Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sirens are too close.

You dart down a rain-slick alley, boots splashing through shallow puddles, the stolen cash strapped tight in the canvas satchel over your shoulder. Your heart’s hammering—not from the run, but from the fact you never trip alarms. Never.

A streak of red and blue light flashes across the brick wall beside you, pulsing in time with the wail of police cars pulling up to the bank.

You round a corner and—

Everything stops.

Literally stops.

Raindrops hang in the air like strings of glass beads. A police officer is caught mid-stride at the mouth of the alley, his coat frozen mid-swing. Even the siren lights stay fixed in place, half-illuminating the wet asphalt in lurid colour.

Only two men move.

One is standing about twenty feet away, tall, lean, his hands buried casually in the pockets of a long, dark coat. The other is closer—brown hair just starting to silver at the temples, leaning on a cane as if he’s been waiting here all night.

“Quite the talent you have,” the man with the cane says mildly, as if commenting on the weather. His accent is warm, educated. “You’ve been a hard one to track down, I must say.”

Your fingers twitch toward the satchel strap. “What the hell—are you—FBI?”

Forgetting for the moment that the FBI surely couldn’t stop the city quite literally mid-step, you’re nervous at the idea that they have been tracking you.

The taller man steps forward out of the shadows. His eyes catch the dim light like a predator’s. “If we were,” he says, his voice low and precise, a gentle lilt to his accent, “you wouldn’t be standing here.”

You glance between them, jaw tight. “Then who are you?”

The man with the cane gives a polite smile. “My name is Charles Xavier. This is Erik Lehnsherr. And we’re here because we think you’re wasting your potential.”

You bark a humourless laugh. “Robbing banks and obscenely rich politicians isn’t potential?”

“It’s skill,” Erik counters, a faint curl of a smirk tugging his mouth, a glint catching his pale eyes. “But skill can serve a better purpose than lining your pockets.”

Charles tilts his head, studying you in a way that feels… invasive. Not threatening, exactly, but like he’s seeing more than he should. “You’ve been on your own a long time. Survived more than most could. And you’ve found a way to… redistribute certain resources to those less fortunate.”

Your eyes narrow. Anger trembles in your fingers. “You’ve been spying on me.”

“Observing,” Charles corrects gently. “And now we’d like to offer you something better. A place to belong. A school for people like us—where you could use both your abilities and your medical training to help children who need exactly the sort of care you once did.”

It takes everything in you not to flinch at that. How did they know so much? 

“And what’s in it for you?”

Erik answers before Charles can. “We want people who won’t hide. Who won’t let this world chew them up and spit them out. You’ve been surviving. We can show you how to win. To live as you are meant to live. Free. ”

You stare at them, at the still-frozen scene behind you, at the rain that hasn’t touched the ground. Every instinct says run away . But there’s a dangerous spark in both their eyes—different flames, same heat—that makes you pause. 

You can’t help but be intrigued.

“Sounds like you’re offering me a job and a leash,” you say finally.

Charles’ smile widens just enough to be infuriating. “Only if you think kindness is a leash.”

The world lurches back into motion—rain falls, sirens wail, boots splash on wet pavement. But the two men are gone, leaving you alone with the echo of their voices and the nagging thought that maybe, just maybe, they were right.

Your pulse jolts back into action. You yank the satchel tighter, your body shimmering into nothingness, vanishing into the downpour. Invisible, you slip past the charging officers and into the darkened side streets, mind whirling with questions you never thought you’d be asking.

You don’t remember making it home.

One moment, you’re sprinting invisible through the streets; the next, you’re standing in your cramped, dingy studio apartment, still dripping rainwater on the scuffed linoleum. The satchel is on the counter, stuffed with stolen cash. Usually you would have stashed it away by now, counting your winnings with a satisfied smirk.

But your coat’s still on.

And you’re still invisible.

You notice only when you pass the mirror and see nothing but the peeling wallpaper behind you. A thought, a breath, and your body fades back into view, the faint shimmer dissolving into skin and damp hair.

You flick on the TV for background noise, but your attention snaps to the screen.

A shaky camcorder clip—crowds, shouting, a smear of blue police lights. A teenage boy, maybe sixteen, hunched on the ground, face bloodied, one arm twisted at a wrong angle. A reporter’s voice cuts through: “…suspected mutant, attacked by civilians before police arrived…”

The boy lifts his head in the footage, just enough for the camera to catch the raw fear in his eyes.

