Archive of Our Own

Erik never thought he'd be here again. He's not sure if he even is here, now. Only twenty-four hours ago he'd been in prison. Maybe he's finally lost his mind. Everything looks wrong—all of the furniture is off-kilter, skewed and covered in a thin layer of dust, illuminated only by the surviving shards of light coming in through carelessly drawn curtains. A chess board hosts a half-played game, frozen in time like everything else.

If the mansion grounds are a testament to the passage of time, lush and overgrown as they are, the interior serves as the exact opposite—stagnant and lifeless, yet both telling the same story of dereliction.

The only sign that anyone lives here at all are the glass tumblers littering the surfaces, empty save for a swig or two of undoubtedly expensive liquor. Erik fights the urge to grab the nearest one and drink it, if only to ground himself with the burn. In all the time he'd spent picturing this place while he was locked up, he'd never considered that it would look like this. Unsettled, he wanders around the first floor, cataloguing the household metal as he goes. He's found his way back to the chess board when a voice says from the doorway, "There you are."

Erik jumps, though he tries to stifle his reaction—unsuccessfully, if Raven's smirk is any indication. Damned woman, never wearing a lick of actual metal, only the strange flesh-metal that her mutation conjures. Significantly, he can't help but notice, she's not blue. At least her hair and eyes are her own. "How is he?"

Raven sighs, scanning the room grimly, likely making all of the same observations as Erik. "He's nine, all right."

"And what are we supposed to do about that?"

"We aren't doing anything," Raven says nastily. "I'm going to help him. I don't know why I expected you to want to, too. I should have left you in prison."

Erik barks an angry laugh. "You just didn't want to come here alone. You think that my transgressions make yours suddenly forgivable."

"Well, don't they?"

Erik goes on like he doesn't hear her. "Because for some godforsaken reason, you still care about being forgiven. Like it's Saint Charles' place to absolve you of the sin of standing up for something, of stepping out of his naive fantasy where humans don't want to kill us. He sits and does nothing while they—where are you going?"

He follows Raven out of the room and down the hall, calling out, "Do you think this changes anything? So he's a boy who doesn't understand the harsh realities of our world, the same he's always been. Nothing's changed. Perhaps now he's just representing it more honestly now. We've been here for all of ten minutes, and already, you're seeking his approval and hiding who you—oof—"

The air escapes Erik's lungs with the help of Raven's elbow, jabbing sharply into his ribs. A moot point, because if he'd had any air left, it'd surely be gone anyway when he lays eyes on the impossibly young child in front of them.

The child who's sitting on a medical bed, hooked up to several beeping machines, swimming in clothes far too big for him and looking dispassionately into the distance, like he's not even here at all.

"Charles," Raven says softly, and instantly the boy looks over, and he's—he's both undeniably Charles and a complete stranger at the same time. His startling blue eyes and the freckles across the bridge of his nose—Erik would recognize those features anywhere. But gone is the easy charm, the cocksure confidence that Erik has come to associate with Charles Xavier. Though now, surrounded by the ruins of the estate he'd once thought unassailable, he wonders if his memory of Charles had been similarly distorted.

The boy stares at Erik, brows knit together in uncertainty. "Why are you wearing a helmet?"

He's probably wondering why he can't hear Erik's thoughts, Erik realizes.

"For protection," Erik says harshly, and Charles flinches. Erik steels himself; he refuses to feel badly for this. Just because Charles is small and young doesn't mean he's harmless. On the contrary, there's every reason to believe that his control over his telepathy is tenuous. The only thing more dangerous than a telepath is an unpredictable telepath.

No, Charles Xavier has certainly never been harmless.

Raven appears to come to that conclusion at the same time, watching Charles warily. When she notices Erik looking at her, she flattens her expression. Charles' eyes go vacant again.

Hank walks into the room, frowning down at a clipboard. "Charles, I'm going to need more—oh, Erik," he says flatly. "I'd hoped Raven was lying when she said you were here."

Erik bares his teeth. "McCoy. No, I had to come see your handiwork for myself."

Hank sits down testily, grabbing Charles' arm and pushing the sleeve of his sweater up roughly. He ties a thin rubber tourniquet onto the small arm in a practiced motion. "It's just temporary," he grits. "It'll wear off."

"When?"

Hank doesn't answer, instead pushing the needle into the boy's tiny forearm to begin extracting blood. Charles doesn't wince, or make any indication that he feels it at all.

"Are you sure he's actually nine? And not just—just his older self in a younger body?" Erik demands.

Hank gives him a withering look. "Yes, I'm sure. Here, I can prove it: Charles, when you look at that man, do you have an overwhelming urge to punch him in the face?"

"What?" The boy looks up in surprise, then turns his gaze to Erik, who forces himself to stare back into that unnerving, unreadable blue. "No," Charles says, and his eyes lighten with mirth, "but his helmet looks silly."

"It does," Hank chuckles humorlessly. "Does that answer your question? I promise, if Charles was feeling his age, you'd know."

Raven laughs, and Erik's vision goes red. He snarls, "I don't know what you're laughing at. I don't even know why you're here, pretending you give a shit about him."

The light flees Charles' eyes in an instant, rendering them dim and lifeless, and it fills Erik with fury. This whole thing is fucking ridiculous. He storms out of the room, unable to stomach looking at that small, sad boy a second longer.

"Real nice, asshole," Raven snaps, hot on his tail. "Do you feel better, taking your feelings out on an nine-year-old? He's just a kid."

"So what?" Erik says, whipping around. "He's a kid now, but that doesn't change what he's done."

"What about what we've done?"

Erik scoffs, "I was always up front about who I am. I'm not the one who lied and hid when we needed him. He's been holed up in this goddamn mansion while we've been out there, risking our lives—"

"Oh, come on," Raven sneers. "I've been out there risking shit, and saving your ass. In case you forgot who got you out of prison this time."

"This time," Erik mutters, though much of the fight has fled him. His anger has been like that for years now—a bright flash of fury that snuffs out just as quick, leaving him exhausted. He's so tired. He looks around balefully; the uniquely bizarre sight of tiny, nine-year-old Charles had been enough to make him temporarily forget how desolate the mansion's become.

Raven sighs, "I know what it's like to be disappointed by him. I get it, but…"

Erik doesn't want to hear her next line: We left him that day, when he got shot.

It's always He got shot, like the wind blew the bullet into his spine, instead of Erik's own traitorous power.

