fades a little and household thoughts start to creep back in.  Hank’s pride over the jet, Warren’s reluctant interest, Sean wondering where Moira is.  Alex is proud too: a little fond, a lot nostalgic.  Charles wonders if talking to Darwin will set him back or help.

“Thank you,” Erik says.  It’s oddly formal, and not a little relieved when Erik proves he can speak for himself.  “You need to work on that.”

It’s nothing Charles hasn’t said to him, and to the children, a hundred times over.  It’s strange how strange it doesn’t seem now, having it directed at him.  Or maybe it’s just that he doesn’t mind hearing it from Erik.

“Yes,” Charles says, testing the word in the empty reality of the hallway.  “I’m aware.”

He knows what Erik’s going to say before he says it, and Erik knows he feels too guilty not to agree.  Still, they go through the motions when Erik says, “You should practice now.  It’s already out of control; you won’t make it worse.”

Cam doesn’t really need their help, and Charles can’t let anyone see him like this regardless.  Not when he could push them out of their own head without thinking twice.  Without thinking once.  He doesn’t know how a simple wish became a command, and even if it is--just Erik, somehow, just Erik’s closeness in his head--then still.  Why is Erik in his head?

“Not here,” Charles says with a sigh.  Not that anywhere is safe, but at least there must be less embarrassing places to lose control.

"The bunker's open," Erik says.

He knows that because Charles does, which should be more alarming than it is.  "You want me to use your powers," Charles says aloud.  Alex was just asking if you'd ever been in there.

"Seems safer than you using my body," Erik says, though he'd offer if he thought Charles would agree.  He is offering.  He's remembering the morning he came out of the bunker with a gun and asked Charles to shoot him.

"I'm not going to shoot you," Charles says.

Erik only shrugs, but the ripple of uneasiness in his mind is strange and beautiful.  Erik's never acknowledged his fear of guns.  To see it now, so close to the surface--Charles doesn't know if it's hopeful or terrifying.

All Erik says is, "Your loss."

"The bullets in the kitchen," Charles realizes, even as Erik's mind shies away from it.  It isn't his most recent memory of guns, but it's the first of several failures with them.  "You couldn't stop them."

"They weren't metal," Erik growls.  But he didn't know that at first, couldn't be sure in the overwhelming rush of a dormant sense coming back online.  Even with Charles an unsteady anchor at his side, he could only fumble with the outlines of things around him, blinded by the shining flood of metal everywhere he looked.

“No guns,” Charles says.  “We have metal targets.  How many things can you juggle?”

It’s whimsical for the first minute, boring for the second, then far more entertaining when Charles realizes his own wheelchair is singing at him through Erik’s powers.  He lifts it without another thought, ignoring Erik’s flash of alarm.  There’s plenty of room in the empty bunker to take it for a spin, smoother and easier than propelling it himself, even when he raises it to the level of the observation window and tries to hover.

“Charles,” Erik warns.  “You’re not wearing enough metal for me to catch you if you fall.”

“Oh, please.”  Charles peers out through the observation window, finding it more straightforward than he anticipated to split his attention.  “I haven’t fallen out of my wheelchair in--”  He thinks about it, smiles.  “Years.”

“You haven’t used a wheelchair in years,” Erik retorts.

“So stop me,” Charles says.  “Keep me from using your powers.  Someone should be able to if I can’t.”

“I’m not going to interfere with your control while you’re ten feet off the ground,” Erik tells him.

Charles doubts Erik is going to interfere with his control at all, and he does take some childish delight in looking down at Erik for once.  But he lets the chair descend, and as soon as the wheels touch the ground they’re being pulled toward Erik.  Charles blinks, surprised enough that he lifts his hands and lets them roll.  It’s slightly more complicated and vastly more subtle than his own approach, but when he reaches out for the targets, for Erik’s belt, his watch, he has no difficulty manipulating other objects at the same time.

“Well,” Charles says, coming to a halt rather closer to Erik than he would have expected.  “That’s certainly… revealing.”

“You didn’t try to stop me,” Erik says.  He waves a hand at the targets, and Charles can feel his focus shift infinitesimally.  It’s barely noticeable, yet a series of metal targets melt and pool and reshape themselves into a clever stool beside Charles’ chair.  Erik sits down.

Charles lifts another target and tries to imagine it as something else--and to his surprise, it twists obligingly into a smooth metal sphere.  “We can both use your powers at the same time,” he says, which isn’t what he meant to say at all.

“Obviously,” Erik agrees.  “We’re both using your powers simultaneously; why would mine be different?”

“Because I think I’m only using yours because of mine,” Charles says.  He frowns at the sphere.  “That must be why I can do the things you do, without… practicing.  It isn’t your powers I’m using, it’s you.  It’s your powers through you.”

“I want you to know,” Erik says mildly, “that wouldn’t make any sense if I didn’t know what you're thinking.  Is this just a side effect of you being in my head, then?  When you take someone over, they automatically know what you're thinking?”

“No,” Charles says.  He looks up, but it doesn’t take any concentration to keep the sphere where it is while he meets Erik's gaze.  “No, that part I can’t explain at all.  It isn’t supposed to go both ways.”

“Isn’t supposed to?” Erik repeats, raising his eyebrows.

Charles can feel his skepticism, so he amends, “It never has before.  That I know of, at least.  You shouldn’t know I’m in your head unless I want you to.”

“Maybe you want me to,” Erik says.

It’s not impossible, and Charles knows Erik hears that as easily as anything else he’s thought this afternoon.  It's unprecedented, but then, so is the depth of his feeling for Erik.  Perhaps it isn’t his powers that are out of control at all, but his heart.

Erik doesn’t say anything.  He’s torn, Charles thinks, between what he wants to say and what he thinks Charles would do.  You don’t hold us accountable for our thoughts, Erik said.  Even though it’s not true; Charles has never been able to distinguish between what people think and what they say.  It’s only through long practice and careful observation that he’s been able make it appear he’s just responding to the spoken word.

That makes Erik look at him again, and Charles smiles ruefully.  This is dangerous, my friend.  You may learn things about me you wish you didn’t know.

There’s nothing about you I don’t want to know, Erik thinks.

"Then the least I can do is the courtesy of saying it aloud," Charles tells him.  "I am hopelessly in love with you, and it's clearly affecting everything I do."

This strikes Erik so deeply that it gives Charles pause.  The well of feeling is tremendously grateful and overwhelming, and yet nothing about Erik’s expression changes.  You’re not alone, he thinks.

Charles isn’t even sure he’s meant to overhear, but it makes the rest harder.  "I don't want to manipulate you into anything you don’t want," he says.  "But given--"  What I feel, what's happened, what's at stake-- "Everything…  I don't know that I can make that promise."

"Well, try,” Erik tells him.  It's offhand--too offhand for this conversation--and the corner of his mouth quirks up when he adds, “There's a good chap.”

More alarming than Erik’s apparent lack of concern is that the bleed of Charles’ consciousness may be far more extensive than he realized.  “Just how much are you getting from me?” he asks.  He isn’t sure he wants to know.

Erik is truly smiling now--amused not by his alarm, at least, but by the coincidence.  “I didn't know you said that to Scott,” he says.  “At least, not until you thought it just now.  I've heard you say it before, that's all.”

“Yes,” Charles murmurs, frowning.  “It's not very comforting, is it.”

“I didn't think it was meant to be,” Erik says.  He’s mostly devoid of sympathy when he adds, “We’ve both faced higher stakes than the future of our secret affair.  I doubt the thought of losing me will keep you from re-learning your own powers.”

It’s frank and almost humorously self-deprecating.  Charles wonders how many of his objections Erik can see before he even begins.  “You presume a great deal,” he says.  “One, this is not a secret.  Conditions of our reconciliation, if you recall.

“Two,” he adds, “I never learned this.  How often do you think I practice taking over other people’s powers?  And three, the thought of losing you is unbearable.  I daresay you’ll significantly outlive me if that’s--”

Erik reaches out, a hand covering his, and Charles forgets everything else he was going to say.  “Allow me to choose,” Erik says firmly, “and I’ll choose you.”

No, Charles thinks.  You won't.  Erik never has before.  If he does, it will only be because everything worth fighting over is gone.  And that's why I'm afraid.

"I would have come for you."  Erik is steady, even in the swirl of submarine and sand, through sunless skies and Sentinels.  "I made a mistake, years ago.  I made several mistakes.  Mine admittedly predate yours, but like you, I would do anything to set them right."

"Your idea of fixing things was killing my sister," Charles mutters.  "Forgive me if I'm not entirely swayed."

"And yours was hiding with the runaways until the government came for them," Erik says sharply.  "So far, neither of us has been particularly successful."

Alone, the thought echoes, and Charles can't tell which of them it comes from.  So many years wasted.  What I wouldn't give to have a precious few of them back.

He feels Erik's hand on his face, and his voice is suddenly as gentle as his touch.  "A man is not old," Erik says quietly, "until his regrets outnumber his dreams."

Charles tries to smile.  He knows Erik's father used to say that, so it may be unkind to remark, "An odd sentiment coming from you, my friend."

"Perhaps you've taught me to dream," Erik replies.  "And I prefer 'darling,' if you don't mind."

Charles searches his expression, searches his mind, but all he sees is sincerity.  It’s all he wants to see, so maybe that colors his perception somewhat.  He has no choice but to take it for what it is.

“In that case,” he says.  “I think you should kiss me, darling.”  Erik looks amused, so Charles adds, “So far it’s the most reliable way of making me lose control, and thus the activity with which I need the most practice.”

“For training purposes, then,” Erik says.  Now he’s definitely smiling.

“Of course,” Charles agrees.  “We are in a school, are we not?”

It’s inappropriate in the extreme, treating a public space as though it’s their private room.  But the children are all occupied, and anyone who would have reason to use the bunker is with them.  Charles thinks they might possibly be excused on the basis that their past transgressions are worse: they’re showing improvement, if nothing else.

They’ve wasted enough time as it is.

Chapter 13

Once upon a time--ten years ago, ten days, or even ten hours--Charles thought he could kiss Erik Lehnsherr and keep up with the rest of the world at the same time.  Or at least in quick enough succession that just having Erik around wouldn’t interfere with his awareness of the school.  There’s only a dozen of them, give or take.  How hard can they be to keep track of?

He doesn't realize Moira hasn't joined them for supper until Hank asks where she is.  Sean says she left a note--something about going into town, which Charles thinks is odd given her earlier promise to eat with them--and Erik asks if she took Magda with her.  Sean shrugs, but Wanda says no: the twins' mother went back to Virginia for the night.

Charles wonders if he should have known that.  How responsible is he for the adult humans in their group?  What about the adult mutants?

Logan is at Hank's left, and Scott is next to him but Alex is nowhere to be seen.  Emma took the seat to Erik's left, but Darwin and Eva still haven't returned.  Charles is doing a headcount, complicated by the children's eagerness to get up and retrieve food rather than wait for it to be passed, when Alex appears in the doorway.

Professor, Alex thinks quietly.  Unnecessarily, given that he's drawn Charles' eye just by hesitating.  Charles' awareness prompts Erik's, and he looks away before the entire table follows his gaze.

"Excuse me," Charles murmurs.

Erik's hand is resting on the table beside him, and he pats it in gentle warning before taking hold of his chair and pushing back.  With his mind.  Or rather, Erik's mind.  He grabs the rims with his hands to turn, but the gesture has been made and he feels Erik's surprise and amusement.

"Thank you, darling," Charles says as he rolls past.  It seems only appropriate--if he's going to use Erik's powers, he ought to show some appreciation.

He's aware of Erik's acknowledgement, the combination of pleasure and uncertainty keeping him silent.  It's Emma who repeats, "Darling?"

Charles is the only one listening through the arguments about drink glasses and vegetables, but he knows this will make Erik smile pleasantly.  It’s his most menacing expression.  "Problem?" Erik inquires.

"Sugar," Emma tells him, “if it keeps him out of my head and you away from my jewelry, you can darling each other to your hearts' content."

Piotr makes way, returning to his seat beside Illyana with the broccoli, and even without trying to use Erik’s powers Charles can feel the flash of organic steel beneath his sleeves.  He doesn’t know what it means that the metal sense hasn’t gone away, or if there’s any direct correlation between it and Erik’s awareness of his thoughts.  He should probably be keeping track of how long it lasts, plotting the progression for future investigation.  It’s certainly the longest instance of overlap since… ever.

“What’s wrong?” he asks Alex, following him out of the room without hesitation.  “Have you heard from Darwin?”

“Yeah,” Alex says.  “He says they’re still in the city.”

He hesitates, and Charles says carefully, “Long day?”

“Angel didn’t have a ticket,” Alex says in a rush.  “They took her ID, only it wasn’t hers.  Now she’s in some kind of detention, and Darwin can’t do anything.  He asked if I’d come, see if they’d listen to me.”

Because I’m white, Alex thinks but doesn’t say.  He wants to be the hero.  But Alex knows as well as any of them what happens to heroes.

"Is she in custody?" Charles asks.  Alex’s knowledge of the situation is frustratingly vague, but it’s possible that it accurately reflects Darwin’s.  "Have they been holding her all day?"

"I don't think so," Alex says.  "I mean, I think she's still at the terminal.  They probably fined her, right?  Would they hold her if she couldn’t pay?”

Charles frowns.  “It seems unlikely,” he says.  “For the police to get involved they’d have to charge her, and failure to pay isn’t a detainable offense.  The identification is more tricky.  It depends how she came by it and whether or not she tried to use it before they confiscated it.”

“Do you think there’s anything I can do?”  Alex already knows how long it will take him to get there and where to meet Darwin.  “I mean, I’ll go anyway, to help with Eva, but--”

He stops at the sound of the phone.  Charles’ first thought is Darwin, and indeed Alex turns in the direction of the phone immediately, but the ring isn’t right.  It cuts off in the middle before starting again, pauses, then does the odd double-ring again.

“What’s wrong with the phone?” Charles asks.

“It’s the gate,” Alex says over his shoulder.  “Hank fixed it so it rings different when there’s someone at the gate.”

Charles follows him and hears Alex saying, “Who’s this?” as he catches up.  Then, “Hang on.”