The room tilts.

You’re thirteen again. Standing on a front lawn in the cold, bare feet in the grass, your father’s voice echoing behind a slammed door. Hours later, sitting in an alley, stomach twisting with hunger, begging a shopkeeper for scraps until he chased you away. Digging through a bin for food while older kids jeer and throw stones. Trying—failing—to vanish until their hands are already on you.

The news drone fades under the pounding of your pulse.

You shut off the TV. Hard.

Work will clear your head.

The ER is chaos—blood, antiseptic, and the endless wail of human suffering. You slip into your role as you always do: calm, precise, unseen in the way nurses learn to be. They thank you without meeting your eyes. They trust you with their lives. But if they knew—if they really knew—you’d see the fear or the hatred there instead.

You keep moving.

But Erik’s voice keeps threading through the noise: You’ve been surviving. We can show you how to win. To live as you are meant to live. Free.

The word free lodges in your chest like a shard of glass.

By your fourth patient, you’ve made up your mind. You strip off your gloves, toss them in the bin, and walk out mid-shift. No explanations. No apologies. If it’s a mistake, you can disappear as easily as you always have.

You half expect the impulse to fade by the time you reach your apartment.

But it doesn’t.

Instead, you find it waiting for you—a simple white card on your bed. You don’t need to guess who left it; no one else could have gotten in without a trace.

On one side: Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.

On the other: an address in Westchester, New York.

You turn it over in your fingers.

Maybe it’s a trap. Maybe it’s the start of something else entirely.

Either way, you’ll find out.

Chapter Text

The morning is crisp, almost biting, as you sling the canvas bag over your shoulder, the weight of your life’s essentials packed inside. Half of your savings—enough to disappear for a long time—has been discreetly slipped into the mailbox of Mrs. Kellett, the elderly woman who lives next door, the one who always smiled at you when you returned from your night shifts, never asking questions. You hope she’ll put the money to good use.

The other half remains with you in the bag. Not much else matters—just your scrubs, folded neatly on top, in case the school ever needs a nurse. And, perhaps, a piece of your old life to remind you you’re not just a thief.

The taxi pulls up to a gravel drive, your pulse quickening as a mansion comes into view.

It’s… enormous.

Stone walls rise like sentinels, ivy climbing in careful patterns. Windows catch the sunlight and glint like watchful eyes, the grounds immaculately kept, with sprawling lawns and clusters of ancient oaks. 

The gravel crunches under your boots as you exit the taxi and head up the drive. You can’t help but stop for a moment, staring.

They live here? You think, incredulous. Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr—these men who seemed so grounded in the grit of survival, so sharp-edged, so… rough— they live here?

The thought twists your stomach. Your distaste for wealth, for the obscene privilege of it, rises unbidden. You swallow it down. You are already going to regret this, you know.

Then a squeal of excitement snaps you from your musings.

“Are you… are you the new nurse?”

You turn, startled, and find a small girl bouncing on the balls of her feet, eyes bright as the morning sun. No more than ten, with a smattering of freckles across her nose and a grin that spreads like wildfire.

“Professor Xavier said we’d have someone coming to take care of us,” she continues brightly, almost in a rush, grabbing at your bag as if to inspect the contents. “We really need a nurse! We’ve been getting hurt running around and playing—it’s hard when you don’t have someone to patch you up!”

Despite your looming anxiety, a smile tugs at your lips. The girl is relentless, earnest, impossibly alive.

“And—what are your powers?” She asks suddenly, her eyes sparkling. “Do you have any? I mean—everyone here has powers! Come on, show me!”

Before you can respond, she leaps into the air, hovering a few feet off the ground. Her laughter bubbles around her as she flails her arms slightly, testing her limits.

“I’m learning to go higher now! And to stay up longer! I can almost reach the top of the oaks!”

You watch, caught off guard by the sheer joy, the freedom she radiates. Something in your chest twinges—a memory of your own early days on the streets, powers uncontrolled, lonely, desperate to survive. 

And here she is, soaring, unafraid, showing you what life could be like when someone cares enough to guide you.

No one here would throw rocks at her, abandon her, just for being different. 