And they all know what happened next.

"So this is your atonement?" Erik says, turning to meet her amber eyes. "To come back and be his sister again, until whatever Hank did wears off, and then what?"

"I don't know," Raven says, maddeningly calm. She's not supposed to be calm. She's supposed to be angry, like Erik.

"You're so full of shit," Erik snarls. "The last time I saw you, you said you never wanted to be his Raven again. Was that just talk, then? Maybe you're more like him than I thought."

Raven, infuriatingly, doesn't rise to the bait. She just stares at him, unimpressed, like he's a child throwing a tantrum.

"Why the fuck did you even bring me here?" Erik spits, a final plea for clarification. He didn't want to come, but hadn't had much choice when a guard holding his helmet had strolled into his cell yesterday, eyes flashing yellow. Erik had tactfully not asked where Azazel was; the last he'd known, Raven and Azazel had been rather intensely involved. If nothing else, it'd have been nice to teleport to Westchester, instead of traveling for a day and a half, hiding in the shadows and hoping no one would recognize him.

Now that he's here, it's even worse than he'd expected. Perhaps part of him had wanted to see Charles in all his sickening opulence, where he's sat, safe and sheltered all these years while Erik's sacrificed and suffered for their people. Even when he'd heard that Charles had been somehow de-aged thirty years, he'd expected to see a spoiled, petulant child, not unlike the pushy, entitled man he'd met seven years ago. Nothing could have prepared him for that somber, serious child with lifeless eyes.

Erik never should have come.

In the end, Raven doesn't even answer him. She looks at him the same way she has for the last six years, when she finally realized he wasn't the all-knowing savior she'd thought—that he's just a man, perpetually mad with grief.

She looks at him with pity, and then she goes back to Charles.

"I figured you would have left by now," Hank says the next morning, when he comes into the kitchen and finds Erik drinking a cup of coffee. It's the first good cup he's had in many months, and it's almost enough to fix his mood—until he has to talk to Hank, that is.

"I thought you were supposed to be some kind of genius," Erik says dryly. It's the kind of thing that would have sent Hank blustery and embarrassed before, but evidently his spine's made an appearance over the years.

"You're right," Hank says easily, pouring himself some coffee. Erik's fingers twitch with the urge to tip the pot over. "I should have known you'd want to come back, have another go at fucking him up."

Erik scoffs, unbothered by the accusation, having said far worse to himself. "It looks like he didn't need me for that. It's disgusting in here. What happened?" It had taken him a disturbingly long time to find a clean mug for his coffee, most of them either covered in a thin layer of grime or scattered around the house and filled with liquor—or both.

"Before or after you paralyzed him and left with his sister?" Hank says coolly, the words springing off his tongue like they've been waiting for years.

"Last I heard, this was a school," Erik grits out. He doesn't understand why people feel the need to remind him what happened, as if he wasn't there. "It certainly doesn't look like a school."

"You're smarter than you look," Hank says, and it makes Erik want to punch him. "Did you sleep with that helmet on?"

He did, actually. It wasn't any less comfortable than sleeping in prison had been. "Don't change the subject."

Surprisingly, Hank just smirks. "There was a school. We had faculty and students, and then the draft started. We had to shut down. Charles couldn't handle it on top of everything else."

"So this is him… not handling it?" Erik says, ignoring the pointed everything else. "Living in abject filth and drinking himself to death? I'm missing the part where that turns him into a nine-year-old."

Hank shrugs, staring into his mug. He doesn't look like he's gloating, anymore. He looks ashamed. "I was trying to help him. I created this… serum, last year. To treat his spinal injury. It worked, but… with some side effects. I thought I could improve it—instead of changing his DNA, I tried to—to reverse his cellular growth. Send it back in time, so to speak."

"Seems like you overshot it," Erik says flatly. "How long until it wears off?"

"The original serum only lasts about twenty-four hours. This one seems… a fair bit longer."

Erik nods, staring stonily at Hank. "Is that why you look human again?"

Hank flinches, and Erik feels a sick satisfaction, knowing his newfound confidence isn't bone-deep. He's not so far above Erik, after all. Still, Hank looks him head-on. "I can control it. I can still transform and beat the shit out of you."

Erik cracks a smile for the first time since he got here. He claps Hank on the shoulder on the way out of the kitchen.

With a vengeance, Erik gets to work cleaning the mansion. He doesn't know what to with himself otherwise, so he goes from room to room, hovering a large metal tub behind him, throwing every mug and glass he finds into it, feeling better with every shatter. He only breaks about half of them.

He doesn't know how long he'll stay here, but he tells himself he's waiting to see what Raven does. She'd broken him out of prison, after all. He owes her. And they've always been friends, always held a mutual understanding he's seldom had with others. They'd gotten closer after she stopped mooning over him and went on to greener—redder—pastures. He had indulged her once or twice, but it always left him feeling hollow after, making him think about the times he and Charles had—

Well.

For now, this is as good a place as any to hide out while he regroups and plans his next move. Perhaps Raven will join him when he leaves, when she's done whatever it is she thinks she needs to do here.

He goes back to the supply closet where he'd gotten the tub and finds sponges, mops, and cleaning agents of every sort, clearly a stockpile the cleaning staff had kept when they were still employed. Erik is both furious at Charles for having a cleaning staff, and furious at him for clearly having fired the staff. They probably needed the money. Not that Charles would know what that's like, Erik thinks viciously, dumping the dishes into soapy, too-hot water that burns onto his skin. He scrubs at the dishes until his hands are pink and stinging, and when he opens the cabinets to put them away, he realizes he's going to have to scrub those out, too.

"This whole goddamn place is a pigsty," Erik snarls to the first person that walks into the kitchen, what must be hours later.

"I'm sorry sir," a small, polite voice says. "I don't—I don't know how to clean. Margaret is our head of cleaning staff, but…"

Erik jumps, completely having forgotten how young Charles sounds now. How young he is, Erik amends, when he turns around to face him.

Charles plucks at the sleeve that's been haphazardly rolled up his arm. His clothes hang off him again today, clearly meant for his adult body, making him look even younger than his nine years. "Is there anything to eat?"

"Let me guess," Erik says dryly, "you can't cook, either."

