Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bloody tendrils of a red sunrise were creeping across the sky as Erik made his way towards the factory. Erik, with cold steely rage in his eyes; the dried blood of his dead wife and daughter streaked across his wrists and hands; the mud of freshly dug graves caked beneath his nails; his heart shattered into a thousand razor shards of grief and hatred.

The man who had sworn off violence and revenge could think of nothing else now. He was imagining the screams of the men who had until yesterday been his colleagues as metal ripped through flesh and bone, because he wanted them to feel the pain of their life rushing out of their bodies. He wanted them to feel the same pain his loved ones had felt.

Their pain won't help your own, a small voice whispers to him, and he grimaces to himself. Ignores the voice.

—or at least, tries to. It persists. So small, yet so stubborn and frustratingly impossible to chase away. It whispers to him and reminds him of all the promises he's made in the last decade, both to himself and to Magda.

I'm not the man I was. 

Violence is a thing of my past.

I don't want to hurt anyone anymore.

Louder voices wash over those promises like a rising tide.

This is who I am.

I'm a killer.

The universe won't let me change.

His head is full of voices, all shouting over each other like a fucking courtroom. Arguing, split between a hunger for revenge and a crawling uncertainty as to what that will actually achieve. 

But he wants revenge. 

What it will actually achieve doesn't feel important.

But what would he do afterwards? Kill everyone in this whole fucking village? Kill himself, as a final fuck you to a universe determined to screw him over?

No. He won’t— can’t do that. His brain would never let him. Like it or not, Logan was right all those years ago. He's a survivor. 

Which seems to mean that he’s destined to always survive whilst those he loves die around and because of him. First his mother, then so many of his mutant brothers and sisters, and now Magda and Nina.

Erik lets out a bitter laugh of self-hatred: a hard, humourless sound that scrapes past his throat like knives, and stops in his tracks. He looks around. 

It's too early for anyone to be around. 

That's good.

 He's not safe to be around.

He leans against the nearest building to catch his breath. To try and regain a shred of self-control. He digs his fingers into the brick wall behind him, and exhales, aware, as always, of the metal all around him: steel pipes within the walls of every house, running beneath his feet; the machinery whirring away in the nearby factory; jewellery, cutlery and guns stashed in civilian drawers and cupboards. All his to command. 

One hand forms a fist by his side, tight enough that he can see his knuckles whiten. He hears the groan of a pipe beneath the ground bending to his will. Erik exhales, sharply, and lets go. 

All this power, and yet he’d give it up in a heartbeat just to bring Magda and Nina back. 

He glowers up at the pale, dour Polish sky. 

I tried living like you wanted me to, Charles. I tried being good. It didn’t work. The universe clearly doesn’t want me to be good.

Dammit, he doesn’t want to think about Charles right now. Not when he hasn't thought about that world in years. Not Charles with his naive faith in humanity and his bold promises of peace between mutants and humans. Not Charles… who always saw the good buried deep within him when he thought there was none left. 

Like now.

Erik’s gaze flickers across the empty town centre, and falls upon a rusted, uncared-for phone booth propped up against the side wall of the town hall. A notion takes hold in his mind. A wild, stupid idea. He swears to himself aloud in Polish, the rebukes and self-loathing pouring out like a burst pipe. 

He doesn’t need anyone. 

He deserves to be alone.

He deserves revenge against those who have taken everything from him.

But, despite what he tried to tell himself that he wants, his feet are now taking him to the phone booth.

Huh.

 Despite the chill in the uncaring morning air, the warmth of something strange and unfamiliar… something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time… longing ? glows somewhere deep inside him. Longing for the only man who ever understood his feelings and tried to help with them. Longing for the only man who ever had even a concept of the depths of the anger and conflict raging like a hurricane inside his mind.

You don’t deserve to be alone.

That’s Magda’s voice. Erik can practically hear his wife’s voice, murmured like the first words of consolation after a sleepless and uneasy night.

You deserve to have someone who understands you.

Magda.

Nina.

A fresh wave of grief crashes over Erik as he heads into the phone booth, and he sinks to his knees as it threatens to overwhelm him. He can hear the metal box around him, creaking and groaning as his emotions threaten to explode in a storm of metal and destruction. He wants to tear everything apart. He wants to lose control. 

Charles wouldn’t want him too. Charles would want him to seek help. 

You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone. He argues against the urges currently bouncing around in his skull.

Liar, it replies, softly.

Erik groans. Loudly.

Fine, you win.

He stands up, enters a number he hates that he still knows without hesitation, and calls.

It would be late at night in America, he calculates, half-hoping that no one will pick up – half-hoping for a reason to forget this stupid idea, for a justification to commit the violent acts that the carnal, primitive part of his soul wants so badly.

A voice answers.

“This is Hank McCoy, Professor at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, how can I help?”

Erik inhales.

“I want to talk to Charles,” he says, in a flat voice that mercifully doesn’t crack, doesn’t stutter, doesn’t give away his broken state of mind and spirit right now.

A stunned pause.

“Erik?” Hank asks, a mixture of disbelief and anger roiling in the other man’s voice. Unsurprising –  Hank has never been particularly fond of him. “It’s been ten fucking years, why do you need to talk to him now ?”

“Because my wife and daughter have just been murdered, and if he can’t talk me out of it, I’m going to kill every single person responsible,” Erik admits. He’s fully aware that every word he’s just uttered has bled with emotion: grief, anger, desperation and despair all mixed together into a smouldering, scorching soup of feeling that drenches every single syllable. Oh well. After all, what's the point in lying anymore?

Erik’s never seen the point of lying.

“Jesus,” Hank breathes down the phone. Erik isn’t a mind reader, but the other mutant’s thoughts are as clear as the memory of the arrow piercing his family’s bodies is in his mind. Shock at Erik’s honesty, understanding about the urgency of the situation, understanding that Erik very much isn’t exaggerating, and as much as he dislikes the metal manipulator, sympathy. Pity.

Erik can’t tell if he hates that pity or is glad for it.

Maybe both at once.

“Please,” he says. One word. Cold. Hard.

He’s not going to beg.

“I’ll get him. Stay on the phone.” Hank says.

Erik exhales. Something that feels like relief ripples through his body.

He suddenly realizes that he’s shivering. The Polish spring is biting and only slightly less cruel than the winter in terms of cold that burrows deep inside your bones, and the adrenaline that warmed him as he killed the officers and cradled Magda and Nina and buried their bodies beneath hard, frostbitten earth has been all used up. He takes a shaky breath as he hugs his free arm close to his body and registers that he’s actually doing this. 

Erik Lehnsherr is actually asking for help.

He hears Hank’s footsteps over the phone. The creak of a door being opened. He visualizes Charles’ mansion in his mind: the ornate, spotless wooden doors, the elegant staircases leading up to the offices, the soft carpets beneath his feet. That wild bird of longing soars freely in his chest once more, and Erik doesn’t even try to fight it any more. After all, the phone call was admission enough that he wants this no matter how hard he tries to pretend otherwise. 

Like a drowning man’s last gasp of air. 

Shut up, you’re not drowning , he tells himself.

Really? Then why does your throat close up every time you think of Magda or Nina. Why does it hurt to breathe? 

Why are you crying?

Erik rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, angrily. Burning tears sting his eyes and refuse to fall. He swears quietly to himself, hoping that Hank isn’t listening too hard. 

He hears faint voices on the other end of the phone. Hank’s and another–

Charles.

God, Erik has missed hearing that voice. The voice of the first person to show him true and continuous kindness after the death of his mother all those years ago. The voice of a man who, all those years ago, made him feel like he was something more than a revenge machine, Frankenstein’s monster, a tapestry of experiments and sadism and Shaw . Fuck . Erik grimaces.

He hates how much he misses him. Charles fucking Xavier, naive righteousness and all.

“Erik."

Erik's heart skips a beat at the achingly familiar, British pronunciation of his name, spoken in a tone that says more than words ever could. A tiny part of him had been afraid that Charles would tell him to fuck off after everything he's done, but now he knows for sure that that won't happen. Charles’ voice is soft – not patronising, but full of understanding. How he could possibly understand, Eric doesn't know, but somehow, it's clear he does . 

“Hank told me what happened. Erik… I'm so, so sorry,” Charles goes on.

“I tried living like you wanted me to,” Erik replies, letting the bitterness seep through. “I fucking tried, Charles. And this is how the world repays me? Tell me, what's the point in being good and peaceful when everyone close to me gets killed anyway? Killed because of me? ” The last word is half a shout and half a sob of raw, agonizing anguish.

“The world has been horribly cruel to you, Erik, and I don’t know why. But you’ve not lost everyone… I’ll always be here for you. Where are you right now?” Charles says, calmly, and his voice is like a drug. Somehow, its mere sound alleviates the swirling maelstrom of rage and despair inside Erk. Just a little bit.

 “Poland,” Erik says, and tells him the name of the village that has been his home for the last decade.

There's a pause as Charles makes the calculations.

“We can get the jet over to you in twelve hours. Can you hold off on… whatever you want to do until then?” Charles asks.

Erik's teeth have been tearing at his lower lip this whole conversation, and he can taste blood now as he considers the request.

The offer.  

On the one hand, he can refuse the help, commit the murders his heart desires, and then… then what?