“You’re… amazing,” you murmur, almost to yourself.

The girl lands gracefully, bouncing on her toes, beaming up at you. “So—do you have powers too?”

You hesitate, fingers tightening on the strap of your bag. Invisible, yes—but showing anyone so soon, revealing the part of yourself you’ve always kept hidden? Not yet. Not now. It goes against everything you’ve learned to survive.

“I—uh…” You falter, and the girl tilts her head, impatient but forgiving, sensing the tension. 

“It’s okay,” she chirps. “You don’t have to show me yet. A lot of people are nervous at the start. But you’ll learn! We’ll all help each other. I promise!”

Her earnestness is disarming. And as you stand there, on the manicured lawn of this mansion that seems a world apart from your own life, something inside you shifts. You can still disappear if it all goes wrong, you remind yourself. 

But maybe—just maybe—this is worth the risk.

The girl waves at you, practically buzzing with energy as she skips off toward the mansion, and you follow, your canvas bag swinging against your hip.

“Hello!” A deep, slightly awkward voice calls from a shadowed doorway. A tall figure emerges, thin, glasses glinting faintly in the morning light. “You must be… the new nurse?”

You blink. Lab coat, gentle hands, and a smile that’s a little too nervous, like he’s worried he’s saying the wrong thing. Again, not the sort of person you had expected to find here.

“I’m… uh, Henry McCoy,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “but everyone calls me Hank. I’ll be giving you a quick tour—uh, orientation, if you like. I promise it’s not too scary. Other than the risk of getting lost, nothing bad happens here.”

You raise an eyebrow, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. “Orientation? For a nurse?”

Hank’s ears redden slightly—whether from embarrassment or nervousness, you can’t tell. “Well… yes. We like everyone to feel welcome. And, uh… to know where the, ah… the first aid kits are. And the infirmary.” He chuckles nervously. “That kind of thing.”

As he leads you through the grand halls, you take in the mansion: soaring ceilings, walls lined with books, a conservatory flooded with light and plants that seem to thrive even in the winter air. 

He points out the common rooms, the dorms, the training areas, and a few of the children, who glance up curiously at the new adult.

One of them, a boy practicing telekinesis on a stack of books, surrounded by a chaotic mess of fallen objects, grins shyly as Hank explains, “Oh, and that’s Lucas. He’s learning to control… um, well, what he can move. It’s still a bit… energetic.”

“You mean messy,” you mutter, smirking. Hank laughs, and you realize he’s genuinely delighted by your dry wit. 

It catches you off guard, just like the little girl. But you can’t stop the flicker of warmth his genuineness alights. 

Finally, he leads you up a broad staircase to a set of tall doors. “And here’s Professor Xavier’s office,” he nods. “We generally—well, I mean… you’ll be meeting him. And… Erik, of course. They… they like to strategise here. Chess. Sometimes arguments. Mostly chess.”

He hesitates, glancing at you with a shy grin. “I might be a little… biased, but they’re quite brilliant. And, um… nice. Mostly. If a little intense.”

He knocks on the door, which seems to open by itself. You step inside. 

Sunlight from the large windows catches the chessboard set between Charles and Erik. They look up as you enter. Charles, serene and observing, raises a hand in greeting; Erik, leaning back in his chair with arms folded, nods once. 

The contrast between them is striking—one calm and contemplative, the other sharp and commanding—but both eyes flick to you with curiosity.

“Ah,” Charles says, voice warm, eyes measuring. “You must be our nurse. Welcome.”

Erik’s smirk is faint but unmistakable. “So, you decided to take a leap of faith. Brave, or foolish. We shall see.”

You feel your lips twitch into a half-smile. “That’s reassuring.”

Hank hovers awkwardly near the doorway, clearly uncertain how much to leave you to your own devices. “I… uh… you’ll have everything you need here. And if you have any questions about the students—about rules, schedules, anything—just ask. I mean, not that you’ll need to ask me everything. But, um…” He trails off, cheeks faintly red, clearly flustered by your presence.

Charles inclines his head. “Hank is our resident expert on many things, including, thankfully, the behavior and control of our students’ powers. You’ll find him invaluable.”

Erik leans slightly forward, eyes narrowing just a touch, studying you. “And you,” he says softly, almost a challenge, “are exactly who Charles said you were. Let’s hope they were right.”