It's an unfair thing, perhaps, to say to a child—particularly one who has certainly had a household staff his entire life, but Charles doesn't seem remotely bothered. On the contrary, he shrugs and comes further into the kitchen. "You could teach me. Sophia tried once, but when Mother found out, she was furious. She, um, fired Sophia, after that…" Charles gets a pinched expression on his face. He tugs at his sleeve harder, then appears to notice what he's doing, and abruptly drops his arms straight to his side.

Alarmed, Erik remembers that Charles was an easy crier as an adult—he can't imagine how often he must cry as a young child. "I have to go to the store," he announces. He'd done a precursory search for food, and had found only some unappetizing canned goods and moldy bread. He'd meant to go earlier, but he'd gotten sidetracked with cleaning. He's never been good at feeding himself regularly, after learning to ignore his hunger at a young age. Clearly, that's not a problem for young Charles.

It hadn't been a problem for him at that age either, a voice in the back of his head reminds him. To drown it out, he asks, "Where does Charles—where do you keep your car?"

Charles looks at him, a small smile creeping over his face. "I don't have a car, but my father keeps his in the garage. Would you like me to take you there?"

Erik nods stiffly, unnerved by Charles' familiar unfailing politeness, his posh accent. When the boy isn't disturbingly staring off into the distance, it's so easy to see the charming, obnoxious man he'll grow into one day.

Seemingly unbothered by Erik's reticence, Charles leads him outside and across the grounds, stepping gingerly around overgrown bushes and trees. "Mother would hate this," he says, and then he gets that pinched look on his face again. By the time they get to the garage, it's gone.

"Oh, it's locked." Charles frowns at the doorknob refusing to turn in his hand. It must be shocking to him, not getting what he wants, Erik thinks, amused.

"No matter," he says, easily unlocking the door and swinging it open.

"How did you do that?" Charles demands, a note of fear in his voice.

Erik doesn't answer him, instead looking around for the keys before finding them hung on the wall. He summons them and turns to find Charles looking at the car.

"That's not my father's car," he says uncertainly.

"I don't care whose car it is," Erik shrugs, and walks around to the driver's side.

Charles follows Erik like a shadow. "Can I come with you?"

"No," Erik says shortly, and looks away when Charles' face crumples. He desperately needs to get away from here for a while. It's too much, talking to Charles while not talking to him at all. He's imagined their reunion a thousand different ways, and never once had it included the nine-year-old version of him. All of the anger he's been holding for years, fizzling uncomfortably with each minute.

He feels better with every mile he puts between them.

"Here, I got you some clothes," Erik says when he returns hours later, tossing a bag at Charles' feet. Hank seems to be running more tests, and Charles is patiently holding his arm out, sleeve pushed haphazardly up to his bony shoulder.

Charles perks up. "You did?"

"Yes, because you look ridiculous." Erik glares at Hank, who should have been the one to get him clothes that fit.

Charles seems completely unbothered by the comment, instead giving Erik a bright, toothy smile. "Thank you, Mr…?"

"Erik. And it's nothing. I didn't get you anything expensive like you're probably used to. I just went to K-Mart." Actually, it had been a pain in the ass, because he'd had to skulk around in a hat and sunglasses to mitigate the risk of being recognized, and then just to be safe, he short-circuited the security cameras.

"Thank you, Mr. Erik," Charles repeats, smile not dimming even a watt.

After that, Charles seems to decide Erik is his friend. He follows him around for the rest of the day, constantly underfoot, peppering him with questions and inane chatter, most of which Erik doesn't deign to answer. Why do you wear that helmet? Do you ride a motorcycle? My father says motorcycles are for idiots and ruffians. You don't seem like either. Do you like jazz? My mother says it's vulgar, but I think it sounds nice. My father has a phonograph in his laboratory, and sometimes he lets me listen to Duke Ellington, but I have to promise not to tell mother. You won't tell her, will you? Nevermind, that's a silly question, isn't it? Does your mother let you listen to jazz?

And Erik's face must have done something terrible then, because Charles falls blessedly silent, and Erik finishes scrubbing the bathroom in peace. He desperately needs a shower after spending the entire day cleaning the rooms he'll be occupying for the duration of his stay.

"Get out of here. I'm going to shower and then I'm going to bed," Erik says, when he's done.

Charles starts, like he'd forgotten Erik was here. He blinks at him, looking dazed.

"Now," Erik snaps, shooing him out of the room. "Out."

He assumes that will be the end of it, that Charles has finally gotten the hint that Erik wants to be left alone, but when he walks into his room after his shower, Charles is sitting on his bed, flipping through a book. "Hello," he says brightly, looking up with a smile.

"What is wrong with you?" Erik thunders, summoning his helmet and shoving it onto his head. "Why won't you leave me alone?"

Charles flinches and he looks down again at his book, clutching it tightly in his tiny, shaking hands. A tear drips onto the page, visible only for a moment before Charles closes the book and gets to his feet. "My apologies," he says, sounding so much older than his mere nine years and so incredibly young at the same time, voice creaking with the effort of holding back sobs.

Erik watches him, filled with something uncomfortably close to guilt. "Why did you come in here? Did you need something?"

Charles shakes his head almost violently, lips pressed tightly together, silent despite the tears streaming down his cheeks.

With an unhappy sigh, Erik turns and heads out of the room. "Stop crying. Come on," he calls over his shoulder. He goes to the kitchen, Charles following close on his heels.

"I think I saw…" Erik mutters to himself, rummaging through the cabinets of dry goods until he finds what he's looking for: a tin of instant hot chocolate. He grabs two mugs and carefully shakes the powder into them.

"What is that?" Charles asks, tilting his head.

"Hot chocolate."

"Hot chocolate?" Charles says, like he's never heard of such a thing.

Erik pauses. "Yes. Do you like hot chocolate?" He'd simply assumed, given adult-Charles' penchant for sweets, but perhaps he was more discerning as a child. Unlikely, but Erik's learned to never assume anything about Charles Xavier.

"Yes, but… how are you going to make it out of that?"

"What? You just—oh," Erik stops, realizing that Charles is not just thirty years younger than he's supposed to be, but he's also been living thirty years in the past. Somehow, that hadn't occurred to him until right this moment. He falters, "It's, uh, it's instant. Probably not as good as what you're used to, but it's a damned sight easier."

"Oh." Charles watches as Erik prepares the hot chocolate, holding his hand over the kettle to heat the water more quickly. He wants to get Charles calmed down and back in his own room as quickly as possible, so Erik can go bed—or, more likely, he'll lay awake for a few hours, mapping out the pipework of the house until the hum of the metal lulls him to sleep.