On the other hand, he can accept, and be with his own kind; mutants with their own losses. People like him. People he's spent his life trying to protect, whose survival is a testament that he isn't completely powerless. 

Put like that, it isn't really a choice. 

“Fine,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Thank you. We'll be there in twelve hours, then. You should be able to hear… or sense I guess, knowing you, the jet’s arrival. Just… promise me you won't do anything stupid before we arrive, Erik,” Charles says, lightly. Erik can practically see the half-smile in his words, the attempt to try and ease his mind. He almost admires the effort.

It doesn't help, but still.

“Got it,” he gives a hollow, humourless laugh as he ends the call.

Alone, in the phone booth, in the cold and the quiet, Eric feels empty . There's no other way to describe the void in his chest. The last thing he wants to do is go home – no, it's not home anymore. Not without Magda or Nina. God, their plates will still be out from dinner, Nina's bed will still have the imprint of her tiny body in it, and his bedroom will still smell of Magda. He doesn't know if he can face all of those cruel memories. Memories of snatched happiness and peace. Not now, not ever.

But he also can't stay out here in the open for twelve hours, so he doesn't have a choice.

No choice.

Erik rubs his face with both hands. Caked mud and blood scrapes against tear-blotched skin, but he doesn’t care. Physical pain is an old friend.

Mental pain, however… that’s something he’ll never get used to.

No choice.

God , he hates that feeling.

***

As Hank circles around the bleak-looking cluster of buildings, he can’t help but feel a creeping sense of fear. Call him unreasonable, but picking up a man who can bend metal, who's never been the most emotionally stable person at the very best of times, in a metal jet, doesn’t exactly feel safe .

He aims for a field on the outskirts of the village, descending slowly, making sure that Erik, wherever he is, will register their arrival. 

As soon as he’s parked the jet he makes his way to the exit. Raven and Alex are the passengers – Raven because Charles called her straight after Erik hung up and practically begged for her to join the mission as the non-telepath with the best understanding of Erik’s mind, and Alex because his experience in Vietnam has made him a competent pilot, and Hank doesn’t know if his medical skills will be more important on the journey back than his skills in the cockpit. After all, they don’t know what state Erik is in.

They don’t know what’s happened to him at all in the last ten years, off the grid. Only that he mentioned a wife and daughter. Killed. 

Erik wasn’t forthcoming about the circumstances or guilty parties of those killings, but Hank isn’t willing to believe that Erik is a hundred percent the victim here. Violence seems to always happen around him in a way that would be frankly impressive if it wasn’t so damn disturbing, and Hank just can't believe that it’s all just bad luck. Erik must be doing something to attract it.

Maybe it's his own violent nature that attracts more violence. After all, when Hank had first met him back in the sixties, he’d already spent his whole adult life hunting Shaw with an inhuman, animalistic type of dedication. 

But then again… he didn’t go off on a murdering spree today. Not this time. He didn't go down the violent path. He asked for help, which is a feat that Hank wouldn’t have thought him capable of. Not the Erik in his mind.

So maybe he’s changed. Maybe having a family has softened him?

Hank shakes his head, tiredly. At some point, he'll have to ask Charles what's going on in Erik's head, because he can't begin to imagine it. 

“There he is!” Raven suddenly exclaims, and Hank’s head snaps towards the window. A man has appeared out of the cover of the trees separating the field from the village. Erik.

Hank gives a sharp intake of breath.

Erik is both completely different and utterly unchanged since the last time Hank saw him ten years ago. His hair is the same rich shade of copper, albeit more wild than Hank remembers, and his face is still one that Hank could pick out in a crowd instantly, even if there's a few more lines and wrinkles to pass the passage of time there now, but as he walks towards the jet there’s an unsteadiness that Hank doesn’t recognise. An uncertainty that doesn't suit Erik, so convicted in his beliefs and actions in Hank's memory. Hell, at one point he visibly stumbles, which makes Hank, who has always thought of Erik as as sure and unfaltering as solid steel, uneasy. His flannel shirt and jeans are unsuited for the cold weather, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. They also hang on him just a little too loosely for comfort. That’s the next thing Hank notices: Eric has a lean, hungry look to him that makes him shudder. 

Everything about the metal-bender walking towards them just feels wild. Untamed. Unpredictable.

Hank can't read him at all right now. And he doesn't like that.

“Open the door,” he tells Alex, quietly.

Alex does so, and a cold wind races in. Hank grits his teeth as he stands in the doorway, watching the metal bender approach with a muddle of apprehension and concern. He hugs his arms around his waist, but he can still feel the cold seeping in as he waits. 

After a few seconds, Erik looks up at him. Blue eyes flash with recognition, but he doesn't say anything. He just raises his hands, showing them that he's not armed and greeting them both at once. The attempt to show that he's not a threat doesn't work, though, because Hank can see the bloodstains on his hands and arms, the dark marks shining on his pale skin like tattoos. 

His blood or someone else's?

“It's good to see you, Erik.” Hank calls out, impressing himself with how steady his voice holds.

“...you look well, Hank,” Erik replies, flatly. His voice is more accented than Hank remembers.

He's been living in Poland for the last decade, you dolt. Of course his accent is stronger.

“We’re here to take you home, Erik. You’re safe now.” Hank replies – hoping that the words of reassurance will alleviate some of the wariness visible in every movement Erik makes. 

An empty smile ghosts across Erik's expression. “If you say so,” he says.

“I’ve got Raven and Alex with me, if that’s alright.”

“Of course it’s alright, Hank. I don’t think I have a say in the matter, anyway.” Erik grimaces. Now that he’s closer, Hank can see the dark, dark shadows beneath his eyes, and the slightly dazed quality to them. Fuck, something’s definitely wrong with him. The fact that there haven’t been any underhanded remarks loaded with meaning, no sarcasm, nothing resembling the sharp wit that practically underpins the entire personality Hank remembers is indication enough. 

The Erik he remembers would never be so damn passive.

It screams of wrongness.

“Can you two get to the cockpit and get us out of here?” Hank whispers to Alex and Raven behind him. “I don’t think Erik wants to be around people at the moment.”

“Got it,” Alex says.

Raven opens her mouth as if to argue, but mercifully changes her mind and follows Alex.

Erik steps into the Jet. Hank is so close to him that he can see the clouds of cold breath coming out of Erik’s mouth, and the shivers rippling through Erik’s body as he takes the nearest seat, and leans back, staring up at the ceiling. He remains impossible to read. Every muscle in his body is as tense as a taut wire, the sharp lines visible even through the fabric of his clothes.

The jet engine roars as Alex initiates the take-off. It's a nice distraction, until, after a few minutes,  it fades into the constant, uninteresting thrum of flight as they begin their journey back to New York. 

Which means Hank can't ignore the situation in front of him anymore.

“Whose blood is that on your hands?” Hank asks, bluntly.

“My family’s.” Eric replies, in a cold, flat voice. “I held them when they died.”

Oh.

Eric’s wife. His daughter. 

Hank turns his head, guilty. “I’m sorry.”

Erik exhales, but gives no other reaction to Hank’s words. 

Erik called them twelve hours ago… it would have been morning then. So did this all happen last night? Wait, does that mean…? Hank’s eyes widen as a notion comes to him

“Erik… when was the last time you slept?” He asks, almost scared of the answer.

“...The night before last.” Erik says. 

Okay, that explains why he’s so zoned out. Hank tells himself. Another idea comes to him. “What about eating? Drinking?”

“I had a couple of beers while I was waiting for you, to try and numb things. It didn’t help.” Erik says, still not looking Hank in the eye. His gaze is still fixed on the ceiling, seeing things in the white metal that Hank can’t hope to imagine. 

He doesn’t mention food.

Okay, so that means he hasn’t slept in at least thirty-six hours, and probably hasn’t eaten in twenty-four. That explains why he looks so physically shit, Hank thinks to himself, with a mixture of annoyance and concern.

Hank closes his eyes and breathes in, resignedly.

 Erik is clearly not in a state to look after himself.

Which means it’s up to Hank.

Had you told him a couple of days ago that he’d be trying to keep Erik fucking Lehnsherr alive, the man who, for the last decade he’s thought of as a mass murderer and probable psychopath, he’d have probably said you were delusional.

Oh well. He learned long ago that life is unpredictable.

“You need to eat. And get some rest. Slowly killing yourself won’t help their memories.” Hank says, quietly.

Eric still doesn’t look at him. One foot is thumping a discordant rhythm against the floor. Hank is unsure of what to do.

 He knows that if Erik gets too emotional or angry, then he could easily crash this entire jet. All Hank wants to know whether he should be genuinely worried about that possibility.

After a few seconds of the metal all around him remaining reassuringly stable, Hank accepts that he can’t do too much about that very real danger, and makes his way towards one of the overhead lockers. He opens it and pulls out a bottle of water and one of the chocolate bars that he’s stashed around for in-flight provisions, then heads back to Erik. He holds both out to the sleep-deprived mutant. “We can help you, but you need to help yourself too.” He says, firmly.

Finally, Erik stares at Hank with narrowed blue-green eyes. Although maybe at isn't the right word. It's almost like he sees straight through Hank and is glaring at some distant figure that only he can see. “Why do you even care?” He demands.

You asked us for help, you idiot. Hank wants to retort.

Erik's sleep deprived — he's not thinking straight. Getting annoyed won't help, he reminds himself.