Alex turns, catching his eye.  “Agent Moonstar?” he says, the skepticism obvious.  “She says she has information about you.”  He’s covered the phone, but he doesn’t make any effort to offer it.  He’s not convinced “Agent Moonstar” is even a real person.

“Ah, yes,” Charles says with a smile.  “FBI Agent Danielle Moonstar visited us with her partner, Claire Dunbarton, the other day.  What information she could have about me, I’ve no idea, but her introduction is legitimate.”

“Uh-huh,” Alex says, but he hands the phone over anyway.

“Hello,” Charles tells it.  “This is Charles Xavier.  What can I do for you, Agent Moonstar?”

There’s a pause on the other end, and it’s long enough that Charles wonders if they’re still connected.  “Hello?” he repeats.

“Professor Xavier?” a voice replies.  It does sound like Dani, but he’s not sure why she’s so surprised.  “Are you at home?”

Charles raises his eyebrows.  “I would congratulate you,” he says slowly, “on your perceptiveness.  But perhaps you didn’t expect to find me here?”

There’s another pause, and then Dani asks, “Can you read minds at a distance?”

“Yes,” he says.  It’s the correct answer to the question she voiced, if not to the one she thinks she’s asking.  “I’m not in this case, however.  Is there something I can help you with, or have you just dropped by to test our new security system?  It’s nice, isn’t it?  I was against locking the gate myself, but I have to admit, the telephone connection is brilliant.”

“It’s good,” Dani says, surprising him.  “I think it’s a good idea.  I thought you were in the city, but… I’m glad to be wrong.  Did you recover your friend, then?”

Charles covers the phone and looks at Alex, frowning.  Alex gives him a well? look in return, and Charles finds he doesn’t know what to say.  He uncovers the phone and says, “I’m sorry.  My friend?”

Dani sounds just as politely guarded as he feels over the scratchy line.  “I understood that you had gone to Grand Central to retrieve a former associate.  Last I knew, the FBI was planning to resolve on your behalf an issue they had covertly exacerbated.”

Charles takes a moment to admire how well-spoken she is.  Multilingual, he’s sure, which makes it all the more impressive.  Erik didn’t achieve English fluency until well into his teens, and Charles will never tire of listening to him.

This time when he looks at Alex, he doesn’t bother to cover the phone.  “Am I at Grand Central Terminal?” Charles asks.

Alex makes a face at him.  “What?”

“I thought not,” Charles says.  “Agent Moonstar, are you alone?  Perhaps you should join us at the house.  Did you say why you’re here?”

“I’m probably not an agent anymore,” she tells him over the phone.  “Or I won’t be soon, once they realize I tried to warn you.  Or your--I thought I’d tell Hank--Dr. McCoy, if he was still here.  Claire and I are just a front.  Our division has orders to recruit you at any cost.”

“Yes,” Charles says.  “I’m aware of the intention, if not the particulars.  Alex, can I open the gate from here, or do we need to go out?”

“I’ll get it,” Alex says.  “You trust her?”

“I see no reason not to,” Charles says, which isn’t quite the same thing.  He’ll know when he sees her, in any case.  “Dani--may I call you Dani?--please stay where you are.  Someone will be along shortly to let you in.”

“Understood,” she says.

He puts the phone down, making sure it clicks into place before he tells Alex, “According to Dani, there’s an FBI plot afoot to secure my good favor.  Possibly by secretly detaining my friends and then ‘helping’ me get them released.  She claims she’s here to warn me, but she seemed surprised to find me present.”

“She’s the backdoor mole,” Alex says.  “They draw you out, she sneaks in while you’re gone.”

“Indeed,” Charles says slowly.  “To do what, though?  How did the FBI identify Angel, connect her to me, and expect me to run to her rescue all in the space of a few hours?  And what would they hope to gain by an unsupervised evening here at the house?”

“You want to let her in and find out,” Alex guesses.

“Well, we won’t get any answers from here,” Charles says.  “Be careful, though.  She’s a mutant herself, though she doesn’t acknowledge it, and she has a slight psionic gift that she may be able to use offensively.”

Alex gives him a neutral look.  “I don’t like going up against telepaths.”

Charles shakes his head.  “I didn’t detect malicious intent from her yesterday, when she visited with her partner.  I only mention it in the interests of full disclosure.  Use your best judgment.”

Alex clenches his right fist, and it glows brightly red for a moment.  “You got it,” he says.

“Alex,” Charles says, just as he’s turning away.  “Do you have any means of contacting Darwin?”

Alex stops, checks the time.  “No,” he says.  “He called from a pay phone.  He’s supposed to call back at seven.  Why?”

“I thought he might worry less if he knew the FBI was involved,” Charles says.  “If they’re trying to get on my good side, so to speak, it’s unlikely this will have lasting repercussions for Angel.”

“Oh, yeah,” Alex says, close enough to rolling his eyes that it makes no difference.  “I’m sure FBI involvement will make him worry less.  Thanks, Professor.”

Charles can’t help but smile.  “Well, I do what I can.”

He considers going back to the dining room after Alex has left.  He has a moment to get something to eat, at least, but having to leave again immediately will only provoke more curiosity.  He really shouldn’t be surprised, then, when Erik shows up shortly with a full plate, flatware, and his drink glass.

“Disconcerting though this is,” Charles remarks, “So far I find the benefits significantly outweigh the disadvantages.”

“What’s happening?” Erik wants to know.  “All I got was government interference and Hank’s wonderful inventions.”

Charles laughs at that.  “Yes, the gate has its own ring.  It’s quite useful, really.  I expect soon there will be a remote unlocking mechanism so we never need to leave the house at all.”

Erik puts his plate on an end table and sits down across from him.  “Who are you letting in?” he asks.  “I thought you were keeping government agents outside.”

“She may not be a government agent much longer,” Charles says.  “Dani Moonstar, one of the FBI agents who stopped by yesterday to entice me with whatever I wanted.  Including them, I’m fairly sure.  She’s a mutant; you’ll like her.”

“I’m not predisposed to like anyone who thinks she can take my place in your bed,” Erik says bluntly.  “Are you trying to pry her free of them, or is she defecting?”

The phone rings, and Charles looks at it in surprise.  Then he catches Erik’s eye and pushes a summary at him: Angel’s held up at the terminal, possibly through the machinations of the FBI, who want to pretend to be my friend by “rescuing” her.  Dani claims she came to warn us of the FBI’s schemes; I intend to judge her sincerity when Alex brings her in.

“Good evening,” he says to the phone.  “Xavier’s.”

“Charles!”  Moira’s voice exclaims.  “Listen, don’t leave the house, all right?  I’m on my way back.  Can you stay where you are for an hour or so?”

Erik absorbed the information about Angel and the FBI without surprise, but he raises his eyebrows when he hears Charles register Moira on the line.  “Where’s she been?” he asks, though quietly, and in a tone that indicates he doesn’t really care.

“Hello, Moira,” Charles says.  “Are you all right?  Where are you?”

“I’m in town,” she says, and even at a distance Charles recognizes the evasion.  “I’m fine; I met with Greg.  He says they’re tracking telepaths, Charles.  He says--”  She stops, for breath or for uncertainty, he can't tell.  "He says they have David.  In government custody.  His mother’s dead; they say it’s for his own protection but--”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Charles says, lifting his hand in a futile attempt to touch her shoulders and calm her down.  “Greg’s mother is dead?  What happened; is he in trouble?”

“No, David!” Moira says.  “David’s mother died, Charles. I’m so sorry.”

Charles looks at Erik, but there’s no help there.  “Sorry,” he says.  “Who’s David?”

There’s a second of silence, and he wishes desperately that she were here, in front of him, where he could understand what on earth she’s on about.  Instead he sees Erik shaking his head, silently sharing his frustration, and he feels faint reassurance from Alex.  Dani’s not confrontational, then.  Whether she’s telling the truth, of course, remains to be seen.

“David,” Moira repeats, as though he simply didn’t hear the first time.  “Your son, David.  Charles, you do know you have a son.  Don’t you?”

He blinks.  “Ah, no,” he says, giving Erik a helpless look.  “I’m afraid that’s news to me.  She says I have a son,” he adds, because he doesn’t know what his mind is doing right now, but he’s sure Erik won’t get anything useful from his thoughts.  “She says the CIA has him.  David.”

“He’s a telepath,” Moira says in his ear.  “Of course he would be, wouldn’t he?  Greg says he’s dangerous; I think that’s probably government-speak for ‘valuable.’  I don’t think I’m in trouble, but I wanted you to know before I head back.  Just in case.”

He knows that tone, even over the phone and miles away.  “Moira, are you alone?  Are you somewhere safe?  I’ll send Sean to get you.  Hold on.”

“No, it’s fine,” she’s saying, but it isn’t.

Erik’s gaze hasn’t wavered, so Charles has no trouble catching his eye.  “Would you ask Sean to come in here, please?  Try not to alarm anyone, with the--”  He gestures at Erik.  “Way you do.”

Erik looks at him for a moment that seems too long, but Moira hasn’t even renewed her protest when he puts a hand on Charles’ shoulder and squeezes.  “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Charles exhales in relief, closing his eyes briefly as Erik turns to go.  Thank you, darling.

He opens his eyes in time to see Erik wave over his shoulder, but the sense in his mind is of the television, the doorknobs and hinges and the wires in the walls.  Erik is concentrating on metal and Sean, and even as Charles listens he starts to construct his thoughts: He wants to talk to Sean, probably another government project.  The government wants to talk to him, he wants to talk to Sean, probably another government problem.  Like Sean knows anything.  He wants to talk to Sean.

Erik gave up trying to keep telepaths out of his head himself as soon as he realized there would always be someone stronger than him.  He took to more basic mindreading defenses easily, however, and he’s always had excellent concentration.  It’s unlikely that Emma won’t notice he’s distracted.  It’s entirely possible, however, that she’ll write off his repetitive surface thoughts as unworthy of her attention.

Moira gives him an address.  She’s as troubled as she’s pretending not to be, because she also gives him a phone number and promises to wait for Sean.  Unfortunately, Greg went through her to get the information to Charles for a reason, and there’s not much more she can tell him about current CIA operations--or the whereabouts of this mysterious “David.”

Charles, in turn, promises to stay at the house until she arrives.  It rules out personally riding to Angel’s rescue, but if the FBI is the carrot and the CIA is the stick, Charles knows better than to move in either direction.  Between Moira and Dani, at least he isn’t playing the game completely blind.

“Hey,” Alex’s voice says from the door.  “I guess you already know each other.”

Charles smiles at the darkened window before turning back around.  “Hello, Dani,” he says.  She’s guarded but honest, and her thoughts are calm.  “Why are you throwing in your lot with us?”

Alex looks from Charles to Dani and back again, but Dani just shrugs.  “This will sound strange,” she says, “but I trust you more than I trust them.  It’s a feeling I’ve learned to listen to.”

He’s sure it is.  “You’re leaving the FBI, then.”

“It was a typing job, originally,” she tells him.  “Everything else was just… games.  But I have friends back home.  They’ll help me.”

“No doubt,” Charles agrees, studying her tranquility.  It’s genuine, he thinks.  Born neither of deception nor shock.  “I hope you know you have friends here as well.  I’m very grateful for your warning.”

“It looks like it was unnecessary,” she says, and now a rueful smile touches her expression.  “Still.  I’m sure there’s a reason I haven’t seen yet.”

“There often is, isn’t there,” Charles agrees.  She won’t be receptive to discussion about this: strange, that she’s so confident in her gift and so reluctant to acknowledge it.  “I wonder if you could tell me why you thought I wouldn’t be here when you arrived.”

Alex glances out at the foyer before giving Charles a warning look.  Sean’s on his way.  Erik’s with him.

“I guess you worked faster than I expected,” Dani is saying.  “You were still talking to terminal security when I left.”

Of this, she is absolutely certain.  This is not a hypothetical, and she isn’t wrong.  Charles checks the time, wondering how Raven knew Angel was in trouble.  They couldn’t have been traveling together, could they?  Surely Darwin would have said--

Darwin wouldn’t have known, Charles realizes.  But if she was already there, then why would Raven have waited?

“Uh, hey,” Sean says, waving a little.  “Should I wait?  Erik said you needed me for something.”

“Yes, I’m sorry to call you away from supper,” Charles says.  “It’s only that Moira may or may not have gotten herself into something, and she’d like some company on her way back to the house.  Are you willing?”

“Sure, yeah, of course,” Sean says, too quickly.  He knew she wasn’t just doing errands, then.  “Right now?  Where is she?”

Charles gives him the address, then directions when Sean looks at him blankly.  “She did say she’d wait,” Charles tells him.

“On my way,” Sean promises.  “Hello,” he adds, catching Dani’s eye as he turns back toward the door.  “I’m Sean.  Nice to meet you, only not really.  The meeting part, not the nice part.  It was nice.”

Charles knows that sometimes Sean’s stream-of-consciousness can feel contagious--or off-putting--but Dani just nods at him.  “Dani Moonstar,” she says.

"And now we’ve met!"  Sean crows.  "Excellent.  I’m gonna go.”

He does, leaving Charles to incline his head toward Dani.  “Erik,” he says.  “This is Agent Dani Moonstar, from the FBI.  Dani, Erik.”

Dani flicks a look at Charles that borders on amused.  “He hasn’t been pardoned yet.”

“Nor have I committed the crime I was convicted for,” Erik says.  If there’s a “yet” in his statement too, it remains unspoken.

“I don’t expect you’ll be sharing his status or location with anyone else,” Charles remarks.  “We can’t hide forever, of course.  But for now, Erik is making a vast and generous effort to avoid causing trouble for the school.”

“The school,” Dani repeats, casting her gaze about the room.  It’s only they three and Alex, but the sounds of supper echo unmistakably across the foyer.  “I see you weren’t being facetious about that.”

“No,” Charles agrees.  “I’d like your word, please.  That you won’t reveal Erik’s presence.”

She looks back at him in surprise.  “Of course,” she says.  He knew she took it for granted, but perhaps hearing her say it will remind Erik that he takes this seriously.  “I no longer work for anyone who’d be interested.  And I certainly don’t want media attention for myself.”