"What are you doing?"

Erik looks at Charles. "What?"

"With your hand."

"Heating the water. Why, do you want milk instead? I got some from the store earlier—"

"No, that's okay," Charles says quickly, eyeing Erik's hand over the kettle. "I just meant, how are you—nevermind." He bites his lip and looks down at his lap miserably.

Erik pours the steaming water into the mug and pulls a spoon from the silverware drawer, catching it midair to stir their drinks. "It's my power."

"Your power?"

"Yes," Erik says slowly. "Like your telepathy. I can control metal, among other things."

Charles looks up, all color drained from his face. He whispers, "My what?"

Erik stares at him. "Your telepathy. The way you read minds."

Charles gapes in silent horror before his voice comes out, thready and panicked. "No. I'm not—please don't send me away."

"What?" Erik stares at him in confusion.

"I'll get better. Please," Charles begs, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "I haven't told anyone, I swear. I don't know how you—"

"What are you—Charles!" Erik snaps, watching with dismay as Charles devolves into hysterics, shaking his head and staring somewhere past Erik, somewhere far away. Erik drops to his knees and grabs Charles' shoulders, shaking them roughly. "Charles! Look at me."

"Please," Charles sobs, hardly coherent, "please don't send me away. I know I'm sick, but I'm not—Father says I'm not crazy—"

"Of course you're not," Erik says, rubbing Charles' shoulders, bony through his pajamas. He's so fucking small. So young. "Breathe, Charles. Okay? Just—in and out. With me. Breathe." He grabs Charles' hand and presses it to his chest, holding it there and taking deep, measured breaths.

Trembling violently, Charles takes shuddering, unfulfilling breaths, and Erik keeps going until he's no longer hyperventilating. His face is bright red and blotchy, and tears are still dripping steadily from his eyes, but he doesn't look like he's about to pass out, so Erik takes that as a win.

"Charles, what are you talking about?" he says, when Charles has calmed enough to speak.

"My—my illness," Charles says, voice wet. "I'm sick, but Father says I'm not insane."

"Of course you're not insane," Erik says.

Charles' eyes fill with tears again, and he whispers, "I think I am."

"No, you're—"

"I hear voices," Charles says, breaking into sobs again, "all the time. And now I'm—I'm hallucinating that I'm in the future and I don't know anyone. I must be having an ep—episode—"

Erik lunges forward and wraps his arms around Charles, who collapses instantly, clinging onto him and sobbing helplessly. "You're not crazy," Erik says, though he doesn't know if Charles is listening to him. "Charles, you're not crazy. Listen to me."

He pulls back, looking Charles in the eyes. "You are a telepath." Charles shakes his head, and opens his mouth to say something, but Erik goes on before he can. "Those voices you hear? Those are the thoughts of the people around you."

Uncertainty flickers across Charles' face, and then he shakes his head again. "No. That's not—that's not possible."

"It is," Erik insists. "Look, I can control metal." He brings the tin of hot chocolate over, levitating it in the air between them. "Telepathy is your power, and this is mine. And Raven, she can change her appearance to whatever she wants. And McCoy—Hank, he—"

Erik freezes, cold realization dawning upon him. "Charles, did Hank not—he didn't tell you about your telepathy?"

Charles is still staring at the tin floating between them, looking lost. He's trembling, but at least he's stopped crying, for the time being.

"Charles!" Erik snaps, blood rushing furiously in his ears. "Did Hank tell you that you're a—"

"I'm not!" Charles cries, and he takes a fearful step back. "I'm making all of this up, and I made you up, too. That's why I don't hear anything when it's just you. I'm crazy, and I'm going to be sent away like my father said if I told anyone about the voices." He's crying again, sobs ringing with resigned devastation. "None of this is real."

Erik's heart sinks deep into his chest, extinguishing his anger. "Charles, I know you're scared, but try to listen to me. Please."

Charles continues to sob, shaking his head over and over, like he's willing himself to snap out of the so-called hallucination.

"Look," Erik says, "if I'm part of your imagination, then it doesn't do any harm to listen to me, does it? I'm not going to—to send you away. Just hear me out. You know how we have genes, right? It's what makes us the way we are—your blue eyes, and your dark hair. How tall you are—how tall you'll be one day. Right? Do you—do you know what I'm talking about? I know you're young, but I also know you're very smart."

Charles nods apprehensively, and Erik goes on, "Okay, good. Everyone's genes are unique to them, and sometimes, they're mutated to give us special traits. And that can be… a certain color of hair, or a disease or something."

Erik huffs a self-deprecating laugh, "It's funny, because you know so much more about this than I do. I'm just repeating what I've learned from you. You'd be able to explain this much better, if you were… you.

"Anyway, um… some people—some very special people have mutations in their genes that give them powers, like you and me. Your mutation gives you the power to read minds, and—and lots of other things. My mutation gives me the power to control magnetism, so I can manipulate metal and magnetic fields, that sort of thing. And there are others like us, but we're rare. I—I thought I was alone for a long time."

Erik swallows, throat thick with memories—breathtakingly cold ocean water and burning rage, and a man who saved his life. "But I wasn't alone, and neither are you. Okay? You're not alone. Not even close. And you're certainly not crazy. All of this is very, very real."

Charles stares at him, eyes wide and worried. "But… if the voices I hear are thoughts, why can't I hear your thoughts? You can't be real."

Erik swallows the inappropriate urge to laugh at the idea of being Charles' imaginary friend. "It's my helmet, actually. It protects me."

"Protects you?"

Erik nods, feeling uncomfortably guilty. "It prevents telepaths from being able to read my mind." Charles looks at him doubtfully, and before he can insist that none of this is real again, Erik says, "Look—I'll take it off, okay? And then you'll be able to hear my thoughts. Are you okay with that?"

Charles looks fearful, but he nods. Erik gives him a forced smile and then removes his helmet before he can second-guess it. Can you hear me? he thinks loudly, ignoring how jarring it feels to be communicating telepathically with Charles—any version of Charles—again. These are my thoughts.

Charles takes an abrupt step back, alarm painted on his features.

There's nothing to be afraid of, Erik tells him. This is your telepathy.

"I don't…" Charles trails off, staring at Erik like he's seeing him for the first time. "I don't understand."

"I know," Erik says, thinking of the first time he'd been asked to intentionally use his powers. Staring at a coin on a desk, trying to save his mother's life. Failing.