He opens his mouth—

“Because you asked for our help, and that's what we want to do. Because mutants look after our own.” Raven says before he can do anything. The shapeshifter has just emerged from the cockpit, and her blue skin shimmers beneath the stark overhead lighting. Every single emotion in existence seems to dance across Erik's face as the sound of her voice, and Raven continues, “You helped me accept who I was, Erik. You showed me how to stand up and fight for myself. So do me a goddamn favour and start fighting for yourself right now.”  

Hank doesn't know how he expect Erik to react to that.

He certainly doesn't expect laughter. Genuine laughter, escorting the first glimpse of a real smile that Hank has witnessed so far. “Can't argue with that,” Erik says, taking the bottle and chocolate. He drinks deeply first, and—

—and the humour rapidly drains from his expression, like tap water down the drain. The drink clearly revives his senses, but the revived sense of loss and anguish clearly comes too, filling his expression like black clouds heralding a storm. Erik squeezes his eyes shut, face twisted in pain as he bites down on the chocolate bar. He manages to finish it in a few bites, but it's clear that none of them are pleasurable.

Something groans. Metal. Hank's blood runs cold. 

Again, who's idea was it to bring an emotionally unstable mutant who controls metal onto a metal plane? 

A few seconds pass and nothing else happens.

Are they good? 

Hank shakes his head to himself and heads to the cockpit, needing some way to distract himself… and judging that Raven is far better at dealing with Erik than he is.

Raven shoots him a dirty side-glance as he walks away, but he ignores it. 

He only has so much patience, after all.

“How is he?” Alex asks as Hank settles into the co-pilot seat.

“Unstable. Fucked up in about a thousand different ways. But that's always been a given with Erik.” Hank says, pronouncing the name with no small amount of venom.

“I suppose that's what happens when you spend your childhood being tortured by Nazi's.” Alex says. 

“Fair,” Hank concedes. 

They sit together in silence for a few minutes, both men utterly wrapped up in their own thoughts. Hank appreciates the quietude.

After what he'd guess to be about half an hour, he returns to the cabin, and is pleasantly surprised to find a soundly sleeping Erik under the guard of a watchful Raven. Erik is sprawled in his seat, head against the window, eyes shut, eyelashes fluttering slightly. He looks weirdly peaceful, even though Hank knows that's the furthest thing from the truth.

“He'll be alright,” Raven tells him. “He called us to come, remember, which means that he wants help, even if he won't admit it just yet.”

Hank looks back down at Erik. At the streaks of blood on his arms. At the old tattoo on his forearm. At the callouses and scars on his palms—those of a man who knows cruelty far more than he knows kindness.

“Maybe,” he replies.

Chapter Text

Charles is in the hangar as the X-jet swoops in, just as he has been for the last few hours. The wind created by its descent howls as it lands, and Charles’ hair blows wildly in front of his face. As he brushes the rebellious strands away, the professor reaches out with his mind, feeling for the presence of those inside. 

Every person’s mind, he’s learned, feels different. Hank, he feels as a bright, steady light; Raven is a constantly shifting orb, ever changing in shape and colour, beautiful to behold. Alex is a gleaming, opaque sphere, steady and reliable. But right now, all of them are dwarfed by one mind inside that jet. The one that Charles is looking for. A burning ball of fire, like a sun, its surface roiling with unpredictable solar flares, hot and painful to even approach.

 Erik.

Charles winces, and probes a little harder. He can sense that Erik is asleep, but to say that the feel of the mind nonetheless scares Charles would be an understatement. Ten years has meant that he had forgotten the amount of anger and hate and self-loathing there. It's always been there – he remembers being stunned by it even the very first time that he fell in the waters below the US coast guard’s ship, but it’s so much worse now. He feels the boiling grief and the pain flooding Erik’s brilliant, intelligent mind like a slap to the face.

Old friend , I'm so sorry , he thinks, ever so careful to not project the thought into Erik's head. He doesn't want to disturb him. 

Not when he needs to rest.

He switches his focus to Hank.

“Thanks for doing this, Hank. I know you don't like him, but can you and Alex carry Erik to my room?”

The internal response comes instantly.

“Why there?”

“ The mansion has changed a lot since Erik was last here. My room is about the only one that looks similar to how it did a decade ago. 

He doesn’t add the implications of that – that he wants Erik to wake up in familiar surroundings – but he can feel the understanding and resignation coursing through Hank’s skull. “ Fine, but you owe me big time for all of this .

“ I know .” The corners of Charles' lips twitch upwards. He closes the connection and keeps his gaze fixed on the jet, watching as the doors open. Raven comes out first, followed by Hank, then Alex. The two men have Erik between them.

  Erik.

The name awakens so many emotions in Charles that it would be impossible to name them all. There are few memories in his mind that shine more vividly than those involving Erik’s startlingly blue-green eyes and infectious smile, rarely seen, but impossible to not want to copy on the few and far between moments that he’d seen it. In Erik, all those years ago, he’d found a kindred spirit: a man whose brilliant mind mimicked his own in a way he hasn’t seen before or since. A man scarred by trauma and pain, forced onto a violent path since his childhood that Charles, despite his best efforts, had been unable to pull him off of. 

Erik, who took the use of his legs from him. Erik, who hurt him, who abandoned him during his darkest times, who seems to thrive in violence in the same way Charles thrives in peace…

Charles should, logically, hate him. He should be angry at him. He shouldn’t feel any obligation or duty to him – he knows that. Hank reminded him of it yesterday, and that wasn’t the first time he’s done so.

But, despite that he doesn’t hate Erik. He doesn’t even dislike him, or hold any of the grudges against him that he once did.

He’d never say aloud, but if he forces himself, he’s fairly sure there is a word to describe what he feels, albeit reluctantly.

 Not that he’d ever admit to it in a million years.

Lo-

No – he refuses to even think of it. 

Not now. 

He blinks.

Hank has Erik’s legs, Alex his arms and back. Erik’s head is slumped against Alex’s chest, red hair tangled and coiling in untamed strands over his forehead, half-covering his eyes and the dark shadows beneath them. For a moment, Charles can forget Erik’s raw and terrifying power. For a moment, he can feel the cracks spidering across his heart at how pale and thin his old friend looks.

I told you once that you’re not alone, old friend, he thinks.

I promised you that, and I meant it.

***

Erik’s dreams leap around his conscience like the hot, painful embers of a bonfire. Impossible to hold on to but the burns remain after every impact. And as he sleeps, the impacts are constant. He dreams of the sound that the arrow made as it pierced Magda and Nina’s bodies. He dreams of the police trying to pull the rope around his wrists. He dreams of the guards arresting him after his failed attempt to save the president, of their rough hands and tight restraints. He dreams of Shaw strapping him to a cold table, the chill bleeding into his flesh and bones. He hears figures from his past shouting and screaming, mocking and taunting him, looking at him with disgust and hatred. 

Needless to say, he’s almost glad to wake up. 

Almost .

He blinks his eyes open… and immediately registers three things.

One: He’s lying in a large double bed, with two white pillows as soft as marshmallows beneath his head, and an ornate ceiling above him. He immediately recognises the room – it’s Charles’ bedroom. Uneasiness and relief clash in his gut as that fact and all its implications dawn on him.

Two: Charles himself is sitting next to the bed in his wheelchair

Charles.

Erik’s heart skips a beat.

The professor is reading a book, hair arranged neatly in smooth waves behind his ears, thumbs playing idly with the top of his current page. His hair is styled differently than Erik remembers it, but other than that he doesn’t look like he’s aged a day in the last decade.

 Erik’s heart aches for a moment as the memories of their shared history surge through him, even as he feels himself subconsciously drawing up the barriers in his head, remembering Charles’ mutation. The professor hasn’t noticed he’s awake yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

Three: His own eyes are wet.

 He’s woken up crying. 

Erik grimaces as he remembers his troubled sleep, and pulls one of his hands out from under the covers to wipe the tears away. That grabs Charles’ attention.

“Erik, you’re awake!”

Erik pushes himself up into a sitting position. Every part of his body hurts, in a dull, throbbing way that makes him regret waking up, but then he turns to find Charles staring at him intensely and forgets all of that, Disconcertingly bright blue eyes, shining like the surface of an ocean under a blazing sun and a clear, untroubled sky, watch him without, devoid of judgement to Erik's surprise. Not necessarily a pleasant surprise though, because at least he knows how to deal with judgement.

“...I guess so.” he says. He hears the roughness of his voice, how it cracks and shakes, and winces. He's tired and in pain, and he's done a terrible job of hiding it.

“There's a bottle of water and a banana on the side for you to get your strength up,” Charles says, confirming to Erik that he really does sound that fucking pathetic and weak. He knows that he fell asleep in the jet on Raven's urging and woke up here, which meant he must have been carried off of the jet like a fucking invalid.

He was fine with showing weakness in front of Magda and Nina. They had earned it. They didn't judge him for it. But Charles— no— he doesn't want the professor's fucking pity , like he's something lesser. Something broken to be coddled. Studied like a specimen in a lab. Not when he's been a lab rat enough times for a lifetime. He doesn't want sympathy or pity or hollow apologies for the shittiness of his own life.

But then again, what else was he expecting when he called for help?

Still scowling, but resigned to the fact that he signed up for this, Erik takes the water and drinks deep, until it's all gone. The grief and pain clinging like acid in his throat means that the water tastes foul, but he forces it to stay down. 