You meet his gaze, your bag tight against your side, unsure how to respond to such a statement, and still unnerved by how much they seem to know about you—or at least claim to know. 

“I don’t make promises,” you say as calmly as you can. “I do my best. That’s all anyone can do.”

Charles smiles faintly, a hint of amusement in his eyes, as though he can hear a joke no one else can. “Then that may be exactly what we need.”

Hank clears his throat and shuffles nervously. “Shall I… um, show you the infirmary next? It’s… quite well equipped. I helped set it up. Well, helped a bit. Mostly I just organised supplies… and counted bandages. Anyway…”

You let yourself be guided toward your new workspace, feeling the pull of something bigger than yourself. The mansion, the children, the ever-enigmatic Charles and Erik… 

You’ve stepped into a world that feels impossibly foreign, and yet, for the first time in years, you feel the flicker of belonging. You try not to cling onto it too early.

You keep reminding yourself—you can still disappear at any moment.

But maybe—just maybe—this time, you won’t.

Chapter Text

The infirmary smells of antiseptic and sun-warmed paper. Someone’s thrown the windows open to let the late-morning breeze drift through, ruffling the stack of charts on the counter. It’s cleaner and brighter than the hospital ER you left behind, but it hums with the same low-level expectation: sooner or later, someone will come through the door needing help.

You’ve been here less than an hour when the first patient arrives—a boy no older than twelve, dragging one foot behind him like it’s been cursed. Turns out, it’s just badly sprained from a failed attempt to “phase” through a door before it finished opening. He winces but grins the whole time you wrap his ankle, chattering about how next time he’s going to get the timing right.

Two more follow before lunch: a girl with blisters on her palms from trying to control the heat in her fire-breath, and a quiet teen with a shallow cut on her scalp from what she sheepishly admits was a mid-air collision . You didn’t push for an explanation. You patch them up without comment, letting them talk if they want, or sit in silence if they don’t. All the while listening to their stories with mixed feelings. 

You’re beginning to see what Charles meant. These kids aren’t problems to be solved or liabilities to be contained—they’re just… kids. Kids who need someone to fix the scrapes they’ll inevitably get from learning what they can do.

All the while you listen, torn between admiration and something that almost aches. Their laughter rings bright, their complaints are ordinary, their joy unburdened. They are free to stumble, to fall, to learn—all under the protection of this place and the people who built it. You can’t help but contrast it with your own beginnings: the rejection, the way the world seemed to shrink around you once your secret was known. You’d been abandoned for something you couldn’t control. Yet here… Charles and Erik have built a haven where children like these are not only safe, but encouraged, celebrated. It unsettles you as much as it impresses you.

You’re sterilising a tray of instruments, still lost in thought, when the air shifts—like a shadow passing through sunlight. You glance up, and she’s just there.

Yellow eyes bright and unblinking, copper-red hair cropped close to her head, skin a deep, textured sapphire scattered with dark patterns like a map of some uncharted sea. She’s barefoot, looking as at ease in her own skin as most people do in their favourite sweater and PJs.

“New nurse,” she says, voice low and smooth, a smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. It’s not unkind—more like she’s amused that you’re here at all.

You nod, trying not to stare. “First day.”

She’s enthralling, impossible to ignore. For a moment you wonder how hard her life must have been—how could someone like her ever hide? Her mutation was too striking, too vivid. And you can’t help but wonder what abilities she carries that give her this appearance. 

“Not bad, then.” She glances at the neatly stocked shelves, the gleaming counters. “The last one didn’t last a week.”

“Why’s that?”

Her smile deepens—not threatening, but knowing. “He thought we should all make ourselves smaller. Hide what we are. It didn’t… work out.”

You meet her gaze, searching. “You don’t hide.”

“Never.” She tilts her head, watching you like she’s weighing something. “Charles thinks people like us can live in the open one day. But I’m more like Erik: I won’t wait for permission to be who I am.”

You think of the girl who flew into your arms earlier, the boy with the sprained ankle, Erik’s voice curling through your thoughts: To live as you are meant to live. Free.

“Doesn’t hiding keep you safe?” You ask before you can stop yourself, chewing the inside of your cheek as a wave of guilt washes over you. Your entire mutation was centred around hiding. And here she is, a bird of paradise among a sea of pigeons.