"Your mother?" Charles asks softly.

Jolting, Erik shoves all thoughts of her behind a thick, metal wall in his mind, taking no pleasure in it when Charles flinches, like it hurts. "Sorry," he says gruffly. "That's… private."

"Is that why you wear your helmet?" Charles asks, eyes far too understanding for a child.

"Sometimes," Erik says honestly. He clears his throat, "Do you believe me now? About your telepathy."

"I… I don't know. For something to be accepted as true, it must be supported by overwhelming evidence. You could still be a figment of my imagination."

Erik blinks. Even for an intelligent, precocious child, Charles speaks with the solemn air of someone far beyond his years. It's clear that his preconceived notions about his own sanity won't be washed away so easily.

"How about this? You can wear my helmet, and you'll see that I'm telling the truth. The voices will go away." At least, he's reasonably sure they will. He hopes so, or Charles will certainly still think he's crazy.

"You're not certain about that," Charles says, a small smile playing across his face. "I can hear it."

"So you believe me," Erik says, grinning. "You're reading my mind."

Charles shrugs, stubborn as always, but the set of his shoulders loosens—a good sign.

"Do you want to try the helmet now?" Erik asks. "You don't have to."

"I want to try it," Charles says, stepping forward and looking at him expectantly. Erik lowers the helmet carefully, balancing it so it doesn't slip over Charles' eyes. It looks ridiculous, but the look of wonder that spreads on his face is anything but.

"I can't hear anything," Charles says, awed. "I can't—it's completely quiet."

The relief is overwhelming, if the tears streaming past Charles' tremulous smile are any indication. It's a wonder he's got any tears left to cry, Erik thinks.

"If you were crazy, you wouldn't be able to just turn it off, would you?"

"I… I don't know. Probably not," Charles admits, still uncertain.

Erik clears his throat and says, "And I can still use my powers. Look." He pulls the lid off the hot chocolate tin and crumples it in the air with a squeeze of his fist, then flattens it out again. Charles watches, eyes shining with fascination and hope, a startlingly familiar expression that steals the breath from Erik's lungs.

Charles reaches up to touch the helmet, and Erik expects him to take it off, but instead he caresses it tenderly, like a treasured gift. "I know this belongs to you, but could I—could I have it for the night? Please?"

"What? To sleep in?" Erik asks incredulously, as if he hadn't slept in it the night before, and planned to do it again tonight.

"Yes, please. I want—I want the voices to go away. Even if they are thoughts," Charles adds quietly.

"I… sure, you can have it for the night," Erik says, dumbfounded. Somehow, some part of him had thought Charles would rejoice upon learning that he was a telepath, that he'd accept the voices as thoughts and be comfortable with that. He hadn't considered the possibility of Charles wanting to silence them further, though in retrospect, perhaps he should have. In any case, if Charles can't use his telepathy, there's little need for Erik to have the helmet.

"Thank you, Mr. Erik," Charles says, and he flings his arms around Erik's neck and hugs him.

At a loss for words, Erik pats his back gently, wondering if he's the one who ought to be questioning his sanity.

After a cup of hot chocolate—the purpose of which had been rendered moot, because Charles was already remarkably cheered at that point—Charles goes to bed. Erik draws the line at tucking him in, but he walks him back to his room—not entirely surprised when Charles is staying in the same room he'd had when Erik had first stayed here. Of course it would be; everything about Erik's life is one fucked up cosmic joke; this is just another drop in the bucket.

In any case, it gives Erik the extra fury to go to his next destination.

"McCoy!" Erik pounds on the door he'd seen Hank slip into earlier in the day, when he'd been on his cleaning rampage. "I know you're in there!"

He's reasonably sure, at least. If he has to, he'll go banging on every door in the wing. Erik's full of furious energy, and he won't be able to sleep anytime soon, anyway. "McCoy!" he shouts again, feeling for any metal inside the room. The curtain rods are just about to make a loud, dramatic descent to the ground when the door flies open. To Erik's surprise, it's not Hank standing there, but Raven.

"What the fuck is your problem, Lehnsherr?" Raven snarls, naked and blue.

Erik blinks. "This is your room? I thought—"

"No, it's my room," Hank growls, coming up behind Raven. He's in his bestial form, and he towers over Erik.

"You work fast," Erik says snidely to Raven, anger flaring in his gut. "At least this makes sense, because you sure as hell didn't come here for Charles."

"What the fuck does that—"

"You didn't tell him about his telepathy!" Erik bursts out. The lights flicker around them, Erik's fury seeping into the surrounding metal. It feels good. "All this time, he's been thinking he's crazy. He's fucking terrified and alone here, and you didn't even—"

"I wasn't even sure he had his telepathy," Hank says, irritatingly calm.

"Bullshit."

"I thought it was likely," Hank admits. "But I wasn't sure when exactly his powers first developed, and beside that, if the serum had affected them."

"How are you so calm about this? You really don't give a fuck about him, do you?"

This, finally, seems to ignite something in Hank. He takes a menacing step toward Erik. "That's fucking rich coming from you. Why don't you fuck off for another few years, Lehnsherr? Maybe the next time you come around will be for his funeral."

The metal around them shudders. "Watch it, McCoy," Erik snaps. "I'd love the excuse to take you down."

"Jesus, Erik!" Raven says, annoyed. "Stop threatening to destroy the place."

"Just like that, you're on his side?"

"I'm not on anyone's side. You're both being ridiculous. But I understand why Hank didn't tell Charles about his telepathy—"

Diplomatic as always, Hank says, "If a child has a gun in their room, you don't tell them about it. You just hope they don't notice it."

"It's not a fucking gun!" Erik roars, blood rushing in his ears so loudly he can't hear anything else. "It's his gift! He—he thought he was crazy! You should have seen him just now, he was—"

Erik cuts himself off; he can hear how hysterical he sounds. Reeling it back into anger, he jabs a finger at Hank. "This is your fucking mess. The least you can do is make sure he's not terrified."

Hank barks a mean laugh. "You're joking, right? This is your mess. It always has been. You have no idea what it's like, living here with him. You two destroyed him when you—" he stops himself, catching sight at Raven's stricken expression. He clears his throat, "I wasn't aware Charles was struggling so much in his current state. I've been preoccupied with my research."

Research, Erik thinks venomously, staring at Raven. "And what's your excuse? You hate his telepathy so much you're happy to pretend it doesn't exist?"