He then puts the bottle down and stares coldly at the banana. His stomach aches with emptiness, but at the same time, the piece of fruit just doesn’t look like food that he wants to eat. He can still remember the dinner Magda had made – the last full meal he ate. Rich sausage stew with butter and fragrant spices that had filled the air of their home.

Erik’s stomach twists violently with grief, and suddenly he doesn’t have an appetite anymore.

He looks back up at Charles, and says the first thing that comes to mind in an attempt to distract himself.

“I hate it when you look at me like that, you know.”

“Like what?” Charles replies, sounding confused.

“Like I’m… Erik shakes his head, mouth half-open as he tries to find the words. “Like I’m good .”

“I– you are , Erik, whether you want to believe it or not.” Charles’ response is instantaneous, and he leans forward in his wheelchair, conviction blazing in his steadfast gaze. “I promise you, I’m not in your head right now, but I still know that fact with all of my heart. You don’t want to hurt people. If you did, you wouldn’t have called us last night.”

Erik makes a doubtful noise in the back of his throat. “What if I had called you afterwards. What if I’d killed every last one of the bastards responsible, then called you. Would I still be good?”

“The hypothetical is irrelevant, Erik, because you didn’t do that. Something stopped you. You have a conscience, and you're trying. That's what matters in my book."

“You’re a professor – you’re meant to enjoy hypotheticals,” Erik counters. “Don’t pretend I haven’t killed people before. Could there ever come a point where you accept that I’m beyond hope of saving?”

“No.” Charles says, firmly. “And I think you know that, Erik. I think you called because deep down you know I’ll never abandon you.”

Erik exhales, carding a hand through his hair as he lets Charles’ words sink in. The naive trust and hope that Charles has in him is so strange to him. So unbelievable . He wants to laugh at it. He wants to force the other man to see all of the deaths he’s caused, right up until last night – the police’s bodies falling one by one like card towers in the breeze – and see if he still looks at him with that soft mix of acceptance and kindness (but knowing Charles’, he probably still would).

 How or why, Eric wishes he knew.

But he can’t argue with it, because unfortunately, Charles is right. Erik did call, which means that some part of him suspected if not knew outright that Charles’ door would always be open. Even after all the pain he’s caused Charles, even after all of the arguments and physical exchanges when they were both younger, even though Charles had once declared that Erik had abandoned him and shouted in his face, blaming him for all his problems.

Despite everything.

Erik rubs his face, tiredly.

“Hank left some clothes in the ensuite if you want to change and clean yourself up.” Charles changes the topic. Erik is glad for that. 

“Thanks,” he states, as he hauls his body over to the side of the bed and gets up, standing up with both hands against the covers to steady himself, head spinning. He hates how weak and tender everything feels. He hates how he feels like shit, even if it makes complete sense for him to feel that way given the last few days.

***

Mere moments after Erik shuts the bathroom door behind him, Charles hears the hiss of hot running water. It flows over his ears smoothly, a brutal contrast to everything else Erik has done in the short time he's been awake. 

Charles should have expected it. He should have known from experience. Should have known that when Erik Lehnsherr breaks, he breaks into hard fragments of metal, sharp enough to make others bleed with his words and actions, with jagged edges and cutting words that try and keep others from seeing his weakness. And he has no doubt that Erik is broken right now, if nothing else, because of the untouched banana next to the bed; abandoned sustenance that his old friend’s body should want more than anything.

Charles sighs. He's worried about the metal bender's physical health. He could obviously force Erik to eat, but that would be a very last resort.

He's still grappling with that dilemma a minute later when Hank comes in. The scientist takes in the scene immediately: the empty bottle; the uneaten food; the sound of the shower running; Charles sitting next to the bed, face aged with troubled thoughts.

“How is he?” The scientist says, raising a single eyebrow. Disdain and irritation simmers beneath the surface of his words, and he makes no effort to disguise them. 

“Not well, but no one can blame him for that. He’s just lost his family,” Charles reminds him, firmly.

“And how many have lost their families because of him in the past?” Hank retorts, “Hell, how do we even know what happened with his wife and daughter? How do we know he’s not a liar?”

“You’ve known Erik for as long as I have. You know Erik’s not a liar.” Charles replies.

Hank doesn’t answer him, and Charles knows that he knows that’s true – Erik has many faults, but lying has never ever been one of them. Say what you like about him, but he's never been unwilling to explain his methods or motives. Charles can still remember that peaceful morning beneath the Washington monument, what seems like an eternity ago, where Erik had expressed frankly and clearly his fears of mutants being rounded up and persecuted.

“Besides,” Charles goes inside Hank’s head for his next words, not wanting to risk Erik hearing him, “ I saw glimpses of Erik’s dreams. I saw his wife and daughter there. They were… very beautiful. I saw them die in his arms. ”

“How?” Hank thinks back.

Charles squeezes his eyes shut, remembering how those dreams had dripped with insurmountable grief and agony, so that even viewing them as an outsider felt unbearably painful. “ I saw police trying to tie his hands as his family watched. His daughter… her mutation must have manifested at that moment. The guards were afraid of her. One of them accidentally fired his arrow and struck both of them. It was a terrible accident, and the whole time… Erik was just trying to protect his family, Hank.”

The colour drains from Hank's face. “ Jesus Christ, he breathes. “No wonder he's messed up.”

“He's grieving,” Charles summarises aloud. Quietly.

“Not eating, I can see.” Hank indicates the untouched fruit.

“Not surprising,” Charles says, “I didn't eat for a day after I lost my legs, and that wasn't even a person.”

A faint smile flickers across Hank's face at that. “That feels like a long time ago. Anyway, I'm hardly a member of the Erik fanclub, but even I don't want to watch that stubborn asshole starve himself. How can we help?”

Charles glances out of the window, where the sun is rising. It's going to be another bright spring day, he decides; dew is glistening on the grass on the grounds like gossamer, and the sun is shining through a faint, shimmering mist. 

“How long are you free for?” he asks

“I’m teaching a lesson in a couple of hours, but I've already planned everything.” Hank says.

“In that case, I want to see if Erik lets you check him out when he comes back, just so we can see if there's anything medically that we should be concerned about — remember, he's been off the grid for a decade. In terms of food, I say we leave it for now but make him a plate at lunch. He might feel more comfortable eating with other people.”

Hank looks troubled. Charles gently probes the other man's emotion and finds frustration at the what-if s and uncertainties in the proposal.

“Don't worry so much,” he gently sends the message to Hank’s mind, “Remember, Erik doesn't have his helmet. If worst comes to worst, I… I can force him to look after himself if it comes to that.”

“But you won’t,” Hank states  a knowing gleam in his blue eyes.

“I hope not,” Charles replies, fixing his attention on the window. Remembering sunny days spent training Erik years ago, remembering chess games with sunlight thrusting through clear windows onto the board, remembering that deep, genuine laughter and lightning-fast mind, calculating how Charles would move the pawns in a way that showcased not just an understanding of the game, but of Charles’ own mind and strategies, in a way no one had before — not his fellow students at Oxford, not even Raven. 

Charles sighs as he repeats, aloud, “I hope not, because I know that Erik would never forgive me if I did.”

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that,” Hank says, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he speaks. He follows the professor's gaze to the window, coughs, once, and changes the subject. “Anyway, what do you think of the mutations in our new students?”

“Well, Alex’s brother is interesting, really. I was thinking…”

Light conversations and topics such as those occupy the two men for the next ten minutes, interspersed with nervous glances towards the bathroom door every few minutes. 

Ten minutes that pass in a blur, that Charles doesn’t even realize have passed until he checks his watch.

He’s just starting to worry that something’s happened to Erik when the door opens and the grieving mutant steps out. 

Charles catches his breath. 

Erik has changed clothes, the white polo and jeans that Charles chose for him fitting him perfectly, clinging to his damp skin and highlighting the lean muscle he's put on in the last decade. He's cleaned off all the mud and blood, and completely shaved off the short beard he'd been sporting. Charles can't help but be taken aback by that decision. Growing and maintaining that must have been a conscious decision in the last ten years, and its removal makes him wonder if Erik is trying to scrub the memories of those years away.

Overall, though, he can't deny that Erik looks healthier now than he did when he first woke up. His hair has been carefully combed out of his face, his skin glows with glistening droplets of water, and while there's still a concerningly distant look in his eyes, and dark shadows beneath them, it’s progress.

“You look better,” Charles immediately says.

“ Better than I feel, then,” Erik replies, calmly. The mask is up, and if not for the tense way he holds himself, and the sorrow deepening the lines on his face, Erik's damaged state of mind might go unnoticed. Charles would always know, of course, but the rest of the world wouldn’t.

“How do you feel?” Hank ventures. Erik looks at him, as if only just noticing him for the first time, and exhales. Sharply. Loudly. None of your business, Charles can feel the words that Erik wants to say. He can feel them bubbling on Erik’s lips, hot and defensive. 

“Please be honest, old friend. I can’t feel comfortable with you here, not knowing that you aren’t about to die on me.” Charles interjects before Erik can speak. He knows his words are part guilt-tripping and part manipulative, knowing that Erik came here for safety when he really had nowhere else to go, but hey, screw him , he needs to get through to his old friend…

And get through he does.