Interesting that she puts it in those terms, he thinks.  Not in terms of morality or even legality, but in terms of professional interest and personal inconvenience.  He thinks the FBI made a mistake when they hired her.  He also thinks she’s clever enough to convince them they didn’t, if she ever needs to.  Or wants to.

"In that case," Charles says.  "Can we interest you in something to eat?"

She hesitates, but she's hungry and, hospitality aside, they owe her.  This reassures her enough to admit, "I wouldn't turn it down."

"Splendid!" Charles says.  "Alex, would you mind introducing Dani to the dining room?"

Hank, he thinks.  Is Cerebro functional?

Alex is giving him a very unimpressed look, so Charles adds, “I’ll need Erik to help me with Cerebro.  The computer and I haven’t been getting along very well lately.”

Functional, Hank thinks.  Not better.  I still don’t know why it knocked you out last time, and there's no reason to think it’ll be better this time.

“Isn’t that more Hank’s job?” Alex asks pointedly.

“Hank is eating,” Charles says.  “As you should be.  I’ll see you at seven, yeah?”

Alex doesn't back down.  "Will anything be different at seven?" he wants to know.

"I imagine so," Charles says.  "For one thing, we'll all be less hungry."

Alex glares at him, but he doesn't take it out on Dani when he turns to her.  "It's this way," he says, with something that's at least less of a frown than he gave Charles.  "There should be a couple of open seats."

Charles is aware that this last is directed at him.  He doesn't expect to receive Erik's censure as well, but that's what he gets as soon as Alex and Dani are gone.  

"They're not children," Erik tells him.  "To be sent away while you fix things behind their backs."

"I'm not even sure this will work," Charles says with a sigh.  If Raven isn't there any more, if she won't let him in--

"Doesn't he deserve to know that?" Erik counters.  "He doesn't even know what you're doing.  I don't even know what you're doing, and you expect me to help you."

That stings a bit, though he thinks it wasn't meant to.  "I can do it myself," he says.  "I just thought--well, your assistance with Cerebro has been--"

"You're missing the point," Erik interrupts.  "Of course I'll help you.  We'll all help you; that's why we're here.  I daresay anyone in this house will do whatever you ask.  At some point you have to accept it, to believe we won't support you any less just because you explain yourself."

"It isn't that," Charles protests.  "I'm grateful for your loyalty, of course--"

"Then it's our input you don't want?" Erik demands.  "If you trust us not to question, do you keep your secrets only because you believe we have nothing to offer?"

"No!" Charles exclaims.  "It's not a secret, Erik.  It's a half-formed plan with no certainties and far too many variables. And you're one to talk, aren't you, when you can't even give me a destination before you disappear on your next one-man mission of justice!"

“I don’t know the destination!” Erik snaps.  “Emma wants to visit someone; I told her we’d take her.  I don’t know where we’re going.”

Charles waves a hand in lieu of rolling his eyes.  “That would have been a sufficient answer!  Is it dangerous?  Can I help?  Your request for information means little when you don’t tell me anything either.”

“I don’t know anything!” Erik explodes.  “I know you think I have some secret plan, that the trips with Azazel are part of a grand scheme, but the truth is I have nothing!  Two weeks ago I was in an underground cell and all I knew of the world was the sports scores one of the guards got over his radio!  I can’t build a mission for a world I no longer recognize!”

Charles shouldn’t laugh.  He does anyway; he can’t help it.  He thinks the Erik who yells at him probably won’t mind.  It’s the polite and cultured Erik who would take offense.  Erik isn’t truly angry until he pretends he isn’t, and Charles has far too much firsthand experience with Erik’s anger not to know the difference.

Erik glares at him.  “You are infuriating,” he snarls, as though pronouncing every word through gritted teeth.

“Yes,” Charles agreed, contrite and grinning at the same time.  “I am, I’m sorry, it’s a terrible flaw.  But darling, how could you say all of that and not know it’s the same answer I would give you?”

Erik doesn’t make it easy for him, retorting, “That you were in a cell with nothing but overheard sports scores to connect you to the world?”

“That I don’t tell you what I’m doing because I don’t know,” Charles counters.  “Dani is convinced I was at the terminal.  I wasn’t, so I can only think Raven is there.  Or was.  Perhaps she was traveling with Angel, do you think?”

“Very likely,” Erik grumbles, surprising him.  “They were thick as thieves.  She would have raised that baby herself if Darwin hadn’t insisted.”

Charles blinks at the flood of memories through a suddenly open door.  “Insisted--?” he begins, but it’s clear, it’s right there in Erik’s mind.  Darwin wanted Eva away from the Brotherhood, and Angel allowed it because she didn't know what else to do.  She cried on Raven’s shoulder every night for weeks afterwards.

“And?” Erik says impatiently.  He knows Charles knows.  He isn’t interested in discussing it.  “Your brilliant plan is to find Raven and help her be you?  Will you threaten the FBI or play along?”

“I don’t know,” Charles says honestly.  He hasn't gotten that far, but improvisation is a familiar road.  “It’s probably best if we can avoid acknowledging them entirely.  I had hoped that having accurate information about what’s happening might suggest a course of action.”

“You’re going to make it up as you go,” Erik says.

“Well, yes,” Charles admits.  That's what they do--didn't they just agree?  He has a moment of doubt before Erik grins at him, wide and exhilarating.

"Then what are we waiting for?" he says.  "Let's go."

Chapter 14

The first time he and Erik used Cerebro together, it was a mistake.  Erik had been there when he wavered, body faltering as his mind was overwhelmed.  Erik had reached over the railing and grabbed his arm.  To hold him up, he would later claim.  Charles was too valuable an asset to simply let him fall.  Erik was within reach, and instinct took over.

Charles claimed instinct as well.  His mind latched onto the nearest focal point in a flood of intention and articulation.  He overrode every safety Cerebro had been built with to prevent exactly what happened next: Charles commandeered all Erik’s senses to ground himself, slowing his mad rush into the unknown and dragging him back.

It wasn’t enough.  Erik was strong, but he was caught off guard with no defenses and no telepathic training to speak of.  He was yanked along in Charles’ wake, an insufficient anchor against the tide, drowning and out of control until Hank panicked and shut everything down.

In retrospect, Charles thinks, it’s no surprise that Erik is so wary of Cerebro.  What Charles remembers most is the numbness of shutdown and the implausibly faint physical awareness of Erik under his hands.  He came back to himself with his fingers pressed against Erik’s temples, desperately cupping Erik’s face while Erik’s hands gripped his arm and fisted in his shirt.  They stood so close that the railing was hard and awkward between them, and Charles remembers standing there, not moving, for much longer than it probably was.

Hank was with them too, but Charles doesn’t remember him.  What he remembers is Erik staring back at him.  Erik, who could have been lost in his own mind or shattered by someone else’s--who could have been killed by Charles’ lack of control--holding onto Charles instead of pushing him away.

“You know, you have an alarming tendency to run into danger,” Charles remarks, glancing over at Erik as the computer lets them in.

The first thing Erik thinks of is Charles’ arms around him in the waters of the Atlantic.  Then Russia, and Cuba.  Even Washington.  You have an alarming tendency to follow me, Erik thinks, but all he says is, “Do I.”

Charles can’t help but smile.  “You’re following me, my fr--darling,” he says, and Erik gives him an amused look.

“Do you want me to come with you?” he asks, stepping to the side while Charles rolls up to the controls.  “Or is my role simply to wait?”

“Ah,” Charles says.  He pauses with his hand on the helmet, wondering whether Erik will be impressed or alarmed.  “You’ve not seen the new machine in operation, then.”

He can feel Erik’s interest without turning his head.  “No,” Erik says.  “Only after it shorted out on you the last time.”

“Well,” Charles says, lifting the helmet onto his head.  “You’ll notice a few improvements.  Most notably, the projection of my perception onto our physical surroundings.”

The last time he and Erik shared Cerebro… well, to be fair, Erik has pulled him out of Cerebro twice in the last week alone, and that really ought to count.  But the last time Erik saw Cerebro in use, it was a bright, cramped space that blinked and scribbled some rudimentary approximation of Charles’ awareness.  A far cry from the echoing cavern that now fills with images and voices: flashes of things Charles feels, transformed into light and sound.

Erik’s curiosity spikes when the first connection is made, and for a moment it’s so strong as to be disorienting.  Charles can’t tell whether it’s actually Erik’s emotions that intensify, or just his awareness of them, and there’s a space between one heartbeat and the next where he teeters on the edge of Erik’s mind.  Maybe too much of an anchor after all.

Then, just like that, he’s free.  The lure of the world and its billions of brimming minds is sufficient to draw him away from Erik after all.  Raven, he demands without thinking.  Raven, where are you?

It’s easier this time.  It’s so rare that he searches for one person again and again--successfully, at least.  He doesn’t know if it’s that or knowing where she is or just having been in her mind so recently.  The terminal bursts into his mind with vivid clarity, fresh and precise and for one shining moment he can point to every single mutant there.  He hears every voice, sees every thought, and Erik is gone, Raven is gone… except for the beacon in the middle of a sitting area.

Their group explodes into color and conversation around him.  From the world to the city to the terminal to the table, he’s suddenly sitting with Raven and Angel and Darwin and Eva and Rahne.  “They’ve never questioned him before,” Raven is saying.  “Something’s wrong.  Someone’s after him.”

Angel doesn’t care, she can empathize but she won’t, someone’s always after them and she doesn’t see why they should care about him.  “He stopped Magneto on national television; of course they’re after him.”

“He’s raiding government contractors,” Rahne says.  She’s the one, Charles knows immediately.  The one who asked for contact information before the Blackbird left Virginia, the night they struck Trask Industries.  “I mean, do they know that’s him?”

“If the government’s after him, then why was the FBI so helpful?”  Darwin isn’t convinced, his attention split between Eva and the time and only peripherally impressed by the conversation around him.  “He’s got agencies bending over backwards for him.  It’s like Division X all over again.”

“They were after him then too,” Raven says.  “And he knew it; why do you think he tried to send us away?”

“I remember being recruited hard,” Darwin says.  “It was all ‘what the government can do for you’ and how great the high life is.  I never heard anything about safety or responsibility, let alone being sent away.”

“After that,” Raven says impatiently.  “Look, the point is, he’s in trouble.  And if Erik’s with him, it’s an open question who brings the feds down on them first.  Assuming they don’t kill each other before anyone else can.”

“Oh, please,” Angel says.  “The only one who agonizes over Charles more than you is Erik.”

“And if there’s anyone who can keep the feds off of them,” Darwin adds, “it’s Erik.”

“Should I know who Erik is?” Rahne asks.

“Magneto,” Raven tells her.  “He and Charles can’t decide whether they love or hate each other.  It would be funny if it wasn’t the only thing keeping them from taking over the whole bloody world.”

They’re waiting for Alex, Charles realizes with a sudden shock of understanding.  Darwin lied so Alex wouldn’t have to.  So Charles wouldn’t be able to read his mind.  He fumbles in his haste for the house, reaching for Hank and then for Erik, slamming home with a gasp when Erik’s mind grabs him and holds on hard.

“Alex,” Charles whispers, staring straight ahead as the wall swims in front of his eyes.  He’s in a car, Alex took a car and he left Scott behind.  He’s ten minutes gone already.  “He asked Hank to watch Scott.”

“Alex is gone?”  Erik’s voice is sharp and far away and Charles can’t make his hands work well enough to reach out.  He’s already trying to catch Alex, riding beside him in the passenger seat, wondering if Alex would listen if Charles spoke to him now.

“He’s left to help Darwin,” Charles says.  “But Darwin’s not in trouble.  Angel’s fine.  They’re just waiting for Alex--”

He feels Erik’s hand on his and the car melts away.  “I can’t concentrate when you do that,” Charles says instead, too honest.  He blinks, and the wall is steady this time.  He can see the play of light reflecting his own mind, his own reach, and he stares at it in fascination.  He’s rarely so present in the space his body occupies while his mind is taken by Cerebro.

“Isn’t that the point?” Erik counters.  He doesn’t remove his hand.

“Let me go,” Charles tells him, thoughts running hot on electricity and emotion.  “Let me check on Moira and Sean, at least.”

Must you? Erik thinks, but he doesn’t answer and Charles takes advantage of the moment.

Flinging himself outward, he brushes past Sean--should I free them?  Is Greg with us?  Is this part of the--but he doesn’t make it to Moira.  Something pointed and fiery slams into his skull and he screams, the sound ripped out of his mind and throat as one.  His reach crumples under relentless pain and pounding heat, his thoughts disintegrating until he doesn’t… he can’t...

There’s not even enough of his focus left to bring himself back.  He doesn’t think it but he knows it as the fire melts into a hard shell, pushing him down.  That’s Erik.  That reprieve, it’s Erik all around him, forcing him back.  Erik can’t stand against an attack like this, Erik who uses silly mind games to keep telepaths from looking twice: Erik will be crushed.

So make me, Erik growls in his mind, and Charles knows what he means instantly.  Use my mind; he’s not attacking me not yet--

Charles roars into Erik’s head with all the force of a wounded animal, turning the shell molten with rage.  They’re not going to die for this.  Erik isn’t going to die for this.  For a boy who thinks the world should burn, for a mutant who will destroy everyone because he was left alone.  For the same heartrending grief, again and again, for hurt and fear and pain in a time that doesn’t understand.

For Charles’ son, whom the CIA thinks they can control because Charles never told them, never showed them.  It was never about a lack of power.  It’s a matter of personal responsibility.  An endless cycle of killing, us and them, until there’s no one left--

Cerebro has safeties, but they’re turning too slowly without Hank here to push them into place.  He hears the words echoing in a mind they now share: You won’t kill.  Erik is everywhere, he is Erik, but he still knows some thoughts separate from his own.  Because you’re afraid you won’t be able to stop.

One life or a hundred, Charles thinks, unable to hide how much it doesn’t horrify him.  Not here.  Not when Erik’s head is filled with everything Charles is, not when he knows.  

A thousand, Charles thinks.  A million.  What’s the difference?

The shell bows under pressure from the outside and he shoves it back, filled with Erik’s fury and spilling over with indifference.  The combination of rage and power will rewrite the world--Raven knows it, she knew it all along, she took Erik away on purpose.  To cripple him.  To cripple them both.