"I'm sorry, are you forgetting about your goddamn helmet? If anyone here hates his telepathy, it's you."

Erik ignores that. "Did you even tell him you're his sister?"

Raven flinches, indignation fading fast. "I—I didn't want to put more on him."

Hank lays a comforting hand on her shoulder. "This is only temporary, anyway. I expect he should be turning back to his normal self any moment, now. There's no reason to upset him unnecessarily."

Disgusted, Erik turns and storms away from them. It's not like he's been the biggest advocate for Charles in recent years, but that was Charles as an adult—a self-righteous, cowardly man who sat in his mansion while their people were hunted down. A man who only cared for Erik as long as Erik fit into his ideals, who had tossed him aside when he realized who Erik truly was. But Charles as he exists now is… just a child.

A child who's all alone, and scared, and has recently learned something immense and overwhelming about himself.

Erik spends the rest of the night cleaning.

Around four in the morning, he falls into an exhausted, fitful sleep. He wakes up a short five hours later to a young voice and the familiar hum of his helmet right outside his door.

"Mr. Erik? Are you awake?"

"No," Erik grumbles into his pillow, wishing his door was open so he could slam it shut.

"Oh," Charles says, sounding disappointed. "Okay."

Erik can picture the crestfallen expression he must be wearing all too well. Still, he forces himself to lay there until he can feel his helmet heading away from his room, somewhere toward the kitchen. Despite last night's events, it can't be wise to let Charles think of him as an ally or friend; Hank's reminder rings sharply in Erik's ears.

Charles might be back to his normal self any moment now, and when he returns to his proper age and regains all of his memories… well, Erik might want to make sure he has his helmet back.

You destroyed him.

As overgrown as the estate grounds are, the turning leaves still make for a beautiful backdrop to Erik's run. Alongside him float three metal balls, shifting into blades and shearing away at shrubbery in his path as he runs. It feels good, the burn in his muscles and the crisp air in his lungs, the nostalgic sense of freedom. Erik can't help but be reminded of the first time he'd stayed here, seven years past. A lifetime ago, and every moment still etched into his memory.

"Doing some yardwork?"

Erik jumps what feels like a foot in the air, which makes Raven burst into laughter, even as she runs effortlessly next to him. "I can't believe how easy it is to sneak up on you."

"It's not," Erik grumbles, coming to a stop. "You just walk around naked all the time. Your zippers aren't real metal. It's unnatural."

"It's the opposite of unnatural, I think," Raven snorts.

"I see you're blue today."

"So perceptive," she teases. There's a sense of levity about her that Erik hasn't seen in a long time.

"You're spending too much time with McCoy," he complains.

"He looks good, doesn't he? All big and furry."

Erik makes a face.

"Don't be a dick." Raven elbows him, too hard but he doesn't give her the satisfaction of wincing. They start walking down the path again, back toward the main entrance. Erik needs to shower and then he'll make lunch.

"So you finally told Charles you're both mutants?"

"Yeah," Raven sighs. "I know you don't believe me, but I was just trying not to freak him out more."

"And not telling him that you're his sister?"

Erik's question hangs in the air, and they walk in silence, passing the shrubbery he'd hacked apart earlier.

"You have an awful lot of opinions about this for someone who's told me many times how much you can't stand Charles," Raven points out finally.

"Just because I have no patience for his bullshit as a grown adult doesn't mean I want to take it out on his nine-year-old self," Erik spits.

"Wow. What happened to—" Raven shifts into Erik from the neck up, "—he's just the same as he's always been, Raven. Nothing's changed, Raven."

"You're taking my words out of context," Erik snaps.

Laughing, Raven shifts back to her own face. "You know what I think? I think you're the same you've always been. Always completely obsessed with Charles, one way or another. At least it's mutual, from what I hear from Hank."

"What does that mean?"

"You're so predictable, Lehnsherr," Raven says in lieu of an actual answer. "I mean, you even gave him your helmet. Really?"

"As long as one of us is wearing it, I don't see the problem," Erik says defensively. "He was—he wanted—it doesn't matter."

Raven shoots him a sidelong glance, but opts to leave it alone. She snorts, "Can you imagine Charles' reaction when he goes back to normal and realizes he's been carrying your helmet around like a blankie?"

"I can't," Erik says honestly. He'd thought about Charles endlessly in prison, had always pictured him gloating in his opulence, content in his knowledge that he'd made the right choice all those years ago, that Erik deserved to be in prison and Charles deserved to be free of him. Nothing is like he'd expected—the school gone, the house in shambles, to say nothing of the circumstances in which he's here. The only thing that makes sense to him is what Hank had said last night.

You destroyed him.

Of course, Erik knew that. Hank hadn't had to tell him. Everything he touches gets destroyed, leaves the taste of ash in his mouth. Charles wasn't the exception—he'd been the rule.

He avoids Charles for the rest of the day; directs him to Raven when Charles inevitably comes to bother him, ignoring the dejected look on his face when he's shooed away. The longer Erik's here, the clearer it is that he needs to leave as soon as possible. It doesn't matter anymore if Charles is still a child, or if Raven won't be coming with him. He's going to find a place to lie low, reach out to mutants who might want to join him, and resume his work.

The last time he'd been away for a long period of time, they got Angel. A guard had come specifically to tell him, tossed a sliver of her gossamer wing into Erik's cell. All he could do was watch as it fluttered to the ground, beautiful and lifeless. He'd held it in his hand until it turned to dust.

He goes down to the old training room in the bunker, the enclosure of metal comforting as he wields blades, driving them into the training target and then retrieving them, throwing his body into each movement as much as his power, again and again until he's dripping with sweat and his muscles are screaming. If feels good.

Hank—who, notably, looks human again—finds him in the kitchen afterward, downing glass after glass of water. Through the window, they watch Raven and Charles, walking through the yard and picking overgrown flowers. Every so often, Raven shifts into new skin, making Charles clap with delight each time, helmet still balanced precariously on his head.

There's a naked longing on Hank's face, something too vulnerable for Erik to witness. He clears his throat and turns his back to the window. "I'm leaving soon."

"Of course you are," Hank says, though there's less malice than Erik would have expected.

"Am I meant to feel guilty about that?" Erik says, setting his glass down with a heavy thunk.

"Why would you? It's what you do."

"What I do," Erik barks a laugh. "You know nothing about me."