 Erik’s eyes widen in surprise, and he suddenly presses his hand against the wall to steady himself. Charles feels a burst of almost-physical pain resonating out of Erik – the pain of doubt and uncertainty. The realization that his place here, in America, where he’s a wanted man outside of this building, isn’t as safe as he thought it was. The realization that Charles could do anything to him in his current state and that he would be defenseless. It’s a sort of pain mingled with anger and self-loathing, and Erik turns his head as if he’s been slapped. “What do you want to know?” he says through gritted teeth.

“Are you physically hurt in any way?” Hank says.

“No.”

“Do you feel dizzy at all,”

“Yes,”

“How bad is it?”

“It comes and goes.”

“How are you feeling emotionally,”

“Charles already knows, doesn’t he,” Erik says in a faintly accusatory tone, and glances at the professor. Charles winces, but resists the urge to lie and pretend he hasn’t noticed the waves of grief and pain rolling off of Erik like waves in a storm

“You’re grieving,” Charles says. “You’re grieving the things that you didn’t deserve to have taken from you, and I know you can’t see it right now, but there is always hope, Erik. Things will get better.

“You say that like you can bring Magda and Nina back.” Erik says bitterly.

It’s the first time that he’s said their names, Charles registers, letting them linger in his mind for a few moments, finally putting the names to the young girl and women floating in Erik’s memories like wisps of smoke. 

“We can’t, but their memories lives in you. By taking care of yourself, you ensure that they live on,” Hank insists.

Erik gives Hank a long stare, his blue-green eyes glittering like fragments of broken glass, catching the light in strange ways, impossible to read. Charles could sense that he wanted to believe Hank, but a lack of hope was holding him back. A lack of belief that he really could get past this.

Hope. Charles remembers the speech that his older self had given him, the message about the importance of hoping. The need for it. He wishes he could give such a speech to Erik now, but he doesn't know what he would say. Didn't know the right words, the right approach. 

He blinks with regret. When he opens them again, it's to the sight of Erik staring at the window, with a gaze so intense that Charles half expects it to burn through the glass. 

“You want to leave this room?” Charles ventures.

“Yes,” Erik states. He breathes out, a weary, slightly resentful look on his face. “Please,” he adds, without looking at anyone in particular.

But Charles feels a new emotion rippling out from him; small, but there , and that's all that matters.

Hope.

Chapter Text

As they walk through the mansion, Erik is struck by just how quiet the mansion is. He assumes that Charles is specifically taking them through corridors and hallways where no one is, and doesn’t know how to feel about that.

On the one hand, he’s probably the most wanted man in the United States. The more people are aware of him, the higher the chance of someone calling the police on him, or worse. That’s already happened once in forty eight hours, and the memory is raw and bloodsoaked in his mind. Yes. Being around strangers would make him edgy, make him paranoid, and avoiding that is good.

On the other hand… he bristles at the idea that Charles thinks he needs to be protected, or worse, that the professor might think others need to be protected from him.

Don’t worry about that, he thinks.

He can feel the power tingling at his fingertips, the ability to tear the whole mansion down dancing inside him, and let the knowledge of that control comfort him. He is surrounded by metal, which makes him the most dangerous man in the building, so he doesn’t need to care about what others think about him. Especially Charles.

But he does.

Charles’ presence makes it impossible to not , because being in Charles’ presence is like being in the presence of a magnet; Erik’s thoughts are constantly pulled towards thinking about him , those bright blue eyes glittering in the darkness that comes every time he blinks, his mind perpetually trying to understand the quiet, assured aura radiating out of the professor. 

Feelings for Charles tug at Erik’s heartstrings, and he can’t quite make sense of those feelings. Regret. Heartache. Longing for what could have been between them…

Erik shakes his head, violently, attracting both Charles and Hank’s attention.

“You alright?” Charles asks.

“Fine,” Erik replies, curtly. 

Charles is wheeling beside him, with Hank on his other side, and the arrangement makes Erik feel like he’s under guard. For the briefest of moments, he imagines he’s being marched towards that bleak white cell beneath the Pentagon once more. The image is brief, and he quickly recomposes himself, focusing on closing off his thoughts to any prying minds, keeping his eyes fixed ahead.

Hank opens the door at the end of the corridor and the sunlight hits Erik’s eyes. He holds up a hand abruptly to shield his eyes… and the sudden movement, combined with the glare of the sun in his vision. makes him feel dizzy. 

He blinks furiously until the feeling fades. A concerned look from Charles suggests that he notices Erik’s actions, but mercifully, he doesn’t say anything.

Good.

They walk through the gardens.

It’s spring, and flower buds are spilling out of the grass, green and white shoots reaching upwards, yellow and red flowers starting to unfurl their petals. The green ivy clambering up the walls around the mansion are vibrant and beautiful. Erik is half-admiring, half scornful of the unashamed wealth and decor all around them. Charles has had so few struggles in his life compared to him, he thinks, and envy clogs his throat, but he says nothing. That’s not Charles’ fault. He didn’t ask to be born into such wealth. Fate was just kind to him.

He shakes his head again in an attempt to clear it. An attempt to derail that train of thought before he starts thinking about how fate has very much done that opposite for him and how that’s not fair.

Stop it!

“Erik,” Charles interrupts his inner war.

“What,” Erik says, more harshly than he intends.

Charles exhales. “Remember that satellite dish?” he says, pointing ahead of them. “I asked you to move it, not long after we met.”

Erik glances at the imposing structure in question. “You did.”

“It seemed impossible to you back then,” Charles continues. “You’ve grown so much since then, Erik… it’s incredible. Your powers have grown far much more than mine in the same space of time.”

Erik's lips turn upwards, unable to hide that the praise warms his inside. Yes, his power has grown. His power can protect him now. It can protect mutantkind.

But they couldn’t protect your family, an insidious voice at the back of his mind whispers. 

Eri swallows down the sudden lump in his throat.

He reaches out, feeling the metallic structure in the distance, visualising its every curve, every wire, every inch in his mind’s eye. Holding his hand out, Erik twists his wrist to one side, willing the dish to follow. And it does. The distant groaning of metal hits his ears as the dish turns towards them, and Erik smiles, wondering how he once found the task so impossible.

“Show off,” Hank says behind him. Eric lets go, turns to him and rolls his eyes, the smile still dancing on his lips.

“Your powers can be used for such beautiful things,” Charles says. The meaning behind his words is glaringly obvious. “ You don't need to kill people,” he might as well have said with a loudspeaker.

Eric sighs.”I know.” Don't preach to me, he resists the urge to add.

Charles holds up his hands in a gesture of silent surrender, clearly sensing that he’s testing Erik's limits.

They walk on. Erik stuffs his hands into his pockets as they go on, relishing the feeling of the sunlight hitting his skin, and feeling guilty that he does. Feeling anything positive feels like a betrayal to his family’s memory. 

At the back of his mind is also the growing sense of emptiness in his stomach, like a festering sore, about to burst.

And with it comes a simmering anger. 

“I've always found the healing power of fresh air to be truly remarkable,” Charles says, off-handedly.

“Maybe you should've told that to the people who held me under the Pentagon for ten years. You know, I didn't see the sun for a decade before you finally got me out,” Erik says, sourly.

“They thought you had killed the President,” Charles reminds him.

“And you believed that I would. You let me rot .” Erik retorts.

“I had my own shit going on at the time, Erik.” Charles’ voice rises by a fraction. They've stopped now, and the two men are staring at each other, eyes narrowed. Charles is trying (and failing) to stay composed but the knuckles gripping the armrests of his wheelchair are visibly white with the intensity of his grip.

“You. Let. Me. Rot.” Erik repeats, slowly. Coldly. He steps towards Charles, only partially in control of his own actions, an inexplicable anger taking hold of him. It's not Charles that he's angry at; it's anger at the world and at fate in general, but, whether Erik likes it or not, Charles is an outlet right now. 

“Back off.” Hank warns, placing a firm hand on Erik's shoulder.

Police holding him with cruel grips as Magda and Nina collapse, hands pressing his body into a cold hard floor, hard enough that he can't breathe, Shaw pinning him to an operating table as he struggles wildly, don't touch me!

Erik jerks away—

—and steps back on to an uneven rock, losing his footing, and tumbling to the floor.

He holds out one of his arms to shield his landing, only for it to catch the jagged edges of the rock. A sharp, piercing pain shoots through Erik and he swears, anger at others all but forgotten.“Fuck!”

“ Shit,” Hank swears, “I didn't mean—”

“Erik, are you alright?” Charles says, concern dripping from his voice.

“ Fuck,” Erik repeats, lying on the soft grass, his whole body throbbing with a sudden, dull ache. Your body needs food. You don't have the energy you need to sustain yourself right now , he tells himself, rationally. It’s an explanation for the aches coursing through his body and his difficulty in getting up. Not one he likes , but he knows it's true. Unfortunately.

He turns to see a bleeding cut across his forearm, not too far from the old tattoo. In fact, a thin river of blood is currently running over the faded black ink. Black and red lines, tangled on his skin…

“Erik!”

“It's fine. Wasn't your fault.” Erik grumbles, pushing himself up into a sitting position. All of his anger has dissipated, like clouds after a storm chased away by blue skies. He feels a tiny bit regretful and a tiny bit ashamed of his most recent outburst. He had needed to let all of the negative emotions swirling up inside of him out, but he shouldn’t have done it like that. He shouldn’t have lost control. He’s better than that.