“Maybe for a while.” She shrugs, rolling her shoulders like she’s shedding a weight. “But it’s not living. And the longer you pretend to be something you’re not, the harder it gets to remember who you are.”

Her words settle in your chest like a stone dropped in water—slowly sinking, sending ripples through everything you thought you knew about survival. About yourself.

You swallow, hesitating, then blurt, “What’s your power?” The words come out softer, more sheepish than you’d intended. You’re not used to asking questions like that—not used to being among people who might actually answer.

Raven’s lips curl into a knowing smile, a glint in her bright yellow eyes. Without warning, her body shifts—skin fluttering like feathers, bones and features rearranging until you are staring at yourself. Your hair, your clothes, your uncertain expression mirrored back at you. Then, just as smoothly, she flows back into her true form, sapphire skin gleaming in the sunlight.

She doesn’t explain. Doesn’t need to. Instead she turns, already heading for the door, and tosses you a wink over her shoulder. Wordless, amused, utterly self-assured.

You exhale, pulse still unsteady, and know your new life is only just beginning.

The door clicks shut behind Raven, and for a long moment you just stand there, staring at the place she’d been. Her words still ripple through your chest, leaving you unsettled in ways you can’t quite name.

You’re halfway through straightening the bandages—just for something to occupy your increasingly frazzled mind—when the infirmary door bangs open again—this time followed by a cloud of faint, acrid smoke.

“Ah—uh—don’t panic,” comes a familiar voice, a little too quickly. Hank McCoy stumbles in, his hair slightly singed at the ends, the sleeve of his white shirt dusted with soot. He’s clutching a small metal cylinder that’s hissing faintly, which he deposits immediately in the sink with a clatter.

You blink at him. “Should I panic?”

He gives a sheepish laugh, tugging at his collar like it might hide his embarrassment. “Well, only if you dislike minor combustion events in enclosed spaces. Which, I suppose, most people do.” He winces as he flexes his fingers; the skin across his palm is mottled red.

Without thinking, you gesture toward the nearest cot. “Sit. Before you set off the fire alarm.”

To your surprise, he obeys without protest, perching awkwardly on the edge while you fetch the burn cream. Up close, he looks more boyish than he had during his tour, the soot smudges doing nothing to help his case.

“What happened?” You ask, trying to hide a smile as you dab at his hand.

“Let’s call it… an experiment in molecular cohesion that didn’t quite cohere,” he half-mumbles, then immediately winces at his own phrasing. “Sorry. I tend to over-explain when I’m nervous.”

You arch a brow. “Nervous about fire? Or about nurses?”

Colour creeps up the back of his neck. “Both?” He offers a crooked smile, then clears his throat. “In fairness, you are new. And explosions aren’t the best welcome.”

Despite yourself, you laugh—a short, surprised sound. The tension Raven left behind eases just a little.

“There,” you say, finishing the bandage. “Try not to blow up the school again before lunch.”

“No promises,” Hank replies, dead serious, and for a moment you can’t tell if he’s joking. Then his mouth quirks into a grin. “Though if you’re free after your shift, I’d be happy to give you a tour of the lab. When it’s… less flammable.”

You shake your head, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. Maybe, just maybe, this place isn’t as unbearable as you’d feared.

The thought barely forms when the air in the infirmary shifts again—not with Raven’s weightless grace this time, but something heavier.

“Already making friends, I see.”

You turn. Erik Lehnsherr stands in the doorway, hands clasped lightly behind his back, gaze moving first to Hank’s bandaged palm, then to you. His eyes linger. There’s no smile on his mouth, but there’s something sharper—like he’s measuring how you fit here, or how easily you might be pulled away.

Hank clears his throat, the boyish brightness dimming in an instant. “Erik. I was just—ah—checking in on our new nurse.”

Erik hums, unconvinced, before he steps farther into the room. The faint scrape of his boots against the tile is the only sound. The lightness from a moment ago is gone, replaced by a tension that settles at the base of your spine.

You realise, with a start, that he hasn’t looked away from you once.

Chapter Text

The door clicks shut behind Raven, and for a long moment you just stand there, staring at the space she’d occupied. Her words still ripple through your chest, leaving you unsettled in ways you can’t quite name.