"I agree," Hank says blandly. "I'm not the one convinced that I did. I tried to tell him that you're a user. You used him to get to Shaw, and then you left him. Sometimes he believes me, but sometimes…"

A tired sigh escapes Hank as he leaves the kitchen. "It's good that you're going."

Erik stands there for a long time after he's gone, jaw clenched so tightly it aches.

Sterile white. Cold, unrelenting metal. A man who smiles with no warmth.

One foot after another, Erik walks down a long hallway he doesn't want to end. He slows his steps, but the doors pass by him in a dizzying parade until he reaches his destination: a deceivingly innocuous laboratory. Icy terror grips his heart, and he wants to turn around and leave. Instead, he approaches the examination table. It's too tall for him, but there's a nearby stool to help him clamber up, like he's done so many times he's lost count.

He rolls his sleeve up carefully with tiny, shaking fingers. With any luck, today's tests will only include taking blood from his arm. He shivers, remembering last week when they'd extracted spinal fluid. The voices sounded so sad that day. At least Dorothy brought him an ice cream sundae after that, and he got to eat it in bed.

Only… that's not right, is it?

Loud, echoing footsteps fill the air, each one eliciting a thrill of panic until Erik's heart is pounding and his breath comes in sharp, painful gasps. There's a humming in his ears, quiet but constant, filling him with dread. He forces himself to steady his breathing, because Shaw will be here soon, and he hates when he cries. It's better when he's calm and rational.

Erik tries to clench his hand, tries to dig his nails into his palm until the pain grounds him, but his hand won't listen to him. Instead, they fold politely in his lap. He stares at his toes as they dangle over the floor. Why hadn't he worn shoes?

The footsteps get louder, and so does the murmuring, until it's as clear as someone speaking out loud. Cerebrospinal fluid analysis came back inconclusive, I may need more. If he can take it. That Dorothy girl was upset about last week, she nearly quit. Actually, maybe I should get her down here again. It could be a good opportunity to test his—

"Charles," Father stops short, surprised to see him waiting here. "You're here early."

Abruptly, the voice grows much louder, almost deafening. Its hard to hear anything else.

Did you ever see a lassie? A lassie, a lassie?

A song his father had sung to him when he was a baby. He can remember it with crystal clarity, but he hasn't told his father that, yet. He's afraid it's another symptom of his illness. Once, he'd told his mother that he hadn't liked the pureed peas she fed him when he was six months old, and she'd looked at him like she was afraid of him.

Erik's mouth moves without his permission, and his voice belongs to someone else. He smiles, "Yes sir. I'm eager to get started." He wants to show him that he's serious about getting better, that he doesn't need to be sent away. Father had been so upset last week, when he'd cried and asked to stop before they were done.

"Great," Father says, watching him carefully. Did he hear me? Did you ever see a lassie? He goes to a nearby table and retrieves his standard instruments—a stethoscope, a thermometer, a syringe for blood tests. Erik's breath comes easier when he doesn't reach for the long needle he'd used last week.

"In fact," Erik says, "I think I may have found a cure."

"A cure?"

Did you ever see a lassie?

Erik shakes his head, trying to shut out the voice. It's so loud. It sounds like his father, only—only, Father's lips aren't moving. Erik's hearing things again, making up nonsense, like when he's around his mother and it sounds like she's telling him to go away, to leave her alone because he's creepy and—

That's not right. Erik's mother wouldn't say that.

"Yes, a cure. I have this helmet, you see—"

Did you ever see a lassie go this way and that?

"Oh, Charles. We've been over this. There's no cure for you. That's why we're doing this."

And where's Shaw? Erik tries to ground himself with the metal around him, but he can't feel it when he reaches for it. There's nothing, just that goddamned song, over and over—

"But this helmet—"

"Calm down. You're getting hysterical. You know what happens when you get—"

Go this way and that way—

The metal won't move. It just lays there, unresponsive and—

Go this way and—

Dead.

The loud, welcome screeching of metal wakes Erik. He sits up, grabbing at his throat, chest heaving as he sucks in great mouthfuls of air. With each inhale, the surrounding metal closes in like a hug; the curtain rods inch toward him from where they've crashed to the floor, the bed frame curls around his body protectively, the desk drawers are extended, reaching out to him with its knobs. Erik closes his eyes and focuses on the smooth, cool metal, eager to bend at his fingertips. An extension of himself, as real and responsive as his own muscles.

What a stupid, nonsensical dream. It was nothing like his usual nightmares. Where had that nursery rhyme even come from? He can hardly remember the songs his father sang to him as a child, and they certainly weren't in English. In fact, that wasn't even his—

Erik's on his feet before he consciously makes the decision, dream flooding back to him as he runs down the hallway to Charles' room. The laboratory in the basement, the medical equipment, the stomach-curling dread and his father, his fucking father—

Charles is crying in his sleep when Erik opens the door. He's curled up under the covers, shoulders shaking with sobs. The lights click on and Erik dashes to the bed, grabbing his shoulder and shaking it roughly. "Charles! Wake up!"

Charles wakes with a shriek, and he recoils before recognizing Erik and clinging to him. Erik holds him, and he can feel Charles' heartbeat against his chest, alarmingly fast and light, like a hummingbird. "Shh," he says softly, stroking his hair. "Shh."

While Charles calms down, Erik looks around the room for the first time. Like everything else in the mansion, it's nearly unrecognizable. Every surface is strewn with clothing, books, and empty bottles of liquor. Disturbingly, discarded syringes litter the tables, too. It’s the room of an addict.

Erik opens the windows from where he sits, hoping to flush out the sick, sour smell that permeates the room. Poor Charles has been sleeping in this mess, probably clinging onto any small comfort he could get, even if that comfort was tainted with the obvious signs of a very unwell man.

"I'll get you some water," he tells Charles, when his crying has quieted enough.

"You don't have to. I'm sorry," Charles sniffs, scooting away from Erik. He mops at his face with his sleeve, looking miserably down at his lap. Next to him, Erik realizes, sits the helmet. He'd been sleeping with it again, though evidently it had come off.

"It's fine. I'll be right back."

Erik leaves before Charles can say anything, desperate to get out of the room, familiar and unrecognizable as it is. To buy himself more time, he makes hot chocolate again, and when he returns, Charles is sitting up in his bed, wearing the helmet, with his hands folded in his lap. He smiles politely at Erik, "I'm sorry for waking you, sir."