“Your arm looks pretty bad, you idiot,” Hank says, but there’s no weight behind the insult, just exasperation. “We should get it patched up.”

Erik gave a grunt of protest, and shook his head. His body is healthy — it can heal itself.

Plus he didn't want anyone to touch him without warning again.

“Please, Erik.” Charles says, and Erik closes his eyes, hating the way that his name on Charles’ lips sounds, no hint of accusation or blame, just concern and love. How the fuck doesn't Charles hate him right now? He threatened him, he showed him anger for no reason at all… he doesn't deserve it.

Maybe that's why the universe took them from him. Because he didn't deserve such unconditional love.

“Don't go down that route,” Charles’ voice rings inside his head.

Erik's eyes snap open.

  “Get out of my head, Charles. ” he thinks back, giving Charles a hard stare as he does so.

“Please accept help. You don't have to shut everyone else out. I feel your loss, but you can't just give up,” Charles thinks back. Erik then feels the professor's presence inside his head disappear, and breathes a sigh of relief. 

He’s fully fucking aware of how helpless he looks, sitting down on the grass with even Charles able to look down on him, arm held protectively in front of his chest as blood runs down his forearm, feeling it pulsing with pain in perfect synchronization with his own heartbeat. He wants to push everyone else away, to lash out against the concerned looks from both Charles and Hank… but Charles' words linger in his head… because of course they do.

Erik sighs, again. “Alright... I’m sorry,” he says, the word sorry tasting strange on his tongue. He stands up, ignoring the way Hank moves as if to help him up. 

He’s not that badly hurt. 

“Don’t worry, It was partially my fault for losing my temper, too,” Charles says.

Erik rolls his eyes, a small smile dancing across his face. “No it wasn’t. Don’t play the martyr, Charles.

He turns and starts following Hank, who is already striding back to the mansion, tension visible even in his retreating form, leaving Charles to follow after him.

In doing so, he almost, almost misses the look of disbelief and happy surprise written across Charles face at his admission of responsibility.

Almost.

*

They end up in one of Charles’ living rooms, Erik sullenly perched on the edge of a sofa as Hank dabs at his cut with an antiseptic wipe; Charles reading his book once more, occasionally peering over the top to check on them. 

The professorial life suits Charles, Erik thinks, with a flickers of envy. He seems to have found his role in life: ironed suits and smooth leather books and the assured, easy air of a headmaster with few worries other than the health of his students.

Erik wishes he knew what his role in life was meant to be.

He hisses as the wipe touches his skin once more.

“Stop being a baby,” Hank says, a note of amusement in his voice.

“I swear you’re making this more painful than it needs to be,” Erik protests.

“I’m making it so that you don’t get an infection,” Hank says firmly. Erik makes a irate noise at the back of his throat, but is otherwise silent.

“...”

Another burst of pain.

“Spierdalaj!” Erik swears in Polish, the word coming out of him without thought. Hank sucks in a breath, sharply, at the unfamiliar word, and steps back. Erik senses him looking to Charles for guidance.

“Don’t worry, Erik,” Charles calls over, paying them his full attention now, “Hank just forgot for a moment that not everyone is monolingual. He thought you were speaking nonsense.

“I did not—” Hank starts, only to cut himself off as he realizes the futility of arguing with a mind reader.

Erik can't help himself; he starts to laugh, softly at first, then, emboldened by the sound of Charles joining him, more loudly: laughter that vibrates deep inside him, rich and carefree.

“Hey! What did you even say?” Hank squawks.

Erik manages to get out a “ Fuck off” in between breaths of laughter. Hank opens his mouth, his expression oscillating wildly between annoyance, relief and, after hearing the other two men laughing, amusement. 

It's nice while it lasts.

The laughter hurts Erik's stomach, and he hugs both arms around it, his expression shifting to one of discomfort like the flip of a switch. 

Charles notes it immediately.

“What's wrong?” he asks.

“Hungry, I think,” Erik says. It's half-true. The initial pain was hunger; the emptiness of his own insides twisting and curling like a wounded animal. But the memory of laughter brings the guilt back, too. The guilt over being happy when Magda and Nina's bodies are still fresh . And that guilt hurts just as much.

“I'm a bit peckish, too,” says Charles. “Hank, can you check if there’s any food from breakfast left in the kitchen?”

The two other men share a glance, and Erik wishes he knew what thoughts they were exchanging.

“Fine,” says Hank, half-resignedly, and leaves.

“...”

“Don't preach to me, Charles. I know you want to.” Erik says the moment that Charles opens his mouth.

“What's really wrong?” Charles ignores his request. “It's more than hunger, Erik, isn't it?”

“Why are you even asking? Can't you read my mind?” Erik snaps.

“I'm not going to do that. I want you to tell me. I want to know that you trust me.” Charles leans forward, that goddamn earnest puppy look in his eyes. 

“Why? Are you needing the ego boost?” Erik counters, sharply. He sees the professor’s defenses drop around him, the composed exterior cracking like ice touched by the sun, and he despises that he can do that to Charles. Charles shouldn't be weak around him. Charles should never be weak. Not his Charles.

Weakness gets you killed.

“No, I just… I don't know if I can help you if you don't trust me. I'm needing hope , old friend.”

Hope.

Erik remembers the feeling that, as much as he'd tried to pretend otherwise, had been stirring inside him when he'd first called the school. The feeling of longing.

The feeling of hope .

He relaxes his shoulders.

“Feeling happy feels wrong ,” he says, frustratedly. “Magda and Nina… their bodies—” he breaks off to take a deep, shuddering breath, before carrying on, “—their bodies are still fresh. How am I laughing when my wife and daughter have just been buried? It just… makes me feel like a monster.”

Charles tilts his head, eye closing for a few seconds in thought. He opens them again and replies, in a slow, gentle voice, “I never met them, but I saw images of them in your head. I saw their laughter and their smiles. They knew you weren't a monster, Erik, and I don't think they would want their deaths to change you. They would want you to live.”

“How can you know that?” Erik demands, curling his fingers into the sofa beneath him as he speaks, feeling the presence of metal beneath the floor, beneath the earth: twisted black veins that can't have any hope of ever seeing the light of day. 

He sympathises.

“Because it's what I would want, and if the situations were reversed, I think it's what you would want, too.” answers Charles. 

Erik stares at Charles in wide-eyed surprise. 

He hadn’t thought of it like that.

He then imagines the hypothetical — if he had died that night. He imagines Magda and Nina never laughing or smiling again, walking around with dead eyes, lost in grief for eternity, and a stab of anger shoots through him. He wouldn't want that.

Then, before he can help himself, he imagines another situation.

What if Shaw had killed him all those years ago, on that beach, his icy blue eyes piercing Erik's soul as the last thing he saw?

What if Charles never laughed again? What if those beautiful eyes never glittered with laughter and joy again… because of him? What if that easy, infectious smile never lit up the world ever again just because Erik wasn’t in it.

Horror at such a thought burns through him like acid. Erik’s throat convulses, and for a moment he’s afraid that he’s going to be sick. 

Not that there’s anything in his stomach to throw up except bile and liquid, the rational part of his mind reminds him. 

Erik groans and cards a hand through carefully combed hair that’s already beginning to tangle, given how much he's been playing with it in the last hour. Damp strands coil around his fingertips, and he closes his eyes, remembering how cathartic the shower in Charles’ bedroom had felt. The hot water had washed away the blood, mud and sweat. It had felt like a baptism. Like a new beginning. 

“Why do you have to be right,” he finally concedes, pushing his hands back to his lap with some effort and pinning them between his knees so that they don’t stray back to his hair, to his mouth, to his face. So that they don’t betray his stress, his deep inner turmoil, or his nerves to the outside world. At least not obviously.

“With all my degrees, I think I’ve earned the right to be right at least some of the time,” Charles jokes, but there’s a new light to his face. An ease in his heart that reflects in the way he looks at Erik.

And damn it if it's not as infectious as ever.

The door opens. But it's not Hank who comes in.

It's a young man — a teenager, if Erik had to guess. He's wearing a pair of red-tinted glasses. Every part of him screams anxiety, from the way he holds his shoulders close to his body to the way his hands are stuffed deep into his Jean pockets.

“Professor—” he starts, only to break off when he sees Erik. The transition from confusion to recognition to understanding is burningly apparent as his head twists back to the door, as if considering an escape, then back to Erik, sitting on the couch, hands pressed between his knees, both the bloody cut and his old tattoo visible on his forearm.

“Professor?” He turns back to Charles, a mixture of curiosity and fear in his voice. His glasses cover his eyes, but Erik still feels the weight of his gaze like a knife against his throat. He swallows, thickly, and gives a slightly pleading look at Charles. Don't let other people know about me, he tries to convey, If the US government finds out I’m here…

“Scott.” Charles replies to the kid, calmly, then turns to Erik and explains, “This is Alex’s younger brother. He's a student here.”

“I can see the resemblance,” Erik replies, and he's not lying. Now that he knows the relation he can see the similarity in their faces and bearing. He relaxes, slightly. Alex is an honest man. Maybe the kid is, too.

“Erik Lehnsherr?” Scott says, nervously.

Erik nods.

“What's he doing here?” Scott says to Charles. 