Charles reaches out, burning metal spreading like branches, like roots into the network of mutant minds glowing around them.  Together, he and Erik will shield these flickering lights.  Against the wind and cold and dark, with a school to train them and an army to protect them.  

When the humans bring their machines, the X-Men will crush them, tearing them apart piece by piece.  They’ll fight until there’s nothing left, and when they fail, when the world is in ruins around them, they’ll go back and they’ll try again.  What’s time to a mutant, after all?  They can move through solid matter, into thoughts, across space… why not time?

Who’s to say Logan was the first, he wonders?  Who’s to say it was even Logan’s first time?  They could have relived this day, this year, this lifetime a dozen times over.  A hundred.  They could have been hunted for generations, with none of them the wiser.

If their only hope for survival is the early eradication of the human race, then isn’t that the price of evolution?

The last of Cerebro’s locks clicks into place and the recoil of furious energy is black and searing across his mind.  The sky is gone, obscured by solar sabotage, the endless twilight starless and oppressive.  Resistance means nothing.  Life itself barely holds on.  There are no more sides on a battlefield run amok, only tiny pockets of breath and warmth in the shadows of a broken landscape.  

Erik stands at the edge of a cliff, at the end of the world, and he remembers.  

It starts with identification.

He frowns out at the remnants of armageddon.  Real enough in memory, but not alive in fact.  This isn’t his life.  This isn’t his… future.

Past?

This is the world.  This is what’s left.  Maybe this is the psychotic break that Charles was always harping about.

Charles, he thinks, his head throbbing with the bitter wind.  Where are you?

The ground beneath his feet crumbles.  He flings out his arms but there’s no metal.  There’s nothing.  There’s only white and glass and he’s on his knees as reality careens wildly out of control.  The radio.  Eating with his fingers.  Drugs and darkness and days without any contact at all.  Thoughts as loud as voices.

All his own.  No metal.

No Charles.

The last person I expected to see today.

“Erik!”  It’s sharp and worried and the light is blinding as he digs his fingers into the metal walkway.  It’s not accusatory.  He left Hank on a beach.  The fucking X-Men left him in a prison for years.  He tears the deck away and lashes out at the nearest--

“Erik,” Hank’s voice says again.  Gentler, but no less urgent.  What the hell is he doing here?  How could he possibly have known--

He called Hank.

Erik whirls, still crouched, and almost falls over Charles’ body on the floor at the base of the controls.  He waves the metal plating down, restoring the walkway without a look.  Hank, to his credit, steps onto it without hesitation and is kneeling at his side in seconds.

“What happened?” Hank asks.  He doesn’t touch either of them until Erik manages to drag the words out from somewhere he didn’t know existed.

“David,” he says.  He didn’t know that.  David made--something--  “Charles screamed,” Erik rasps, but that isn’t the important part.  “I--he has a… son.  A telepath.  With the CIA.  He attacked--Charles.”

“Are you all right?” Hank asks, giving him a sideways glance.

“Fine,” he growls.  He keeps his voice from breaking through force of will, but Hank accepts it.  There are more important people to worry about.

“Charles,” Hank is saying.  “I heard you call; I know you’re awake.  Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” Erik says involuntarily.

Hank’s double-take is long and slow.  It gives Erik plenty of time for the feeling of dread to sink all the way into his bones.  “No,” he adds, but it’s far too late now.  “I just meant… I heard you.”

“Is Charles--”  Hank hesitates, glancing back at the prone form on the floor.  “Are you in Erik’s head?”

Erik refuses to answer.  He is absolutely not answering stupid questions when Charles is lying unresponsive on the floor.  He’s in his own head, and they may not have bigger problems, but there are some very menacing secondary concerns on their way.

“Sean,” Erik says through gritted teeth.  Banshee, he thinks irritably.  “Have you heard from him?”

Hank looks at him as though he’s mad.  “No?”

“The--”  Erik has to close his eyes, trying to find some kind of center.  “CIA.  They just… chose a side.”

Hank, for the love of all that’s holy, actually understands what he’s trying to say.  “Bring Charles,” he says, bounding to his feet.  “Is Moira in trouble?”

I don’t care, Erik thinks, but what he says is, “Yes.”  He grits his teeth and lifts Charles’ body, thinking dark thoughts about telepaths who lie.

“Okay,” Hank says, already halfway to the door before he looks back to make sure Erik’s following.  “So no Sean, and no Alex.  Is the CIA coming here?”

“Yes,” Erik says again.  He didn’t know that.  How does he know that?  How do you know that? he thinks.

There’s no reply.

Hank is eyeing him speculatively in the bright light of an inactive machine.  “I don’t suppose you have a plan,” he says.

“None you’d like,” Erik growls.  “I’d make an example of them all, and you know it.”

Hank doesn’t look troubled.  “Well, it was worth a shot.”  He hesitates for just a moment, glancing down at the limp form in Erik’s arms.  “You know you’re speaking for Charles, right?”

Erik’s grip tightens involuntarily.  “I’m aware,” he grits out.  “I can’t hear or feel him.  But I didn’t know the CIA was coming.”

“It’s harder for him to be obvious, sometimes,” Hank says.  “I mean, without--hurting you.  It takes more concentration.  I’m sure he isn’t hiding on purpose.”

He has no interest in Hank’s reassurances.  “Where are we going.”

“Can you set him up in Medical?”  Hank is looking down the corridor like he can hear someone at the door.  Maybe he can.  Hank’s sensory input is off the charts these days--charts he designed, no less, and Erik--doesn’t know that.

“I’d like to do some scans, run some tests,” Hank is saying, “but we don’t have time, not if there’s a telepath as strong as Charles coming for us.  Would you know if he’s, uh… brain damaged?”

No, Erik thinks, and oddly, unsettlingly, that’s exactly what comes out.  “No,” he says.

Hank frowns.  It clearly bothers him just as much.  “Maybe we should--”

“No,” Erik repeats, more strongly.  “Hank.  Go.”

He can’t glare at someone he’s holding too close to properly see, but he tries.  “Just to be clear,” he bites out.  “I don’t like this.”

“No one likes it,” Hank says.  He doesn’t sound at all sympathetic.  “But we need him.  If you could stop thinking so much, maybe--that makes it easier for him.”

“I have no interest in making this easier for Charles,” Erik snaps.  “I’ll make sure he’s not dying.  Go attend whatever’s making you so jumpy.”

Still Hank hesitates.  “Come upstairs when you can,” he says, and Erik has no intention of gracing that with a reply.

“I will,” he says.

Hank nods.  Erik’s jaw clenches as he watches the boy stride away.  I don’t like you being invisible, he thinks, as carefully and precisely as he can.  He concentrates on it, the words repeating in his mind, reforming into something closer to I miss you by the time he lays Charles down.  He ignores it.  The point is to hide his fear.  For that, he supposes I miss you is as good as anything else.

The helmet.  Magneto’s helmet would keep a telepath out, and it’s down the hall.  In the lab.

It explains why Hank doesn’t want him in the lab, Erik thinks.

“I don’t want to keep you out,” he says deliberately.  A little more quietly than he might have, but he is, to all appearances, the only conscious person in the room.  He does want Charles out.  He wants Charles where he can see him, in mind and body.

Charles didn’t hold his obvious trepidation against him last time.  Erik can only hope he’ll receive the same allowances this time.  Ways of truly stopping Charles don’t bear thinking about.

The helmet would stop him.

“David,” Erik says aloud.

He blinks, because that isn’t what he was thinking at all.

But it was.  The helmet is for--

“Hank,” Erik says sharply.  He’s moving without thinking, one halting step taking him away from the bed and another toward the door.  “You think David is coming here.

“Wait,” he adds, irritated--alarmed, shocked, terrified, take a deep breath--when he can’t stop moving.  “Damn it, Charles, stop.  Stop!”

The urge to move, to go to Hank, is foreign and heavy against his desire to stay with Charles.  To stay at his side, to protect him where he’s weak.  To defend this vulnerability in the face of a world that’s closing in.

The future doesn’t look that much different now than it did ten days ago.

He forces himself to go back, to check Charles’ pulse, his respiration.  His pupil response, such as it is without a concentrated light.  His eyes are normal and his skin is warm.  Erik draws in a breath, resting his fingers in Charles’ hair for a long moment.

He takes another breath, closing his eyes.  Is Hank right? he thinks.  Is it easier if I don’t think?  How do I not think?

He can’t keep from thinking.  He can go get the helmet.  He doesn’t know whose thought it is, but he walks out of the room, down the hall, and into the lab without resistance.  The helmet is cold and sharp in the back of an equipment locker, oddly shadowed even after he pulls it out.

Something stabs into his memory.  A hole in his head, crippling, Erik’s knee on the ground before he knows he’s down.  David.

Cerebro will keep a telepath out.

There are children upstairs.  “He’s after you,” Erik whispers, bracing his arm on the edge of the locker as he forces himself to his feet.  “Stay down.”

There’s no answer.  There’s no reassurance that would be enough, so perhaps it doesn’t matter.

He finds Hank in the dining room, questioning Emma on her abilities.  “What about turning people away?” he’s asking.  “Or making them not see something that’s there?  If they’re coming for Charles they’ll have a warrant, and they’ll want to search--”

“They’re not coming for Charles,” Erik interrupts.

Hank breaks off immediately, giving him an expectant look.  His gaze flicks to the helmet in Erik’s hand but he says nothing.  Erik is used to tolerance: Hank is remarkably even-tempered, and he puts up with Erik.  But he doesn’t snap to attention when he speaks.  Neither does he yield the floor without question.

“They’re seeking new telepaths,” Erik says.  “We’re well-protected here; they won’t test m--”  He catches himself just in time.  “Charles,” he says.  “They’re after Emma this time.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Emma says.  She’s looking at him oddly, but she doesn’t give the helmet a second glance.  “They caught up with me the night I met with you, but they didn’t follow us back here.  They shouldn’t even know where I am.”

“Unless they recognized Erik,” Hank says.  “There’s only one place he’d go.  You did leave together.”

Erik resents that, but he isn’t allowed to say so.  “They won’t need a warrant,” he says.  “Their telepath will find Emma and force her out.  I won’t be able to stop him.”

Emma tips her head slightly.  “Him?” she repeats.

“Charles recognized the telepath who attacked him,” Hank says quickly.  “If he could hurt Charles, he could do the same to any of us.”

“Emma will need to be downstairs,” Erik says.  “Along with all the rest of you.  I want you to shelter in Cerebro, and don't come out until we tell you it’s clear.”

“Excuse me?”  That’s Dani, finally, more confused than confrontational.

“I ain’t sheltering anywhere,” Logan tells them.  “The feds and I, we steer well clear of each other.  And that’s the way I like it.”

“You’re--”  Hank looks slightly uncomfortable, obvious only in the way he stops looking at Erik.  “You and I are the only ones who can open Cerebro.”

Logan is unsurprised.  “So you take the kids.  I’ll watch the door.  If they don’t have a warrant, they ain’t coming in.”

“Hank is authorized to speak for the school,” Erik says.  “He’ll speak to the CIA.”  He’s holding out the helmet, offering it to Hank without being conscious of lifting his hand.  “You’ll want this.”

Hank takes it, but it’s Emma who says skeptically, “You don’t think the CIA will recognize that?”

“We recovered it,” Hank says, turning the helmet over in his hands.  "They know where it came from as well as we do."

When he puts it on his head, Erik flinches.  Logan snorts, presumably at the picture he makes, and Hank rolls his eyes, but Emma is watching Erik.  "Fond memories?" she inquires.

He's careful not to look away, studying it as objectively as he can.  "It's a bit ominous," he says at last.

Emma's expression of surprise is hard to miss, and Erik sighs.  "Charles," he says.  "Do me a favor and stop talking."

Hank actually chuckles, and Erik glares at him in lieu of looking at anyone else.  "It isn't funny," he says.

"It is," Hank says with a rare smile.  "Kind of."

"Erik?" Emma says, in the tone of one who isn't sure.

"Mostly," Erik grumbles.  He never said she could call him Erik; he doesn't know why she's suddenly decided to start now.

"And Charles," Emma says, with more certainty this time.

"Apparently," he says.

"They were in Cerebro together when--"  Hank is trying not to say David's name, he realizes.  "The other telepath attacked," Hank says instead.  "It looks like Charles is… well.  Sharing Erik's consciousness, somehow."

Emma tears her gaze away from Erik to give Hank what is, for her, a very incredulous look.  "Does that happen often?"

Hank's hesitation answers the question for her.  "With Erik in particular," he says, "or just anyone?"

Emma raises her eyebrows, and Hank shrugs in return.  "It's not the first time," he admits.

In the brief pause that follows, Dani asks, "Should I go?"

Hank gives her a quick look.  "You can if you want to," he says.  "But you'd probably be safer here.  Logan and Emma are going to take everyone downstairs--"

"Uh, no," Logan says, "we haven't agreed on that part of the plan--"

Erik looks up, and he hears Emma say, "They're here," at the same time he does.  

They look at each other, and they're not the only ones.  The whole room is looking at them now.  "Having him in your head makes you telepathic?" she asks.

"Having a telepath in my head makes me telepathic," Erik snaps.  "Why are you all still standing here?"

"Where are you going?" Emma counters.  "Just because they aren't here for you doesn't mean they won't see you."

"They won't see me," Erik says.  It's news to him, but he won't turn down a telepath's protection.  Charles may be out of control, but his power is still stronger than anyone else's.

"Stick together," Hank is telling them.  "It's harder to control two people at once, so use the buddy system.  Wanda and Peter, Illyana and Piotr.  Warren, will you keep an eye on Scott?"

"Let me get this straight," Logan says.  "We've gone from 'stay out of sight' to 'lock yourselves inside the computer' in a couple of days?"

The phone rings.  A double stutter that means someone's at the gate, and Erik feels something push on his head.  He winces in anticipation, but it isn't pain.  This time it's--he can feel--

He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until he hears a heartbreakingly familiar voice say, Breathe, darling.

"Charles," he whispers.

"It's not the worst plan I've heard," Emma is saying.  "And you play a critical role."

"Yeah, I got that," Logan grumbles.  "All right, kids.  Let's go."

"You all right?" Hank says under his breath.  He gets a sharp look from Logan, but Erik barely notices.  Charles is pressing against his mind, trying so hard to be felt, to be visible.