You’re halfway through straightening the bandages—just something to busy your swirling thoughts—when the infirmary door bangs open again, this time followed by a puff of faint, acrid smoke.

“Ah—uh—don’t panic,” comes a familiar voice, a little too quickly.

Hank McCoy stumbles in, hair slightly singed, the sleeve of his white shirt dusted with soot. He’s clutching a small metal cylinder that hisses faintly, which he deposits in the sink with a clatter.

You blink. “Should I panic?”

He gives a sheepish laugh, tugging at his collar as though he could hide behind it. “Well, only if you dislike minor combustion events in enclosed spaces. Which, I suppose, most people do.”

He winces as he flexes his fingers; the skin across his palm is mottled red.

Without thinking, you gesture toward the nearest cot, hiding an exasperated smirk. You’d never be pleased to see someone injured, but his slapstick entrance is a welcome reprieve from the heaviness Raven left behind.

“Sit. Before you set off the fire alarm.”

To your surprise, he obeys without protest, perching awkwardly on the cot while you fetch the burn cream. Up close, he looks more boyish than he had during yesterday’s tour, the soot smudges on his nose doing nothing to help his case.

“What happened?” you ask, dabbing at his hand with practiced care. Your nursely sympathy earns a wince—and then a shy, calmed smile.

“Let’s call it… an experiment in molecular cohesion that didn’t quite cohere,” he says, then immediately recoils at his own phrasing. “Sorry. I tend to over-explain when I’m nervous.”

You arch a brow. “Nervous about fire? Or about me?”

Colour creeps up his neck. “Both?” He offers a crooked smile, then clears his throat. “In fairness, you are new. And explosions aren’t the best welcome.”

Despite yourself, you laugh—a short, surprised sound. The tension Raven left behind eases, if only a little.

“There,” you say, tying off the bandage. “Try not to blow up the school before lunch.”

“No promises,” Hank replies, and for a moment you can’t tell if he’s joking. Then his mouth quirks into a grin. “Though if you’re free after your shift, I could give you a tour of the lab. When it’s less… flammable.”

You shake your head, though the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. Maybe, just maybe, this place isn’t as unbearable as you’d feared.

The thought barely forms before the air in the infirmary shifts again—not with Raven’s weightless grace this time, but something heavier. Certain. Dangerous.

“Already making friends, I see.”

You turn. Erik Lehnsherr stands in the doorway, hands clasped lightly behind his back, gaze sliding from Hank’s bandaged palm to you. His eyes linger. There’s no smile—only something sharper, as though he’s measuring how you fit here, or how easily you might be pushed away.

Hank clears his throat, the boyish brightness fading. “Erik. I was just—ah—checking in on our new nurse.”

Erik hums, unconvinced, before stepping further into the room. The faint scrape of his boots against the tile is the only sound. The lightness from a moment ago vanishes, replaced by a tension that coils low in your spine.

You realise, with a start, that he hasn’t looked away from you once.

He steps closer—slow, deliberate. Not predatory, just assured, like every inch of space he occupies already belongs to him.

“So,” he says at last, his voice smooth, low. “You’ve seen what Charles has built. What we have built.” His eyes flick briefly to the neatly made bed in the corner, the tidy shelves Hank had been so proud of, before they return to you. “Do you think it will hold?”

Your throat tightens. “Hold?”

“This dream,” Erik says simply. “Children flying, phasing through doors, setting themselves alight. And yet somehow it feels safe here. Does it look like safety to you?”

Hank shifts uncomfortably, fingers twitching at his side. “Erik—”

A small tilt of Erik’s head silences him. He doesn’t need to raise his voice to command a room.

Your instincts scream to deflect, to vanish—literally, if need be—but you stand your ground. “They seem happy,” you manage, quieter than intended. “Happier than I ever was at their age. They can be themselves without persecution.”

For the first time, something flickers across his face that isn’t sharpness or challenge—something like recognition.

“Then you know,” he murmurs, stepping close enough that the faint hum of his presence prickles against your skin, blotting out everything else. “You know what it costs to survive. To hide. To be hated for what you are.”

The words strike deep, colliding with Raven’s defiance. She wore her skin like armour, dazzling and unapologetic. And you? You’ve survived by disappearing—by becoming untouchable, unseen. Erik’s pale eyes pin you down, cutting through in the opposite way the world always looked through you.