Charles has to think for a moment before he replies. His fingers drum against the armrest of his wheelchair, drumming a clear, repetitive rhythm. Some song, maybe? If it is, Erik doesn’t recognise it. Which just reminds him that he’s been, for lack of a better phrase, out of the loop . He’s read the news about America and listened to staticky voices discussing world events on their small television back in Poland, but he’s not been in the states for the best part of a decade. He doesn’t know what music they play now; how day-to-day life has changed; what the current fashion trends are. He feels out-of-sync with the world, and he wishes he had the freedom and time to catch up. Wishes he had the freedom to go outside without the knowledge that half of America probably knows (and hates) his face.

Including Scott. A kid who couldn’t have been more than a toddler when he was last in the news.

Fuck, is he really that infamous? Is he a monster that parents tell their children about before they go to bed.

Go to bed or Magneto will get you, he thinks, bitterly.

“He’s an old friend, seeking help,” Charles tells Scott. “I know you probably have preconceptions about Erik, but he’s not like the news has made him out to be. I promise. He won’t hurt you.”

Scott nods, but remains tense all over. Suddenly, he turns to Erik.

“You really lifted the RFK stadium?” 

Erik is taken aback by the unexpected question, but can’t help but smile at the directness of it. The note of wonder in the kid’s voice. The undeniable awe.

“Yeah, I did.”

“How?” Scott asks. “I mean… how did you do that? How did you know you could?”

Erik is unable to detect any hidden intentions in Scott. Only genuine, honest curiosity… and he likes it. It reminds him, a little, of him and Charles when they were younger, still learning about their powers. The same curiosity that had driven Charles to use Cerebro for the first time, no hesitance, just a burning desire to push his gifts to the limit. 

He thinks before he answers, long and hard. 

“Every time that I’ve thought that my powers had a limit… I’ve ended up surpassing that limit. So I guess it just seemed obvious to me  that the only limit to what I could do was the one I imposed upon myself with self-doubt. I didn’t doubt that I could lift that stadium that day, so I just… did.”

Scott nods, hanging on to his every word. 

“Well put.” Charles says. The glow of praise lights up Erik’s insides.

“Anyway, Scott, what did you want?” Charles adds.

“Oh yeah, right. I wanted to ask you about some of the things you said in the lecture yesterday…”

Erik barely listens as the two men talk. He lets their voices fade into grey, background noise as he zones out. The fact that Scott isn’t scared in his presence is reassuring—and the way he had looked attentively at Erik during his explanation had filled him up with pride, like a dried-up riverbed feeling the first rain of springtime. He can’t explain it, but… is this why Charles enjoys teaching so much? The warmth of being able to share your knowledge with others?

“...”

“Thanks, professor!” Scott says, and makes to leave.

“Wait! Scott… promise me that you won’t tell anyone else about Erik being here? I don’t want the word getting out, at least not until the right time.” Charles says.

Scott hesitates, then nods. Once. “Got it.”

Then he leaves.

“ Was he telling the truth?” Erik says, warily.

“Yes. I checked, don’t worry.”

“Good.”

“You explained that very well, you know.” Charles tells him, leaning forward in his chair as he speaks, hands clasped together almost like a prayer. “You’d be a good teacher. Maybe I should hire you at some point.”

Erik tries to figure out if Charles is being serious or not, with no success. “As long as you don’t run a background check,” he jokes.

Charles snorts in amusement.

Then Hank returns, a business-like look on his face. He looks immediately at Charles, “There’s a lot of bread and spreads left over from breakfast – whoever was designated to clean up slept in, I think. More importantly, though, I met Alex on the way here. He said there’s a kid at the entrance... I think you’ll want to see him.”

“Why is that?” Charles says, a glint in his eye.

“...I don’t suppose you remember Peter Maximoff?”

Chapter Text

“Do you remember Peter Maximoff?”

Charles sees Erik's head snap upwards. He looks like he's seen a ghost.

“Maximoff?” he says, with an edge to his voice that hasn't been there previously. There’s a sharp, haunted look in his eyes, the look of someone now paying full attention when they hadn't been previously, and Charles can feel a shift in the emotions rippling out of him. 

“Yeah, remember the speedy kid who broke you out of the Pentagon?”

“ Him?” Erik stares at Hank. “I was never told his full name, though. You said his surname was Maximoff?”

“Yes…” Hank replies, clearly sensing, just like Charles, that the name means something to Erik. “Why is that important?”

“...It's probably nothing,” Erik sighs, lowering his head again. “It's just… a long time ago, before I met you, he glances at Charles, even though he sounds almost as if he’s talking to himself, “–I met a woman with that surname. I met her quite a few times, actually…” he trails off, then shakes his head and repeats, “It's probably nothing. It's just… not a common surname.”

Charles looks at Hank, and lets his thoughts bleed into the scientist’s mind. “Why is Peter here? Did he tell you?”

Hank swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. “ Peter said that he’d never known his father growing up. He had his suspicions about who they might be, though, and his mum recently confirmed the name. He came here to ask if we knew where he was.”

“Who?” Charles answers, although a suspicion is already rapidly growing in his mind given how Hank keeps glancing nervously at the third person in the room, whose eyes are fixed on the ground and whose expression is troubled.

“ The name his mum gave… was Erik Lehnsherr.” Hank confirms, and Charles’ heart freezes. 

His father.

Erik.

Peter thinks he’s Erik’s son.

Oh god.

Erik is seemingly oblivious to the heart-stilling revelation being processed by the other two. He seems lost in his own thoughts… possibly the old memories of the woman he had mentioned knowing. The woman who, with this new information, might be Peter’s mum. Charles doesn’t want to intrude on his mind to find out, and knows that Erik would immediately catch such an attempt, anyway, so he turns his attention back to Hank. 

“Does Peter know that Erik is here?”

“I don’t think so. He only asked if we knew where he was because he wanted to meet him. He said he didn’t care that Erik was considered a criminal by the government, he just wanted to see his dad.”

The implications of this newfound knowledge rips through Charles like a tidal wave. Erik thinks his whole family is dead, but that might not be true. Peter might be his son. His own flesh and blood.

Peter…  who would have guessed?

Did Logan know when he brought them together?

Charles visualises the speedster in his head. The cocky grin, the wild silver hair, the cheeky brown eyes perpetually half-narrowed in amusement at some internal joke. That grin… did that come from Erik?

His grip on the armrests of his wheelchair increases as he tries to work out how best to break this information to Erik. Erik, who notices this, and he raises his gaze by a fraction, a slightly puzzled look on his face.

“Charles, what is it?”

Charles opens his mouth, willing the right words to come. 

“Peter wants to know where you are,” he admits, studying Erik’s reaction. The other man’s eyes widen, and a vein in his neck pops, relaying that the information brings him anxiety. Charles doesn’t blame him. Erik is wanted by half of the governments in the world, and has spent a decade of his life imprisoned in the Pentagon, subject to isolation and the torture of sensory deprivation. Charles often tries to avoid thinking about how that must have impacted him, because it only makes him feel guilty for not rescuing him before Logan had intervened. But regardless, he can imagine that Erik never wants to experience such imprisonment again and that knowing that people were looking for him would create fear of such a scenario recurring.

“Why?” Erik replies, instantly.

“I don’t know how to say this…” Charles hesitates, then finds a sudden resolve and lets it spill out. Erik deserves nothing but the truth. “He thinks he’s your son.”

Erik pales. 

“Is that possible?” Hank presses.

Erik opens his mouth, but nothing comes out at first. He blinks rapidly. “I… Jesus fucking Christ… What the fucking hell am I meant to do with that information? Yes, I suppose it’s possible. Me and that woman I mentioned had sex a few times, but I didn’t think…” he trails off, shock etched in every line of his face. 

“Did you not see any resemblance with yourself when you met Peter?” Charles asks.

“I wasn’t really looking,” Erik snaps, a hint of the fire that Charles remembers so well flaring up. “I had spent ten years in that damned prison cell when I met him, remember. I hadn’t seen many new faces in a long time then, so I wouldn’t have known if he stood out to me or not.”

“That’s fair.” Charles admits, then adds, “It’s completely up to you what happens now, Erik. Do you want to see Peter?”

“I don’t know,” Erik says, rubbing his eyes violently with both hands. “I really don’t know right now… I don’t know if I can face him… not when my daughter died a few days ago.

“That’s fair,” Charles repeats, waiting patiently for Erik to decide.

“...Can I have some time to think about it?” Erik asks.

“Of course,” Charles says.

“Outside?” Erik presses.

“I’ll make sure you aren’t bothered.” Charles promises. “ Tell Peter to wait,” he thinks to Hank.

“Okay,” Hank thinks back.

“Thanks,” Erik says, quietly.

***

The afternoon breeze soughs through the branches of ancient trees all around him. Erik sits on the grass, his back against a hard trunk; the bark digging into his spine grounding him as he tries to make sense of his emotions.

He should be happy. He has a son. A living child. 

So why aren't I? Am I just that broken?

Erik clasps his hands in front of him, as if in silent prayer. He feels shocked, scared, and angry . Just when he was beginning to feel like himself again, something had to come and take him apart again. Something had to reshape his world and make the future painfully uncertain again.

Or rather, someone .

Peter.

My son .

Erik silently mouths those two words to himself, then shakes his head. They feel foreign and bitter after Nina.

He unclasps his hands and runs one through his hair, letting the strands coil around his fingers.