It's not a strain, Charles murmurs.  He couldn't even do it five minutes ago.  Not if it makes you more comfortable.

"They're coming through the gate," Erik says.  "We'll need to hold them at the door."

"Move," Emma says sharply.  "Piotr, Illyana.  Moonstar.  Go."  Logan's already gone, and Emma sweeps Warren and Scott out of the room in front of her.  Peter makes the air swirl around them, but he doesn't leave Wanda's line of sight.

I can hide them, Charles thinks.  For a few minutes, anyway.

"You can't even open your eyes," Erik mutters.

Yes, well.  Charles would smile, but it would really be Erik smiling, and he's put up with enough already.  My abilities are somewhat variable.  Ask Hank about the summer of love sometime.

Erik doesn't bother to keep his voice down this time.  "The what?"

It's a sobering reminder of everything Erik's missed, and Charles thinks at least frowning isn't inappropriate.  I'll tell you, he says instead.  Vaguely, but he's feeling a little vague right now.  I'll tell you everything.  I promise.

"Did you lie to them?" Hank asks bluntly.  "The CIA didn't break down our gate for Emma."

"The CIA is after Emma," he says.  Erik's right about that, and Hank is right that they followed her here.  "Unfortunately, the CIA's not in charge right now."

"You're protecting David," Hank says.

"So are you," he points out.  The "other telepath" indeed.

"He's dangerous," Hank says.  "This is dangerous."

"So am I," Charles tells him, but it's Erik's voice that forms the words.  "We can't put down every dangerous mutant we come across.  There'd be no one left."

Hank nods as he turns away, the gesture exaggerated by the helmet he's wearing.  Erik can't help thinking he does look sort of ominous in it.  He blames Charles entirely.

The blame is mine, Charles agrees.  He picked the word, and every one of his thoughts is creating a pathway in Erik's mind.  I'm very sorry for this, darling.  I'll need to make them think you're me, you know.  If that's not all right… perhaps you could hang back?  Be the rear guard, so to speak?

Erik snorts, already following Hank across the foyer.  "It's fine," he mutters.  "I said you could use my mind.  I meant it."

You didn't say I could use your body, Charles thinks regretfully.  If there were any other way--but Erik's right.  He can't even open his eyes.  This is the only way he can protect them.  The only way he can help Hank.

"Yes," Erik says, very quietly.  He's thinking of the two of them in bed, with Charles creeping in all around the edges.  "I did."

There's a knock on the door.  It's small and light and barely there.

It's not the knock of the CIA.

"Let me," Charles says.  He pulls the door open before Erik can suggest that maybe it's not a good idea.  

There are four CIA agents on the other side, glassy-eyed and motionless.  Standing in front of them is a child perhaps Eva's age: a boy who stares up at Erik dispassionately.  "Are you my father?"

Hank shoots him.

The dart pricks the child's skin and drops him instantly.  Hank leaps forward to catch him before his head can hit the ground, lifting him into his arms.  It's an incongruous sight: this tall, gangly boy holding a limp child to his chest.

Erik can only stare.  Charles was expecting it and he's still impressed.  Erik had no idea Hank's anti-telepath plans had gone so far.

He's lived with me a long time, Charles thinks.  Proud and regretful at once.  Hank has a reason for all of his contingencies.

"Thank you," he adds aloud.  "For taking care of my son.  I appreciate your offer to transfer custody, and I accept."

Holding four people shouldn't be a challenge.  Making four people see what he wants them to see, understand what he wants them to understand, and think that they're here for a set of very specific reasons unrelated to their original purpose--well.  It wouldn't have been that hard, ten years ago.  It shouldn't be that hard now.

He's deeply relieved when they turn to go.  "We should follow them," he says, watching them mutter amongst themselves as they wander down the drive.  "I should go after them.  To make sure."

Erik can read his intent more clearly than ever.  No, he thinks, very firmly.  I don't care if he has the helmet; you're not leaving Hank alone.  Nor do I think you and I truly qualify as "buddies" right now.

It's a fair point, Charles supposes.  The buddy system isn't only for children.  David is unconscious now, but he could be in any of their minds the moment he wakes up.  Even if he isn't subtle--and it doesn't seem like he knows the meaning of the word--they're always better safe than sorry.

"Erik's right," he says aloud.  He only belatedly realizes that Erik thought those words at him--he didn't say them, and Hank won't have heard.  "We should stay together.  Can you bring David?  Just far enough to see the gate ourselves."

"Sure," Hank says, shifting the child a little higher.  "You want to make sure they go?"  He doesn't ask why Charles can't just follow them with his mind.

"Yes," Charles agrees.  "And that the condition of the gate, whatever it may be, doesn't welcome them back."

As it turns out, the gate is fine.  When it closes behind the CIA agents, there's no evidence it's been breached at all.  As though they had a code to let them in, Erik thinks.

Charles stares through the gate at the retreating brake lights and wonders where Sean and Moira are.

Chapter 15

Fifteen minutes.  Hank says the sedative might last half an hour or more, but he’s confident they have at least fifteen minutes before David wakes up.  Half an hour is too long to make the others wait, but fifteen minutes is too short a time to be able to leave David.

So, over Erik’s objections, they separate.  Hank goes to Cerebro while Charles and Erik stay with David.  Erik doesn’t like sitting next to Charles’ body while they’re staring at David, so they take him into the private room.  They should probably have an isolation room, Charles thinks.

“What, for telepaths?” Erik asks out loud.  He’s uncomfortable with the silence, but Charles is reluctant to use his voice when he doesn’t need to.

Yes, he thinks.  The bunker doesn’t contain telepathy.  We should have a place that does.

“Is it a containment facility now?” Erik asks.  “I thought it was a practice arena.”  The words are meant to distract from his thoughts: ways to neutralize Charles if he lost control, ways to get him out of someone’s head.  Ways to keep him out, and to deal with the mass control of others turned against him.

It’s nothing I haven’t thought myself, Charles assures him.  He’s well aware of the horrors of mutant powers gone astray, whether deliberate or accidental.  We both faced Shaw at the end.

“You’re not Shaw,” Erik says grimly.  The rest of the thought flickers through his mind, and Charles doesn’t pretend not to notice.

Neither are you, he thinks.  He doesn’t dwell on it, though, because there’s nothing about the memory of Shaw that doesn’t hurt Erik.  Containment isn’t just about other people.  It’s for the safety of the mutant as well.  Telepaths aren’t the only ones who can be overwhelmed by their own power.

He could keep Erik from experiencing his own impressions, the thoughts he doesn’t form, the awareness he doesn’t communicate.  At least, he thinks he could.  He wasn’t doing a brilliant job of it before this, so maybe it’s foolish to think that because he’s the visitor in Erik’s head, he’ll have any better luck now.

He doesn’t try.  Erik can’t keep him out, and right now he’s frighteningly aware that there’s nothing private in his head.  The least Charles can do is make sure it goes both ways.

So when he remembers Erik in the kitchen, the day he was released from his cell at the Pentagon, Erik remembers it too.  He tenses, and the metal around him is loud and bright and malleable.  “I wouldn’t have killed anyone,” he says.

That’s hardly the point, Charles thinks.  It might have been less unpleasant for you to be reintroduced to metal slowly.  Many young mutants deal with a similar overload when their powers first manifest, and some powers are harder to muffle than others.

“Like telepathy,” Erik says.

Among others, Charles agrees.  Alex’s power was only barely contained by the bunker, but it was contained.  Hank thinks darkness may keep Scott’s power contained.  Erik can, apparently, be far enough removed from metal that it doesn’t affect him.  Short of total remote isolation, though, there’s no way to turn off the thoughts of other people.

Erik isn’t convinced it’s more difficult for telepaths, and Charles isn’t going to fight about it.  Erik is convinced that telepaths are more dangerous.  Charles supposes that’s a compliment of sorts.  He’s aware of Erik’s amusement at that, and when he smiles in return it’s Erik’s expression that changes.

Erik doesn’t notice.  You think Hank can use the shielding from Cerebro to make a telepathic prison? he thinks.  It isn’t meant to be cruel, even overlaid with the memory of his concrete cell and the dart gun Hank used on David.

Prison, what prison, I’d use it as a meditation room, Charles counters.  He’d sleep in it if he didn’t have Erik.  When he doesn’t have Erik.  Maybe he’d finally have a night without dreams.  Maybe he’d finally be able to think without someone holding his hand.

Erik is surprised by his positive reaction to the thought of an isolation room, surprised that Hank hasn’t already built it, and Charles thinks of the serum.  Same thing, he thinks.  But better.

Crippling, Erik replies.  Their conversation is degenerating, he thinks, strengthening, Charles thinks, sentence fragments to augment the exchange of thought and memory.

Useful, Charles counters.  They could use it on David if they had any idea how he’d react.  It’s blinding, deafening, the complete numbing of a sense he might be unable to function without.  For Charles it’s a relief.  For Emma it would be a horror.  For David?

Charles is sure he can contain David himself if necessary.  Perhaps not for very long, not if their power is so similar, but David’s initial pain and fear would have been amplified a hundred, even a thousand-fold by Cerebro’s reach.  He shouldn’t be able to duplicate an assault of that magnitude on a mind that isn’t open and vulnerable to it.

“Charles,” Erik says aloud.  With it comes his struggle, a clawing sensation of panic that makes him try to reassert himself in the silent room.  “Is there any way you can--”  Stop thinking, go away, I feel like I’m you.

Yes, of course, sorry.  Charles makes an effort to pull back, reluctant to abandon the merging of their thoughts but painfully aware that Erik is trying not to be terrified.

There was a moment just now when Erik forgot who he was.  Charles notices it only in retrospect.  He forgets who he is all the time; it’s nothing to him.  To Erik, his identity is everything.  Every second he doubts it is a chance for him to fail.

It isn’t easy to disentangle the thoughts of two people sharing the same awareness, so Charles asks, Do you mind if I check on Hank?

Do, Erik thinks instantly.  That’s deliberate, but the please that follows isn’t.  He wants Charles out of his head, he doesn’t want to want Charles out of his head, and he’s trying to think about something else.  He can’t.  He wants Charles to go.

Charles can’t leave.  The best he can do is reach for Hank’s mind in an effort to focus his thoughts elsewhere, but Erik is dragged right along with him.  He can’t stop being aware of Charles anymore than Charles can stop being aware of him.

Hank, Charles thinks, very carefully.  He doesn’t want to interrupt, but he wants Erik to know that Hank knows he’s there.  That Charles isn’t uninvited.  He’s looking over Hank’s shoulder because he allows it, not just because he can.

Hank’s wordless welcome is distracted, but it’s there.  He’s cataloguing the control panels while Logan--much less subtly--inspects the recently welded cracks in the metal walkway.  The door is open behind them, and Emma asks if she can tell the kitchen staff to stop cleaning up after them.

“No,” Hank says without looking up.  “The human staff are off-limits.  We’re not allowed to use our powers on them.”

“Then we’re going back upstairs to finish dinner,” Emma says.  “And afterwards, I’ll teach everyone who cares how to resist a telepathic takeover.  I assume you’ll be going after your missing teacher.”

Sean, Charles thinks.  Sean knows how to yell for help as well as any of his first class; he doesn’t actually think Sean’s in danger.  But Hank doesn’t know that, and it gives him pause.

“I’ll go,” Logan says gruffly.  "You know where he was headed?"

Charles offers the address, and Hank gives it to Logan without further hesitation.

You do this often? Erik wonders.  It’s only barely intentional.  He’s torn between fascination and jealousy and he’s still trying to pull away.  He doesn’t want to know that Hank is attracted to Logan, that Hank thinks so little of it that it doesn’t even embarrass him, that Hank trusts Emma in a way Erik never did because Emma reminds him of Charles.  Erik doesn’t want to know everything Charles knows without even trying, because it makes him feel like someone else.

Like Charles.  Like anyone that isn’t him, that’s the problem, but it also happens to be Charles that he’s trying not to become.  It’s temporary, Charles thinks, the tentative effort to soothe pushed under Erik’s swirling doubt and left there for him to discover.

Erik sees it immediately.  I don’t care, he snaps, but he does.  It’s reassuring, and he’s embarrassed that he needs the reassurance, that he’s angry about something he told Charles he could handle.  Something that Hank obviously has no problem with.

Hank’s gotten used to it, Charles thinks.  He had little choice.  He didn’t like it anymore than you do at first.

But he’s still here, Erik thinks.  He’s incredulous and confused and Charles takes it personally, but it’s nothing new.  No one is comfortable around a telepath.  He’s had his entire life to get used to it.

Erik didn’t mean to be insulting, and the reminder that he doesn’t want to leave Charles is clumsy and awkward and unmistakably sincere.  He thinks of it fiercely, forcefully, trying to push aside the doubt and discomfort.  The effort fails, but Erik clearly feels a greater effort is necessary, and he tries to set fire to the uncomplimentary thoughts instead.

The mental image is delightful, and Charles laughs without meaning to.

Unfortunately, of course, that means Erik laughs, and Charles is both apologetic and chagrined.  It’s not your fault, Erik thinks, which is untrue, and then, like any other out-of-control power, which is more accurate.  Is that what it feels like when you take someone over by accident?

A little, Charles thinks, but mostly, yes.

Erik pictures an explosion, and for a moment, half a second perhaps, Charles finds himself admiring the bloom of light along with him.  Erik knows it, of course, and he’s much too satisfied with himself for it to have been an accident.  He thinks of another one, much smaller this time--a fork, maybe, a piece of silver, the table it was sitting on--and whatever thought he was trying to obscure stays obscured.

Are you trying to keep me out by distracting me with explosions? Charles asks, intrigued.

Erik’s reaction is negative.  I’m trying to keep myself from thoughts I don’t want in my head by focusing on something else, he thinks.  It’s overlaid with the concept of things he thinks but doesn’t believe, or the things he doesn’t want Charles thinking he believes, and Charles tries to comfort him.

We all think things we don’t believe, he promises.  Things we would never act on, things that are abhorrent to our nature.  You don’t shock me, Erik.

What he means is, you don’t have to hide.  Not here.  Not from me.  