“Maybe hiding isn’t living,” you whisper. “But sometimes it’s the only way to stay alive.”

His expression shifts—slightly. Not triumph, not approval, but the shadow of both.

After moments that stretch too long, Erik leans back at last, the faintest curve tugging at his mouth—something darker than warmth that sends a shiver down your spine. “Good. Think on it.”

And with that, he pivots smoothly, the metal hinges of the infirmary door giving a soft groan as it swings shut behind him—seemingly of its own accord.

The silence he leaves is suffocating.

Hank exhales, long and low, running a hand over his face, his meek attempt at a smile faltering as he avoids your eyes. “He has… a way with people. Don’t let him put you off.”

But you can’t shake the way Erik’s gaze lingered, or the heat of his words. They follow you as you turn back to the tray, laying out fresh scalpels with hands that move on instinct.

The stainless steel catches the light, too bright. The faint metallic scrape sounds like a threat.

Do you think it will hold?

The question worms under your skin, refusing to settle. For the first time since you arrived, the walls of the infirmary feel less like sanctuary—and more like a cage waiting to close.

Chapter Text

Sleep doesn’t come easily.

You lie in the narrow infirmary cot, staring at the ceiling as the moonlight pools through the high windows, silvering the neat rows of cabinets. Erik’s voice still hums beneath your skin, threading through the silence.

Do you think it will hold?

You turn onto your side, pressing your face into the pillow. It’s no use. The words won’t leave. The longer you stay here, the more they echo—in Raven’s fearlessness, in Charles’s calm optimism, in Hank’s hopeful awkwardness. Everyone seems so certain of what they’re fighting for.

And you… you’re still trying to remember what you’re fighting against.

At last, you give up on rest. You pull on your sweater and slip from the cot, the floorboards creaking softly under bare feet.

The mansion feels different at night. The grand hallways stretch long and dim, lined with portraits whose eyes seem to follow you as you pass. You trail a hand along the banister, pausing at the sound of distant giggles, quickly hushed—some of the children, sneaking between dormitories. A smile ghosts across your lips despite yourself.

This place breathes even when it sleeps.

You find yourself drawn to the library—vast and shadowed, the smell of old paper thick in the air. Books pile in precarious towers beside deep armchairs; the fireplace is only embers now, glowing faintly red. On a table near the window sits a chessboard, half-finished. One white bishop stands surrounded by black pieces.

You study it a moment, then turn a piece idly between your fingers. “Checkmate,” you murmur to no one.

Something shifts inside you. The mansion, the laughter, the warmth—it all feels too fragile, like glass stretched too thin. You wonder what will happen when it cracks.

And the next morning, the first crack slithers across the glass.

You’re restocking the infirmary shelves when the door bursts open, and two students half-carry a third between them.

“He fell!” one of them gasps. “He—he was on the roof training and—he didn’t land right—”

You move before you can think, instinct and training taking over. The boy’s arm hangs at a strange angle, bone clearly broken, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

“Lay him down—easy,” you order. Your voice is calm. Solid.

Hank arrives a heartbeat later, breathless and wide-eyed. Between you, the room becomes a flurry of motion: gauze, splints, antiseptic. You talk the boy through each step, your hands steady even as his tremble.

When it’s done—when he’s sedated, his breathing finally even—the silence settles heavy again. Hank exhales, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“You were remarkable,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Composed. Most people would have panicked.”

You shake your head. “Panic doesn’t help anyone.”

But your heart is still racing. You realise, suddenly, how alive you feel—not because of the danger, but because in that moment, you knew what to do. You weren’t hiding. You weren’t invisible. You were needed.

Later, as you’re cleaning the instruments, a voice cuts through the quiet.

“You handled that well.”

You turn. Charles Xavier sits in the doorway in his chair, hands folded loosely in his lap, his expression calm but watchful. You hadn’t even heard him approach.

“Word travels quickly here,” he continues, a faint smile touching his mouth. “Our young Mr. Garrett will be quite all right, thanks to you.”

You nod, unsure what to say. “He was lucky.”

Charles’s eyes gleam with that peculiar warmth that never feels entirely human. “Luck had very little to do with it. You were calm. Precise.”

He pauses, studying you—and though his expression is gentle, you feel the faintest brush at the edge of your thoughts, like a door testing its hinges.