Then he realizes that he's not alone.

Raven walks towards him across the grassy lawn. The sun is high in the sky and her blue skin shimmers like gemstone-studded silk.

“What are you doing here?” Erik calls out as he stands up abruptly, not wanting to have to look up at her.

“Charles told me to bring you this,” she replies, and for the first time Erik registers that she's carrying two sandwiches wrapped in clingfilm and a bottle of water. A wry smile meets his lips.

“And do you always do what Charles tells you to?”

He’s needling her and they both know it. Raven rolls her blindingly yellow eyes. “You already know the answer.”

She stops right in front of him. The two of them stare each other down, their long history lingering heavy between them, before Raven sits down gracefully where Erik just was. With an amused huff, Erik sits down next to her and takes the sandwiches. He unwraps the clingfilm and suspiciously lifts the corner of the top piece of bread in order to see the filling.

“Peanut Butter and jelly. We’re not trying to poison you,” Raven supplies.

It’s Erik’s turn to roll his eyes as he takes a tentative bite. Then it’s like a dam breaking as the hunger surges forth, and he devours it in a few more quick bites. Raven says nothing as he does so, and even after he finishes and decides to wait before starting on the second, she simply watches him, clearly waiting for him to break the silence.

She's wearing a white tank and shorts, and her yellow eyes match the colour of the flowers bursting through the grass around them, and Erik’s heart thumps with envy at just how at home she sees here. But then again, he reminds himself, she did grow up here.

“Sometimes I forget that you spent your childhood here,” he murmurs, looking at the mansion in front of them.

“I don’t,” Raven says, sharply, before dropping her shoulders. “Well, I can’t really complain. I did get the sense that he was trying to hide me from the world, but also, before Charles took me in… I had nothing and nobody. He was always there for me when we were younger.”

Erik rubs his forearm absentmindedly; the recent injury aching slightly, but nothing as badly as his heart as he glimpses the tattoo and remembers his own childhood. The fleeting warmth of a mother's love, quickly smothered beneath a hard, cruel cover of ice: the icy blue of Shaw's eyes; the coldness of a lab table against his back; gunshots and children screaming; the stench of burning; black smoke billowing into the sky.

“I could have used a Charles in my life when I was younger,” he says, ruefully, unable to meet Raven's gaze, so focusing on opening the water bottle as he speaks. He can feel her gaze boring into his skull, and knows what it probably looks like. Sympathy mixed with surprise at the admission of weakness. He can't remember the last time he gave her one of those. Erik has always worn his past on his sleeve, but usually not in an emotional way.

He sips at the water, slowly, tracing the outline of the mansion with his eyes. He can feel the metal running through its structure, and closes his eyes, trying to steady himself, secure in the knowledge that his mutation is as powerful as ever. That, at least, hasn't changed. 

“Do you remember him much?” Raven interrupts.

“Who?”

“Peter.”

Her words take Erik back to another time, another place. Blurs of silver, brown eyes fizzling with energy, like a shaken soda can, and fragments of words from a voice whose cadence he can't quite recall.

“ Whaddya do, man?” ”

Erik shakes his head. “Only a bit. I remember he had a lot of energy. I don't think…” his face cracks into a smile as he remembers the kid, jittery and fidgeting as if the world would end if he stood still for an instant. “None of us felt that we could keep up with him.” 

He laughs, softly, remembering Peter's mother. She had been calm and responsible, a breath of fresh air in a chaotic period of his life. “I don't know where he got it from.”

“I do.” Raven smirks.

“Where?”

“Lifting that stadium?” Raven raises an eyebrow. “You're a complete drama queen, Erik

Indignant, Erik jabs his elbow into her side. She snickers, Erik laughs, and as he leans back against the tree he can feel her fingers brush against the back of his neck. He pulls away and gives her a warning look. Too far, his eyes flash, as the memory of Magda doing the same thing twists his heartstrings.

Raven drops her shoulders. “It's obvious you want to know Peter. He's your son. Don't shut him out.” With that order, she gracefully rises to her feet and heads back towards the building.

Erik knows she's right. The thought of getting to know his son hurts when the sound of his daughter's last breath still plays in his ears like a reoccurring nightmare, even though he knows he should be happy that he's got family when he'd assumed that chance had been brutally taken from him, but he can't avoid it.

What if Peter thinks he's a monster, given what the news says about him? 

What if he sees the metaphorical blood on Erik's hands and the scattered shards of his broken, violence-forged heart?

There's only one way to know.

Erik has been many things, but he's not selfish or cowardly. Which means he might as well give everyone the meeting they want.

He bites down on the second sandwich with a sigh of resignation as he prepares to follow Raven.

 ***

Humans generally have a few grams of iron in their body at any given time. It's not enough for Erik to manipulate, but he can feel it. If he concentrates, he can tell where people are gathered, and, closing his eyes briefly as he enters the manor, he can tell that Charles hasn’t moved from where they were.

It makes his heart quicken in a way that he can’t explain to feel Charles from afar. To feel the iron being pumped around the professor’s body with every beat of that incredible heart, with its endless capacity to love and care for those who don’t deserve it. Erik breathes in, feeling their hearts beating in synchronization. It sends an electric current through him; emotions he fights to bury as he rests his hand on the door that leads to Charles, Hank, Raven and presumably, Peter. His son. Erik’s breath hitches as he pushes the door open.

The first thing that he sees is a flash of silver hair and the blur of animated hands as their owner talks to Charles in breathless tones. His back is facing Erik, and a silver jacket flashes at Erik, its owner seemingly unable to keep still. 

Charles spies him and smiles, “Erik, I’m glad you decided to join us!”

Peter twists around before Erik can even blink, and Erik takes him in: those bright brown eyes, silver windswept hair, and, for the first time, traces of him . He sees himself in those laughter lines, in the curve of his jaw and slightly crooked nose. It's like looking in a slightly distorted mirror of himself. He swallows, thickly. 

“Leave us, please,” he says to Charles, Hank and Raven, softly

“Of course,” Charles replies, his searching gaze resting on Erik for a moment. A spasm of uncharacteristic nervousness locks Erik's jaw as he nods at Charles. I'll be fine.

They leave Erik and Peter alone in the lounge, the two men both standing, circling each other like a pair of animals getting the measure of each other. Peter is almost the same height as him, and Erik can detect a maturity in him that wasn't present a decade ago. He feels something stirring himself that feels suspiciously like pride.

“Dad.” Peter says, and Erik stills.

“I guess so… How's your mum?”

“She's well!” Peter perks up. “She knows I'm here—warned me about meeting you ‘coz of what the news says about you, but I think she knew I'd go anyway.”

“You might get that from me. I always thought listening to other people was overrated.” Erik smiles.

“Oh yeah. I mean, other people don't know what it's like to be like us. Is it true, by the way? The stuff that the news says about you?”

“That depends. What does the news say?” Erik fights to keep his voice steady.

“That you're a dangerous fugitive. A radical who wants to kill all non-mutants.” Peter runs a hand through his hair, which refuses to flatten beneath his fingers. “Of course, I can’t really judge the fugitive bit given that I was the one who broke you out, y'know.”

Erik's skin prickles, “Do they say why I was imprisoned in the first place?”

Peter thinks for a moment. “Not really.”

So, most people don't know that America's government thinks I killed JFK. Erik contemplates that fact for a moment with both relief and amusement. They probably don’t want to scare people with notions of people bending bullets . Not that I was trying to hurt anyone then.

“The only thing that I'm guilty of is fighting for people like us,” he says.

“I know. I didn't think you'd be dangerous,” Peter says steadily, looking Erik in the eye for a moment before his gaze flits away again. It's ever shifting, ever moving, a brown blur taking everything in at mind blowing speeds. 

Erik tries to imagine what it must feel like to be so fast. He imagines a constant state of impatience at the world, processing everything so quickly that it hurts your brain, and unable to shut it down.

He closes his eyes. “You have my genes… my mutant genes.”

“Yup. My mum's not like us. I have a sister but she hasn't shown anything yet.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Not at all. Well, I always knew there were other people like me—my mum talked a lot about me having a dad who could control metal growing up—, and I've been holding on to this school's business card for the last decade–”

“Why did you only use it now?” Erik says.. 

Peter looks surprised at being interrupted. Fair enough. Erik suspects he's used to being the one doing the interrupting. 

“They played a video of that speech you made at the stadium recently. After that, I just couldn't let it go,” Peter admits.

A smile dances across Erik's lips. He remembers that speech well: it had been his way of laying his beliefs out; baring his heart to the world without care of judgement or repercussions. It had been him at his most authentic and honest. 

He's glad that Peter saw it. It means he doesn't have to explain himself too much.

Only the heavy weight of grief currently sitting in his chest... He doesn't know if he’s ready to explain that . 

“So, now what?” Erik spreads his arms out. “You're here, we've talked. What do you want now?”

“I want to hang around a bit. Like you said, I've not been around other mutants a lot and I wanna know what it feels like to be amongst… people like me, y'know. Also, I wanna get to know you better as a person—not just as the guy in the news."

Erik exhales. He might as well rip the bandaid off now, if Peter is expecting him to be emotionally available. “I'm working through some shit at the moment, kid, so forgive me if I'm not the best company at the moment. But…” he hesitates, unwilling to fully quench the hope shining from bright brown eyes so similarly-shaped to his own, “I… can try.”