He thinks Erik knows it, responds to it, even as he stubbornly insists, It’s a meditative tool.  He mentally explodes a chess piece, then the board, then an armchair, and Charles doesn’t have to wonder what he’s trying not to think now.  His acknowledgment pulls at Erik’s focus until he can’t keep the thoughts from intruding: sex, rough and rude and too real for a single mind.

You’re using my powers! Charles thinks, delighted.

Erik rolls his eyes, and Charles basks in the fondness of his exasperation.  You really don’t care what I think, do you.

What, of course I do, I love what you think.  Charles imagines a little party in the midst of Erik’s explosions, just because he thinks Erik will like the cartoonish symbolism.  Everyone thinks about killing and running away and fucking people they shouldn’t.  We don’t always want the things we think, and we don’t always do the things we want.  Actions are wrong.  Thoughts are not.

Are you saying I’m boring? Erik demands.

No!  This time when Charles laughs, he feels Erik smiling along with it.  And you should definitely fuck me; that’s not what I meant.

How am I using your powers, Erik thinks at the same time, and then, oh, I will.

The shattering pain catches him off guard, cold enough to burn and sharp enough to recognize before he reacts.  He shoves David back, too hard, but the possibility of damage to Erik’s mind is--would be--it’s unthinkable, catastrophic.  It’s the end of everything.

I’m fine, Erik thinks but doesn’t say.

“Don’t do that, please,” Charles says, very calmly.  “You’re among friends here.”

My friends are back home.  The boy’s voice slices through their thoughts, but he hasn’t moved.  His eyes are still closed.  Everyone here lies.

“We mean you no harm,” Charles tells him.  “That’s not a lie.”

You’ll take care of me.  You’ll give me anything I want.  The thoughts are like a knife poised to strike.  The power is in the pain it could yet inflict.  The boy has heard it all before, and he’s ready to make it stop by any means necessary.

“We prefer to help people make their own way,” Charles says.  “You do seem a bit young to be on your own, though.  Have you been separated from…”  The keening sense of loss is staggering, enough to make even Charles falter.  “Someone?”

The boy’s eyes open, and the frown he gives them between sleepy blinks and pouting is more adorable than dangerous.  “You’re lying,” he says.  His voice is small, but it echoes terribly inside Erik’s head.

Charles doesn’t fight.  Neither does he let Erik put his hands over his ears.  “A friend of mine told me you lost your mother,” he says.  “I think whoever told my friend that may have lied.  So I’m asking you, David.  You don’t have to answer.  Have you been separated from someone?”

The boy pushes himself up on his elbows.  “You think they lied?”  This time the echo is bearable, and he’s stopped frowning.

“I don’t know if they lied or not,” Charles says carefully.  “But people like the ones you were with tonight have lied to me in the past.  They might still be lying.  I’d rather trust you, if you don’t mind.”

The boy stares at him for a long moment while the ringing in Erik’s head slowly fades.  “My mum,” he says at last.  He’s sharp and suspicious and so, so alone.  “I can’t find my mum.”

He can’t sense her, he means.

“We can help you look,” Charles says.  There’s an image in David’s mind--a blur of images, really, but Charles makes them coalesce into a face Erik could recognize if he encountered it.  “I’d like to find her too.”

The boy sits up, scooting back at the same time, but there’s no defensive push against their minds.  “You don’t look like my father,” he says bluntly.

“No,” Charles agrees.  “This isn’t what I usually look like.  When you and I met earlier, you knocked things a bit loose.  Did you mean to do that?  Because if you could… not do it, in the future--”

The boy pulls his knees up and there it is again.  The pressure, the warning ring of telepathic pain on the inside of his head.  “You’re a telepath,” the boy says.  As though he can’t feel it himself, like he has no idea what he’s doing.  “They said telepaths would hurt me.”

“Unless you hurt them first?” Charles asks.  He’s steady and unflinching and Erik has no idea whether that confidence is deserved.  Charles is bluffing with mind as much as body, and it’s strange to see it working on someone he’s sharing awareness with.

“I didn’t mean to,” the boy mutters.  “Are you dead, too?”

Erik tenses--denial, rejection of reality, dissociation--but Charles shakes his head.  “No,” he says, more gently this time.  “No, I’m just stuck outside my body for the moment.  My friend, Erik, has been kind enough to loan me his.  Just for now, so we can talk.”

Say hello, Charles prompts.

Erik thinks that’s ridiculous, and never more so than when he’s actually doing it.  Nevertheless, he raises his hand and waves, just enough.  “Hello,” he says.

David’s eyes widen.  “Hello,” he mumbles.

Telepath, Charles reminds him.  He knows who he’s talking to.

“Sorry,” David adds, just above a whisper.  “I didn’t mean to hurt your friend.”

Erik stares at him.  When Charles doesn’t say anything, though, Erik says dangerously, “Didn’t you?”

Erik, Charles scolds him.  He’s a young boy.  He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“My friend was your age once,” Erik says.  "He welcomed another child as his sister, to give her food and a place to stay.  What have you done?"

David shrinks in on himself, and Charles wants to reach out.  He can’t, he wouldn’t, even in his own body, because David has clearly learned retaliation without control.  Any threat, real or perceived, may have consequences far beyond his expectations.

To be fair, Charles thinks, as calmly as he can, I also have a step-brother.  We didn’t get along nearly so well as my sister and I.  He hopes David hears it, hopes he can feel the anger and the regret that color those memories.

Erik is surprised.  He knew about Cain, of course, but he also knows Charles doesn’t talk about him.  It keeps him silent when David whispers in his mind, Did you hurt him?

“Yes,” Charles says, out loud, because Erik is picturing explosions again and David is bristling instinctively.  They’re both afraid--of each other, of what’s happening--and Charles is afraid for them.  He knows how fast the fear can escalate, feeding on itself until they’re all useless.  “He was a bit of bully, I’m afraid.  I did what was necessary to protect myself from him.”

I know a bully, David whispers.  Back home, he means, and Erik doesn’t miss it, flagging the change for Charles and alarming David more in the process.  David is ignoring everything that’s happened since they told him his mother died, and Erik doesn’t like it.

“I suspect you may know several bullies,” Charles says quietly.  “David, would you mind speaking out loud for me?  Erik isn’t used to having more than one person in his head at a time.”

“Why not?”  The boy is suspicious again, though he does as Charles asks.  “Isn’t he a telepath too?”

Charles has to smile.  “No,” he says.  “He’s better with metal than he is with minds.”

David ignores the reference to Erik’s powers entirely.  “Then why does he let you in his head?  I thought only telepaths could talk in people’s heads.”

“No,” Charles says carefully.  “Only telepaths… have to.  We can’t avoid other people’s thoughts.  But many of my friends are quite good at thinking clearly enough that we can carry on a conversation.”

The boy stares at him for a long moment, and even Erik can tell that he isn’t staring at Charles.  “Aren’t you afraid?” David asks at last.

Charles doesn’t answer.  That’s for you, I think.

He can feel Erik thinking yes, right alongside his desire to say no.  David likely can too.  Instead, what Erik says is, “Everyone’s afraid sometimes.  My friendship with Charles is more important to me than not being afraid.  So I’m learning to trust him.”

Charles is careful not to smile, since David is very good with their command of Erik’s voice but Charles isn’t sure he’s isolated their expressions.  Still, he thinks, Thank you, darling, and David hears it as easily as anything else.

“Why do you call him darling?” he wants to know.

“Because I’m very fond of him,” Charles says, “and he lets me.  Can you tell me a little bit about how you got here, David?”

He was at the hospital, they took his mum away, he woke up in a quiet room.  There wasn’t anyone around.  He couldn’t find anyone he knew, and when someone came in to talk to him he knew they were lying.  They were all lying.  Everyone lies.

“I wanted to find you,” David mutters.  David reminded her of him; she thought of Charles sometimes, she thought of him constantly when David’s head started to hurt and he complained of noise and people lying.  “I heard you when you came looking for people near me, so I made them bring me to you.”

“I see,” Charles says slowly.  He does see, and he’s aware of Erik’s distress at the same time: all that from I wanted to find you.  “Well, you're here now.  What next?”

Fix me, David thinks, very clearly.  In a small voice he says, “I want to go home.”

Charles thinks of parents he doesn’t have and a menorah he never lit, and he tries to tread lightly in memories he can’t quite disentangle from his own.  “All right,” he says gently.  “Can you tell me where home is?”

“Abingdon,” David whispers.

That’s it.  Just the town name.  No sense of country, location, or distance.  As though he has no idea where he is now, Charles thinks.

“New York,” David says.  His voice is stronger this time, and there’s a brief impression of American accents and bad food under the flood of aching loneliness.  “They asked me if I wanted to see New York.”

He didn’t.  Even Erik knows he didn’t, he doesn’t, he hates New York and America and everyone in it.  Everything here is grating and foreign and unbearably loud.

Erik understands.

“David,” Charles says quietly.  “I’m sorry for what’s happened to you.  I’d like to help you, if I can.  To find out what happened to your mother, and get both of you back home.  But it won’t be easy.  I can’t… promise anything.”

You promised me, Erik thinks.  You promised me.

David overhears, and the sense of time and regret that accompanies the words puts him instantly on alert.  “You’re still here,” he says.  David doesn’t want to be here.  He wants to leave, he can make them let him leave--

“No,” Erik says aloud.  “I’m here again.  It was a long time ago that Charles helped me.  He was successful.  I’ve returned by my own choice.”

Charles blames his reaction on the easy mental communication, not only with Erik but with David, everyone in the room thinking and speaking at the same time.  He blames the way Erik’s mind has calmed, focusing without thinking, relinquishing and regaining control of his own voice without hesitation.  It’s sweet and freeing and Charles doesn’t think: he lets his love roll over Erik in a wash of warmth and welcome, the gratitude he can’t express without arms to wrap around Erik all caught up in the embrace of his emotion.

He feels Erik draw in a sharp breath, heat creeping under his skin.  It’s innocent--it’s so innocent, a bit of a flush from kind words and nothing more--but David’s a telepath, and he’s seen it before.  “Are you husbands?” he blurts out.

Oh, Charles, Erik thinks.  He’s somewhere between swearing and laughter, only he can’t find a word that fits and and it’s too true to be really funny.  He’s just like you.

“We love each other, yes,” Charles tells him.  “We’re not married.”

To each other, Erik thinks.

David ignores that.  “You didn’t marry my mum either,” he says.  “Do you not want to get married?  Mum says some people are better as friends.”

“Well,” Charles says.  He’s at a loss for the first time.  “I think most people who marry are still friends?”  He knows he sounds uncertain about this, and he can feel Erik’s sudden attention.  “We--Erik and I… we can’t.”

“Can’t be friends?” David asks, eerily prophetic.  “Or can’t be husbands?  Because you already said you’re friends, and you act like you’re husbands.  You should maybe look in a mirror.”

Charles wants to laugh.  Erik doesn’t.  You don’t think married people stay friends?  It isn’t completely clear that Erik means for him to answer, but he isn’t shy about asking.

Charles tries not to think about role models, or really anyone that he knows.  “David,” he says.  “Have you eaten recently?”

“But you can’t have kids, right?” David says.  “That’s probably good.  I guess they’d never hear from you either.”

It’s a strange feeling, to be enraged and in agreement simultaneously.  There’s an anger in Erik that comes from more than a single cutting comment, and it wells up with a strength that overwhelms him.  Charles moves, overriding Erik’s conscious control without thinking, pressing fingers to his temple as he tries to force the feeling down.

He doesn’t grind the heels of his hands against the side of his head, and for that he counts himself controlled.  Stop, he thinks desperately.  Erik, he doesn’t mean it.  He doesn’t know!

If she had told you, Erik snarls.

I wouldn’t have stayed, Charles tells him.  The abandonment of a child is anathema to Erik. I would have made their lives more comfortable, yes.  But I wouldn’t have stayed.  There's nothing Charles can say to make it better, but he won’t lie about this.

Please, Erik, Charles insists.  He’s right.  This isn’t about you.

David is watching them warily, watching him warily, and Charles tries to smile.  He can’t.  Erik is gritting his teeth, jaw clenched so hard that Charles doesn’t dare remind him to breathe.  Will you let me speak, Charles murmurs instead.

The disgust he gets from Erik is heartbreaking, even if it isn’t--entirely--aimed at him. Still, Erik’s control relaxes, and he breathes, and Charles is able to nudge him aside without too much more awkwardness or discomfort.  “You’re right,” he says aloud.  “About me, you’re right, of course.  But not about Erik.”

David is skeptical and only slightly interested, but he asks, “You have kids?”

“Yes,” Erik grinds out.  “Not that it’s any of your business.”

David eyes him for a long moment before announcing, “I’m hungry.”  It’s abrupt and obvious and Charles is happy to let it be.  

“Well,” he says, “you’ve come at the right time.  There’s supper on the table upstairs.”

David doesn’t move.  “Can I just go?” he asks, when no one says anything else.  “Will anyone shoot me?”

“That depends,” Charles says honestly.  “Will you be attacking anyone else tonight?”

David looks like he’s thinking about it, but behind that stony expression he’s properly ashamed.  Charles doesn’t think they’re out of the woods, but he hopes at least next time it won’t be on purpose.  “I won’t try to,” David mutters at last.

Charles decides to take that as the show of good faith it is, and he waves Erik’s hand at the door before he remembers he can stand up.  “Let’s go, then,” he says.  “I think it’s probably best if you stay near another telepath at first--in case you have questions, or the others do, we can help.”

“We?” David repeats suspiciously.

“Her name is Emma Frost,” Charles says, standing carefully near the door until David slithers off the bed.  “She’s the only other full telepath here at the school, though several more have varying degrees of psychic affinity.  Are you familiar with the concept of mutants, David?”

“Yes,” David says with a sigh.  “They’re the people with superpowers from the recording at the White House.”

The first flicker from Erik comes when they step outside the room, but Charles thinks it isn’t the sight of his body that provokes it.  Even if he couldn’t see into Erik’s mind, he would guess it’s the word “superpowers.”  Erik always did enjoy the drama and the show of it all.

“I suppose they are,” Charles says.  At this moment, there’s nothing in the world that could make him contradict Erik.  “I  think you’ll find there are rather a lot of them here at the house.”