You straighten. “Are you… reading my mind right now?”

Charles tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You’re unusually perceptive. Most people don’t notice unless I delve too deep—or venture somewhere dark.”

His smile widens just a touch. “Only enough to know that you’ve had a difficult night.”

“Then you know why,” you say quietly.

“Erik,” Charles replies simply. The name sits between you like a fault line. “He has a gift for stirring unease. He sees cracks and presses on them—not out of cruelty, but conviction. He believes the world must break before it can change.”

He tilts his head. “And you, I think, have spent your life avoiding cracks of any kind.”

You swallow. “They tend to swallow people whole.”

Charles’s gaze softens. “Perhaps. Or perhaps they let the light in.”

Something in his tone makes you look up. The sincerity in his eyes is almost unbearable—not because it’s unkind, but because it’s hopeful. You’re not sure you’ve earned that.

You hesitate, then ask, “What happens if you do go too deep—or to somewhere… dark?”

Charles’s expression grows faintly distant, thoughtful. “The mind is… a delicate thing. When I reach too far, I risk becoming entangled. Lost in memories that aren’t my own.”

You nod slowly, imagining it—his consciousness threading through the grief and ghosts of others. But he’s still watching you, and you realise with a flicker of unease that he’s already brushed the edge of one of your darker corners.

He doesn’t comment on it, but you sense the echo of your own thought reverberate between you—Could he help me forget? Could he help me heal?

Charles’s eyes soften, as if in answer, though you never spoke aloud. “Some wounds,” he says quietly, “should be remembered. They remind us what we’ve survived.”

When he finally leaves, the room feels colder. You stand for a long time by the sink, your reflection fractured across the surface of a steel tray—a dozen versions of yourself, all half-there.

And for the first time, you wonder which one of them is real.

You tidy the last of the instruments and step outside for air. The afternoon has turned heavy and grey, clouds pressing low over the estate. The manicured lawns look oddly stark in the dim light, the mansion’s windows glowing faintly like watchful eyes.

You walk without direction, past the training fields and the neat gravel paths that wind toward the edge of the woods. The air smells of rain and ozone, the stillness charged.

For the first time since arriving, you let yourself fade—not completely invisible, just blurred at the edges, your body half-there, like a ghost walking among the living. It’s easier this way. You can breathe without being seen.

You pause by the iron fence at the far end of the grounds. Beyond it, the forest stretches in dark, whispering lines. Somewhere in there, you imagine, the world waits—the world that threw you away.

A shiver crawls along your spine, though the air is warm. You turn.

Erik stands a few yards behind you, framed by the soft light spilling from the mansion. You don’t know how long he’s been there—long enough, perhaps, to watch you disappear.

You wonder, briefly, how he can see you. The thought comes unbidden: maybe he wanted to.

“You shouldn’t walk the grounds alone at this hour,” he says, voice low, almost conversational. “Not all threats come from outside.”

You force yourself to solidify again, breath quickening as the invisibility fades. “I didn’t realise I needed an escort.”

He gives a faint, humourless smile. “You don’t. But you should know that even paradise needs its guards.”

The silence between you stretches, taut as wire.

He glances toward the woods, then back at you. “Charles believes peace can be taught,” he says, softer now. “But peace is fragile. It breaks under pressure. You felt it today—that moment when fear and instinct meet. That’s the truth of our kind.”

You cross your arms, more to steady yourself than challenge him. “You think fear defines us?”

“No.” His gaze sharpens. “I think fear reveals us.”

A drop of rain lands on your cheek. Then another. A storm is coming fast. You can feel it in your bones like an instinct. Yet neither you nor Erik move. The faint metallic hum that always seems to follow him vibrates in the air, and for a heartbeat, you think you feel it under your skin too—that same pull, that same fury buried under control.

He takes a slow step back, the stormlight catching the faint curve of a smile. “You’ll see it soon enough,” he murmurs. “Fractures crumble when left untended. I’m sure you know that better than anyone.”

And then he’s gone—swallowed by the dark before you can find the words to answer.

You stand there long after the rain starts, until the downpour soaks through your clothes and the world blurs into silver and shadow.

For the first time since you arrived, you’re not sure whether you belong to this place at all—or to the fractures growing quietly beneath it.