“The school, you mean?”  David studies his body as they pass, but there’s really nothing interesting about what it’s doing: breathing, mostly, and looking soundly asleep. He won’t mention it if David doesn’t.

“Yes,” Charles agrees, smiling in relief when Erik’s sullen demeanor lifts slightly and there’s a hint of pride in his thoughts.  “The school.  Welcome to Xavier’s.”

Chapter 16

In the end, it isn’t David who breaks them.  Their uneasy truce inside Erik’s head lasts through introductions in the dining room and a brief squabble over who will answer the telephone.  Charles is excited enough about walking that he immediately offers, which Erik just as quickly vetoes on the grounds that his voice belongs to a federal fugitive.

Hank agrees with Erik.  Then David, who allowed himself to be introduced as “David Haller, a telepath who escaped from the CIA and is looking for his mum,” throws a temper tantrum about being left in the dining room with no effort to find said mum.  While Charles is trying to explain to David that they ought to wait for Moira, and to Emma that she’s meant to help watch David without announcing why to the entire room, Hank goes to answer the phone.

He returns in approximately the amount of time it takes Charles to both placate David and rile Emma.  Erik finds his difficulty in reasoning with fellow telepaths hilarious.  Even if it’s a cover for his own discomfort, Charles tries to share his amusement.  Perhaps it’s ironic that the more modes of communication are available, the more trouble they seem to have communicating.

“Elaine Grey is on the phone for you,” Hank is telling him.  “She says it’s important, and she sounds pretty upset.  She says Warren’s dad told her to call?”

Across the table, Warren looks up.  He thinks of Jean, a girl with red hair, and a dimmer impression of a woman who must be her mother.  “I know the Greys,” he says.  “Are they okay?”

“She wouldn’t talk to me,” Hank says, after a quick glance at Charles.  Or Erik.  Charles in Erik’s body.  “She says your father told her to ask for Professor Xavier, and that’s who she’s holding out for.”

Charles wants to say yes, of course, but he’s very aware of Erik’s frustration.  Hank isn’t talking to him at all, and he hasn’t since they left Cerebro.  Hank is looking at Erik, but he’s speaking to Charles.  And Hank expects Charles to answer.

“It’s really up to Erik,” Charles says aloud.  “I’ve taken advantage of his tolerance for far too long already.”

Erik’s irritation flares.  Don’t make me the bad guy, he thinks.  I’m not going to stop you taking an emergency phone call.  As long as you remember it won’t be your voice she hears.

“Can you use me?” Hank is asking.  “We could trade off; Erik doesn’t have to be your voice all the time.”

“Out of curiosity,” Emma says, “why is Erik your voice at all?”

“It’s fine,” Erik says brusquely.  He isn’t comfortable with it, but he’s extraordinarily possessive.  Erik will go to great lengths to hold onto what he considers his.  

Including, Charles fears, forms of unacknowledged self-destruction.

“I’m not self-destructing,” Erik snaps.  “Don’t be so dramatic, Charles.  She’s never met either of us; it’s unlikely she’ll know one voice from another.”

That isn’t what he said a minute ago, but Charles knows better than to push it.  “Very well,” he says, and he sees Hank look away to hide a smile.  It clearly looks more humorous from the outside than it feels from the inside, seeing Erik apparently talking to himself.

The only saving grace is that David lets them leave without further anger or assault.  Hank and Emma are left with the task of supervising the children: Hank will answer their questions in a manner so detailed they’re apt to give up, and Emma will ignore them.  All things considered, Charles thinks, it’s not the worst team to be in charge of a group of teenage mutants.

They’re effectively you, Erik thinks, unbidden.  In two bodies.

Excuse you, Charles thinks.  Hank is me, but Emma is clearly you.

Oddly, Erik doesn’t disagree with this, which takes Charles aback.  He can see some truth in the comparison himself, but he didn’t expect Erik to let it pass without retort.  Rather than blunder on, he tries to think of less uncertain things.  We’ll fix this, darling.  I expect I’ll be able to control my own body soon.

If worse comes to worst, Hank’s serum may be able to jolt him free of Erik’s consciousness the same way it did for Eva.  Charles isn’t eager to try it, and he knows Erik doesn’t like seeing him without his powers, but there are worse things.  They’ve both lived through them.

I told you, Erik thinks.  I don’t hate having you in my head.  It’s only partly a lie, and Charles appreciates that more than he’d expected to.  Erik has stopped trying to keep him away from any of his thoughts, clearly tired of the focus required and despairing of success.  He’s gloomy and pessimistic about Charles’ opinion of him.  That’s the part Erik hates, and it’s the only thing that makes the words a lie.

I love being in your head, Charles says honestly.  I hate doing it in a way you dislike.  I’m deeply grateful for all of your help and forbearance--

Shut up, Erik thinks, loud and irreverent enough to drown him out if it didn’t shock him into silence.  He’s heard Erik think “shut up” before, though he’s never heard him say it.  I don’t bear your presence as though it’s a trial to be suffered; I’m graced with it for as long as you can stand my company.  Don’t thank me for something I live for, Charles.  That’s insulting and naive, and you are neither.

It’s unexpectedly clear and pointed, and Charles is the one left scrambling for a coherent thought.  He blames his surprise, rather than Erik’s voice, for the curt nature of his greeting when he picks up the phone.  “Xavier’s,” he says, only belatedly remembering that Elaine must know that.

“Hello,” Charles adds quickly.  “Am I speaking to Mrs. Grey?”

“Hello, yes,” the voice on the other end says.  She doesn’t sound upset to him, but Charles is nowhere near as good as Hank at reading people at a distance.  “Are you Professor Charles Xavier?”

“Yes,” Charles says.  “I understand Warren Worthington recommended us to you.”

“You in particular,” she says.  “He tells me that you run a school for children who are… unusually gifted.”

It’s a split-second decision, and one he might have made differently were he not in Erik’s head at the time.  “Mutants,” Charles says.  “Yes.  Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters has been closed for several years, but we’re in the process of reopening, and our current student body is exclusively… gifted.”

He wins the second battle, but Elaine doesn’t seem to notice.  “Oh, thank god,” she says.  Her voice is still as calm as her introduction.  “Jean has been so bored.  She’s an exceptional student, you know, but she isn’t being challenged--”

She breaks off, and even over the phone Charles can tell that she’s re-evaluating the situation.  “I’m sorry,” she says.  “I should introduce myself.  I’m the parent of a mutant daughter, Jean, and I’m very interested in your school, but I’ve called tonight for more immediate counsel.”

“Of course,” Charles says, as soon as she pauses.  He can imagine any number of scenarios involving young mutant powers.  “What can I help you with?”

“My husband is out of town,” she says.  “Tonight two men came to the house and asked to speak to Jean.  When I asked why, they said they were with the CIA and it was a matter of national security.”

Oh god, Charles thinks.  It starts with identification, and it ends with being rounded up.  He remembers a ragtag band of fighters in a powerless temple, surrounded by candlelight and pictures of the fallen.  Is this what becomes of us?  Erik was right.  Humanity does this to us.

“Did they see your daughter?” he hears himself asking.  He hears Erik asking.  It’s Erik talking, trying to reassure Charles and continue the conversation at the same time.  “Where are the men now?”

“Of course I didn’t let them see Jean; what does a young girl have to do with national security?  She doesn’t--she isn’t like those mutants on TV.  She can guess the number you’re thinking of, like a game, and make some small objects float about.  That's all.”

“Where are the men now,” Erik repeats, almost pleasantly.

There’s a brief pause.  “They’re parked down the street,” she admits.  “I can’t see them, but… Jean says they haven’t left yet.”

They need reinforcements, Erik thinks.  He thinks of Sean, of Warren, of everyone held by Trask Industries.  Will you help them?

It’s a challenge, plain and simple, and Charles is trapped in a yo-yo of remembered horrors.  I fail to see how leaving the world to burn qualifies as a survival strategy...  Erik doesn’t say it this time.  He doesn’t have to.

The only focus he has is Erik’s, and fortunately Erik is following every word Elaine offers.  “Do you believe Jean?” Charles asks, as politely as he can.  “When she says the men are still there?”

This time there’s no hesitation.  “Yes,” she says.  “Yes, Jean’s always right about these things.  We think it’s part of her gift, that she can tell who’s around her and what they’re--”

She stops abruptly, and Charles prompts, "Sorry, yes?  I didn't get that last."

“Well.”  The woman on the phone sounds a bit too casual to Erik’s practiced ear.  She’s forcing false confidence, he thinks.  “Sometimes it’s almost like Jean can tell what you’re thinking.  She’s clever for her age, certainly wise beyond her years.  An old soul, you might say.”

Charles does his best not to sigh.  Or you might say she’s been hearing the thoughts of every adult she comes in contact with for weeks, probably months, he thinks.  Even years.

She needs help, Erik thinks, and Charles can’t cover a flash of pride.  Not, she could be useful, or, we need to keep the CIA from getting her.  Just… she needs help.  As though Erik is willing to care about someone he’s never met, for no reason except--well.  No reason, really.

You said being a telepath is hard, Erik reminds him.  As though it somehow supports his case.  In fact, when Charles is silent a moment too long, Erik agrees with Elaine aloud.  “Yes,” he says.  “I know someone else like that.”

They’re not safe there, Charles thinks.  Do you think?  Not alone in the house with a car down the street.

How do you know they’re alone in the house? Erik counters.

“I’m worried,” Elaine is saying.  “I have two daughters, and their father is away until Friday.  I called Warren, to see if he might be able to stay with us overnight, but he’s still at the office.  He gave me your number in the meantime.”

“You’re alone in the house, then,” Charles says.  “The three of you?  You and Jean, and…?”

“Sara,” Elaine says.  “Sara is my eldest.  We do have a dog, but--well.  It’s probably nothing, of course.  It’s just--they have those robots, now.”

“No,” Charles says quickly.  “It isn’t nothing, Mrs. Grey.  I’m afraid the CIA paid us a visit tonight as well.  It seems they have some interest in... telepaths.”

“But Jean’s not a telepath,” Elaine protests.  It’s interesting that she has no problem using the word, Charles thinks.  

Yes, to separate herself from it, Erik thinks.  

Then, to Erik’s surprise, she adds, “I mean, not that it matters.  They can’t just interrogate minors without reason, no matter who they are.”

“I’m afraid they want more than just an interview,” Charles says, as carefully as he can.  “May I ask where you’re located?”

Finally, Erik thinks.

“Red Hook,” Elaine says immediately.  “Near Kingston, just north of Poughkeepsie.”

Charles is somewhat relieved.  “You’re quite close by, then.  Perhaps an hour’s drive, hour and a half?”

There’s a brief pause, and she lowers her voice before asking, “Do you think we should leave the house?”

Charles wishes he could see her, speak to her, get some sense of her mind before he makes any suggestions.  Erik thinks her tone makes it completely clear that she’s willing to take this seriously.  I can go tonight, he thinks.  Azazel will be here in less than an hour; we can retrieve Jean.

Absolutely not, Charles thinks.

“Yes,” he says aloud.  “I’m afraid I do.  But I want you to know that this is entirely up to you and your family, and I will support whatever decision you make.”

“So give me options,” she says.  “Do we go to the Worthington estate?  Do we impose on less sympathetic friends?  Where is the government most likely to leave us alone?  And what are we going to do once they’ve gone?  It’s probably someone in Jean’s class who turned her in; I don’t even know that I should send her to school tomorrow.”

Strength in numbers, Erik thinks.  Whether it’s us or them.

“It’s best if you don’t allow yourself to be separated from Jean,” Charles says.  “I think the more people around you, the better.  You’re welcome here if you’re willing to make the drive.  If not, Warren’s a strong ally and probably your safest choice.”

“Is your school safe?” she asks.  “You said the CIA visited you too.  How did you… what happened?”

Charles isn’t sure how to answer that, and something about his uncertainty must communicate “yes” when Erik asks, May I?

“We liberated a young telepath who had been taken into custody against his will,” Erik says smoothly.  “We hope to reunite him with his mother.  I can assure you, the safety of our mutant students is the school’s top priority.”

“I see,” she says.  Her tone doesn’t sound any different to Charles, but Erik thinks she’s distracted.  “I’ll need to talk with--”  There’s a rustle, and then whispering that he can’t quite make out.  “Excuse me, please.”

The line goes very quiet.

The safety of our residents, Charles reminds Erik.  Children and adults, mutants and humans.  The safety of our residents is the school’s top priority.

Her daughter is special, Erik thinks.  He’s casual about it, but referring to their “mutant students” wasn’t an accident.  It can’t hurt to remind her.

“Professor,” Elaine’s voice says suddenly.  “There are police lights down the road.  Stopped.  Jean thinks they’re talking to the men from the CIA.”

They need to leave, Erik thinks.  Now, Charles.

“Someone probably saw a strange car on the side of the road and assumed the worst,” Charles says.  “They’ll either embarrass the agents into leaving, or--”

“Girls, get your coats.”  Elaine is still on the line, but she’s clearly talking to her daughters now.  “We’re going to see Professor Xavier’s school.”

Faintly, in the background, he can hear someone say, “Right now?”

“We might stay there for a day or two,” Elaine says.  “Just until your father comes home.”

“What about--”  He can’t hear the rest of the sentence, but it sounds like Elaine is moving, possibly away from the source of the voice.

“We’ll bring him with us,” she says.  “Professor, would you be able to provide us with a change of clothes, by any chance?  We don’t need anything fancy.”

“Yes, of course,” Charles says.  “Just exercise clothes, I’m afraid, but some of the other girls might be willing to share.  If not, we can pick up whatever you need to make you comfortable.”

“It’s just a tour,” Elaine says.  “You don’t need to pack; we’ll be home soon.  Get your coats and Oliver and come back in here, please.”

“Do you need directions?” Charles asks.  “We’re on Graymalkin Lane in Salem Center--”

“I know how to get to Westchester,” Elaine interrupts.  “Jean says she can find you when we get close enough.  I may need to stop and get gas.”

“Get to the highway first,” Erik says.  “Don’t stop if you don’t have to, but if you must, follow someone else.  Don’t pull into a deserted location, and don’t get out of the car.”

“Put him on a leash,” Elaine says.  “Oliver needs a leash, Sara.  He’s going somewhere new and you can’t hold his collar the entire time.”

“Is Oliver your... dog?” Charles guesses.

“He won’t be any trouble,” Elaine says.  “The police car isn’t moving, but neither are the agents.  We’re leaving now.  If we’re not there in two hours, would you call Warren for me?  He can get in touch with my husband.”

“Of course,” Charles says, glancing at the time. “I can’t promise that name-dropping will help, but feel free to use mine if you feel it will help a situation.”

“We will,” she says.  “Thank you, Professor.  I hope we’ll see you soon.”

“As do I,” he agrees.  “Best of luck.”

There’s a moment after he puts the phone down where he thinks Erik is going to complain, to give voice to his thoughts of excessive and unnecessary when it comes to Jean’s family.  Instead, Erik only asks, “Did you get calls like that often?”

When he isn’t being distracted by Erik’s impatience, it’s easy to understand what he means.  “Years ago, you mean?  Certainly.  After Cuba, and Kennedy…”  But it wasn’t then, and Erik knows it.  

“After you were taken,” Charles admits.  “Constantly.”

“How did they find you?” Erik asks.

“Word of mouth,” Charles says.  “The same way she heard from Warren, and he heard from Moira.  Moira referred a lot of people to us, once the school made it into the planning stages.”

So you didn’t advertise, Erik thinks.  He doesn’t like the euphemism “gifted,” but all he says is, “Where are they now?”

“Most of them went home.”  He thinks it’s an odd question until he realizes why Erik’s asking.  “We’re not a camp, Erik.  They came, they learned to control their powers, they left.  If they didn’t have somewhere to go, we helped them find one.”

“They learned to hide, you mean.”  

“No,” Charles says sharply.  “They learned to function as productive members of society.”

“A society that doesn’t want them,” Erik retorts.  “What about the ones who went to war, Charles?  You don’t want us to fight the humans, but you’ll let us fight for them?  Is it better that we die for someone else’s cause?”

There’s a knock on the doorframe, and he turns just as Hank clears his throat.  “Excuse me,” he says.  “Logan’s back.”

“Uh, yeah,” Sean says from behind him.  “Us too, thanks, Beast.”

“And Moira,” Hank says.  “And some guy she dragged back with her.  Kind of a screamer.”

Sean snorts, shouldering past Hank into the parlour.  “We interrupting?” he asks.  It’s clear he doesn’t particularly care about the answer.  He’s probably more likely to stay if they say yes.  “Who was on the phone?”

“The mother of a young telepath upstate,” Charles says.  “The CIA tried to separate them this evening.  Are you all right?”

“Damn it,” Moira says, following Sean into the room.  She and Hank glance at each other, and Charles can see Logan lurking in the foyer.  “They’re covering a lot of ground.  Quickly.”

“Yeah,” Sean says.  “CIA caught Moira and Greg before they could split.  Told them they had to stay put to avoid compromising the operation, wouldn’t tell them what it was.  I guess since you’re all fine, whatever it was didn’t work?”

“No,” Charles says.  “They didn’t have as much control over David as they thought they did.”

“Not yet,” Erik counters.  “Anyone can be controlled, Charles.”

This time it’s Moira and Sean who exchange looks, and then Moira says, “So, just to be clear.  You’re Charles and Erik.  At the same time.”

It unexpectedly easy to touch her mind, to project himself for her beside Erik.  Better? he asks mildly.  She smiles, and he blinks.  He can reach out of Erik’s mind.  Of course he can; he called Hank, he spoke to David, to Emma…

“I would say, I’ll never get used to that,” Moira says.  “But I think it’s the opposite, really.”

“What?”  Sean looks confused.  “Them speaking at the same time?”

Experimentally, Charles reaches for Sean.  Can you see me? he asks.

“Oh.”  Sean lifts his chin in acknowledgment or sudden understanding as he catches sight of Charles.  Or rather, his projected form, standing beside Erik next to the sofa.  “Hey, Professor.”

Charles looks at Hank, who nods, and then at Logan, who’s standing with his arms crossed at Moira’s shoulder.  He looks remarkably menacing, but it’s clearly incidental.  It isn’t meant to be a threat.  “You in my head?” Logan asks.

“Yes,” Charles says.  It’s his own voice they hear this time, not Erik’s.  It’s his own voice they think they hear, anyway.  He told Erik he could make him see anything he wanted, and he wasn’t lying.  His powers continue to rebound after David’s onslaught, he muses.

“Okay,” Logan says.  “And you’re in all their heads, too?”

“Yes,” Charles echoes.  He can feel Erik’s turmoil, the twisting grief and fear that had finally started to subside when he looked at Charles, now roaring back anew.  “My body is downstairs, but it seems my powers have recovered to the point that I can speak to you directly.”

“Yeah, okay,” Logan says.  “Look, this is all… whatever it is, but you got a problem here.  These two got away this time, but the CIA knows where you live.  You’re not gonna turn ’em away with pretty words forever.”

“We have more than pretty words,” Erik growls.

Charles holds up his hand.  “Without a warrant,” he says, “even agents of the federal government are trespassing on this land.”

“Yeah, and who’s gonna enforce that?” Logan demands.

“I am,” Erik says.

“They’ll get a warrant,” Moira says at the same time.  “You have David, yes?  And no physical proof that he’s your son.  That’s child endangerment, possibly kidnapping, especially if they had legal custody.”

“I don’t think they’ll remember David’s here,” Hank says, glancing at Charles.  “But this has to be on the list of places to look, once they realize he’s missing.”

“I’m not convinced David’s mother is dead,” Charles says.  “Ideally, I’d like to reunite them.  In the meantime, we all need to be on the same page when it comes to maintaining the security of the mansion and grounds.”

“The grounds aren’t defensible,” Erik says.  “The gardens, maybe.  Where there are walls, we can hold a perimeter.”

“This isn’t a military operation,” Charles tells him.  “As soon as we treat it like one, we run the risk of escalation.”

“Look around you,” Erik says.  “The government built Sentinels; the situation’s been escalated.”

“The Sentinels are non-operational,” Charles reminds him.

“For now,” Erik counters.  “You just invited a whole family down the interstate with both the CIA and the police behind them.  How do you plan to defend them once they get here?”

“They’re not under attack,” Charles insists.  “We’re not under attack.”

“At the moment,” Erik snaps.  “They’re coming, Charles.  The CIA is coming, and the National Guard will be right behind them.  The longer you deny it, the less prepared we’ll be.”

“This isn’t a medieval castle!” Charles exclaims.  “We can’t withstand a siege, Erik, so I suggest we don’t invite one.”

“We’re already under siege,” Erik says.  “If we can’t survive it here, we need to find someplace we can.”

“There’s no place like that,” Hank says.  “If we turn this into a fight--you said the National Guard?  Try the entire United States military.  They have nuclear bombs; we can’t fight that.”

“Yeah,” Sean says.  “Nuclear’s not gonna go well for us.  No matter what Shaw said; man, that guy was crazy.”

“If we fight,” Hank says, “if we literally fight, we turn ourselves into a physical threat against a government that responds to a single attack with an atomic bomb?  We lose.”

“So we give them nothing to bomb!”  Erik is impatient with everyone, all of them, the entire world.  He’s afraid, yes, but the rage is right behind it.  “They can’t fight what they can’t find!”

“Erik, lower your voice,” Charles says sharply.  “There are children in the house.”

“And I will protect them.”  Erik glares at him, and Charles hears everything he doesn’t say.  This time.  Where were you, Charles?  Where were you when your own people needed you?  You abandoned us all.

“I won’t run,” Charles says, more quietly.  “I would leave this estate in a heartbeat, Erik, you know that.  But I’ll leave it for somewhere else.  Somewhere better.  Not for a life on the run.  These children will not grow up fugitives in their own country.”

“If you think their country will give them a choice,” Erik snaps, “you are sadly mistaken.”

“We have a choice,” Charles counters.  “We can choose to stand our ground.”

“So they can stamp us out?”  Erik is incredulous and disgusted and Charles can feel them slipping.  He can feel Erik slipping away, even as the metal around them closes in.  “I’ll not wait for them to come for me, Charles.  Not again.”

“I told you,” Charles says, as evenly as he can.  He’s projecting his own voice and he still can’t keep it steady.  “I won’t let them take you.  But I will be damned if I let these children grow up in the shadows of the life they should have had.”

“And I’ll be damned if I let them die for your dream!” Erik shouts.  “I grew up in a legal internment camp because I was lucky!  Because I was Shaw’s pet!  The others starved, got sick, they died, they were killed.  By a government that was once as democratic as this one!”

The metal in the walls is blinding.  It doesn’t respond to Charles, and he can only hope that’s because Erik is more in control than he feels.  “You’re right,” he hears himself say.  “You’re right, Erik.  There’s no law that will protect us.”

Erik stares at him.  He stares without speaking, and Charles would wonder if it’s the first time he’s ever rendered Erik speechless except for two things.  One, it’s not.  It only feels like it, the moment stretching silent and frozen in the midst of Erik’s fury.  Two, the strain of keeping himself separate from Erik in everyone else’s mind is setting in, much sooner than it should.

“And where there could be,” Charles adds, keeping his focus as best he can, “I fear we’re on the wrong side of it.”

There’s a long moment where Erik doesn’t speak, and no one else dares.  Then Logan clears his throat and mutters, “Cozying up to the government ain’t my strong suit.”

“No,” Charles says quickly.  He says it before Erik can, hanging onto some wild hope that keeping Erik from saying no now will mean keeping Erik.  “You’re right.  Clearly appeasing the government isn’t working.  The situation is escalating, and we must counter their harassment with a message that means something to them.”

Erik doesn’t move.  “What do you suggest?” he asks, too calmly.  When Erik stops yelling, he’s ready to walk, and Charles thinks he prefers the unchecked anger.  “If we can’t fight, and we can’t run.  What’s left?”

“Paris,” Charles says.

Erik raises his eyebrows.

Charles almost smiles, but he doesn’t dare.  “You and I should go to Paris,” he says.  “We’re the face of mutants the world over right now.  If we don’t say anything, the government continues to control the discourse.  We need to be seen, we need to be heard.”

“In Paris,” Erik says.

“You draw too much attention here,” Charles says.  “I don’t draw enough.”

“No extradition treaty with France,” Hank mutters.

“We won’t stay, of course,” Charles says.  “But we could be seen there, perhaps interviewed on camera.  I expect we’d be able to see it on television here by tomorrow.”

“How does that help us?” Erik wants to know.  He sounds more confused than confrontational, and Charles thinks that he wants to believe.  It’s an odd thing, to know that someone like Erik wants to believe in him.  “How is it even possible?  You can’t even stand.  Speak, I mean, forgive me.”

The apology is quick but sincere, and that’s what convinces Charles his anger has truly been defused.  An enraged Erik is not a repentant Erik.  Not for this.  Not for anything.

“I might be able to now,” Charles says.  “I’m affecting the perception of everyone in this room; I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to control my own body.”

“Wait,” Moira says.  “Let me get this straight.  You want to plan a spontaneous interview in a foreign country in the hopes it’ll draw so much attention to the school that the government has to leave you alone?”

Erik and Hank look at her.  Sean squints a little, then offers, “It’s not the craziest plan he’s ever come up with.”

Logan just shrugs.  “I’ve heard worse.”

“Strength in numbers,” Erik says, echoing the words Charles is thinking.  “You think you can sway public opinion?  After what happened at the White House?”

“Mutant Saves Cabinet,” Charles says.  “That was the headline.  We need to make more.”

Erik eyes him skeptically.  “What, with Fugitive In Paris?”

“How about, Magneto Is Innocent,” Charles suggests.  “Mutants Are Not The Enemy.  If we can’t fight and we can’t run, then we need people on our side.  Those people exist.  We just need to reach them.”

“You won’t be able to fly back from Paris,” Moira says.  “They’ll see Erik boarding the plane and be waiting for you as soon as you touch down.”

“No,” Charles agrees.  “I was hoping Azazel might agree to take us.”

Erik gives him a sharp look.  “You hate Azazel.”

Charles sighs.  “I don’t hate Azazel,” he says.

“You don’t like teleporting,” Sean says.  “And it’s weirder the farther you go.”

“Well, we all make sacrifices,” Charles says impatiently.  “We have at least an hour until the Greys arrive, less for Azazel.  Shall we take my theory downstairs to test it?”

“Hypothesis,” Hank says.  “Technically, it’s a--”

“It’s only a hypothesis if I’m not sure it will work,” Charles interrupts.  That isn’t true at all, but he enjoys making Hank roll his eyes.  “I have a high degree of confidence in this strategy.”

“You always do,” Moira says, with as much of an eye-roll as he could expect from Hank.

“Because I'm usually correct,” Charles says, reaching out with his mind.  The harder he tries, the more he can almost feel his body.  “Dare I ask who’s watching the children if you’re all standing about in here?”

“Emma’s teaching them telepathy tricks,” Hank says.  “As promised.  I think Dani’s… helping.”

The way he says it makes it sound like Dani’s participating in the teaching, which is an intriguing idea.  It’s not enough to overcome the appeal of having his own body again, though, so he glances at Erik.  “They’re clearly in good hands,” he says.  “As I would be, were you to accompany me downstairs.”

“I agree with the second part,” Erik says dryly.

“Okay, I’m gonna leave,” Sean says.  “Before you both start talking like you’re Erik again.”

“We should probably relieve Emma and Dani,” Hank agrees.

“Whoa, hey,” Sean says, holding up his hands in protest.  “Let’s not get carried away.”

It’s funny, Charles thinks, after all that anger and frustration and fear, it’s the flicker of fondness he feels in Erik’s mind that makes his control slip.  Moira pauses in the middle of asking for the phone to say, “Charles, you’ve disappeared.”

Erik yields to his presence with an awkwardness that’s almost graceful, and Charles answers with his voice.  “Yes, that was… mostly deliberate.”

It wasn’t deliberate at all. Erik knows it, and he knows why, and it makes him smile.  Sean eyes him sideways, shaking his head.  “Okay,” he says.  “I’m leaving.”

I’m not, Charles thinks, and he can’t tell if the thought is his or Erik’s.

He’d like to believe it came from them both.