"Drink some water, and then you can have hot chocolate," Erik says, handing him the glass.

Well-behaved as always, Charles obliges. He sips the water and then reaches for the hot chocolate, hands trembling just the slightest bit. "Thank you. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing," Erik snaps, and Charles flinches. "I mean—it's fine." He goes to the window, drawing the curtains open to let in the cool night air. To his right sits a chess board, the pieces toppled and scattered like someone had thrown something at it. He picks the pieces up from their metal bases, placing them meticulously until it shows a new game.

"Do you play?" Charles asks quietly. "My—my father taught me."

And here's the thing—Erik had heard plenty about Charles' late mother in the short time they'd known each other; flippant references to her complete lack of parenting aptitude, her rampant alcoholism, her certain horror from the grave if she saw the estate hosting a rag-tag group of mutant children—but he'd always been uncharacteristically tight-lipped about his father. Once, on a long, meandering walk through the mansion, more memorable for the stolen kisses they'd shared than the tour itself, Charles had gestured toward a door and said, "My father's study," and that had been that. Erik had always assumed that Charles' father was of the same negligent breed as his mother. Now, he knows that was far too generous an assumption.

He considers saying that he knows what it's like, being experimented on as a child. That he knows the pain of having your skin and blood and brain tested, poked and prodded for a reaction you don't know whether to withhold or give. The strange, shameful eagerness to please even when you know it's wrong. But most of all, he knows that there's nothing to be said for it. Nothing makes it better except time, and sometimes not even that.

"Your dream," Erik says, bringing the chess board over to the bed and sitting opposite Charles. "I saw it."

Charles sucks in a breath, staring intently into his cup. "The helmet must have come off in my sleep," he says. "It's not very comfortable."

"No, it's not," Erik agrees. He moves a pawn forward two spaces. "You shouldn't wear it. It's not a cure."

Too late, Erik remembers what Charles' father had said in the dream. He rushes to clarify, "I mean—you don't need a cure, Charles. You're not sick. You saw Raven using her powers earlier, and you've seen me use mine. Did Hank show you his feet?"

"Yes," Charles says, nearly whispering.

"Well, there you have it. You had the helmet on all day, and we still had our powers. Drink your hot chocolate."

Charles takes an obedient sip, studying the board before finally pushing a pawn forward one space. Erik bites down a smile; it's the same opening he was fond of seven years ago, on the rare occasions he'd play black.

They play in silence for several minutes. Having spent much of his time in prison playing mental chess with himself, Erik had hoped his first game after getting out would be against adult-Charles, though nine-year-old Charles is a better opponent than he would have imagined.

"Mr. Erik, can I ask you a question?" Charles asks, and when Erik looks up at him expectantly, he takes a deep breath and goes on: "Are my parents dead?"

Erik freezes.

Out of all the questions he'd been expecting to come out of Charles' mouth, that wasn't one of them. "Yes," he says, because he doesn't believe in lying about big things, not even to children.

"I thought so," Charles says, far too calm for a child who's just been told he's an orphan. Though, in all fairness, he'd probably pieced it together a while ago, and it's by no means the most shocking thing he's been told in the last several days. Again, Erik considers saying something, like My parents are dead too, or They were shit parents anyway, or even If it helps, you don't seem to care all that much when you're older.

Before he can, Charles says, "My mother would never have allowed the house to look like this."

This monstrosity of an estate being called a house is too much for Erik, and he snorts. "No, probably not." He moves his knight up and to the left.

Charles looks around the room in quiet contemplation. "I suppose that means… I must have allowed this."

"I don't really know," Erik says. "I haven't been here in many years. It looked much nicer when I was here before."

"Why haven't you been here? Aren't we friends?" Charles asks, puzzled.

"No," Erik says shortly.

"Why not?"

"It's a long story," he lies. It's quite simple, actually, he wants to say. We betrayed each other.

"Is it my powers?"

"What?"

"My—my telepathy. You don't like it. That's why you have this helmet, right? That's why people are scared around me so often. I thought I was making it up, but… those were their thoughts." Charles moves a pawn into a precarious position, a clumsy move he'd never have made as an adult.

Erik stares down at the board for a long time before he answers. "I can't speak for other people, but I'm not afraid of your powers," he says evenly. "I like them."

Charles looks up at him, face creased in confusion. He doesn't ask about the helmet, but the question is clear on his face. Erik sighs, "It's just—it's complicated. I don't like someone else having power over me, even if it's you."

Especially if it's you.

Charles seems to accept this. "If it's not my powers, then why aren't we friends?"

Erik can't blame him for being confused. He's certainly not acting like someone who isn't a friend, showing up to help him when he's scared, holding him when he cries, waking him up from a nightmare to make him hot chocolate. Erik swallows. "Because I hurt you. Very badly."

He doesn't say that Charles hurt him too, had used the words of his family's murderers and abandoned him just as much. He's never been able to get the blood off his hands long enough to admit that day has been just as bad for him as it'd been for Charles—only Charles was the one left permanently maimed for the first time. Erik's been permanently maimed all along.

Charles is quiet. Erik takes the pawn Charles had left so vulnerable for so little gain; a lesson Charles will have to learn.

"Was it on purpose?"

Erik's throat sticks when he tries to answer. He shakes his head. No, it wasn't on purpose.

Charles frowns. "Well, that's okay then, isn't it?"

Erik doesn't answer, just gestures toward the board for Charles to take his turn. Charles turns his attention to the game, and the helmet slips down over his eyes. Erik sighs, "Look, just—take the helmet off, okay? You shouldn't be blocking your telepathy. Trust me, you like your telepathy. You get very showy with it when you're older."

"I do?" Charles says, sounding amused.

Erik's mouth twitches. "Yes, so take off the helmet."

"Aren't you worried I'll cheat by reading your mind?"

"No. I know you'll cheat by reading my mind, because you always do," Erik says wryly. "I'm just good enough to beat you anyway."

Charles laughs and sets his drink aside, then carefully removes the helmet, holding it like it's precious. He sets it down beside the board. "Can I ask you another question?" he says, after making his next move.

"You don't have to preface it. You can just ask me."

"Why are you here right now? All day, you…"

Erik stares pointedly at the board, swallowing the guilt that bubbles up in his chest. He has nothing to feel guilty for. He'd done Charles a kindness by staying away today, and he'll be doing him a kindness when he leaves tomorrow.

"You're leaving?" Charles says, aghast.

Erik makes the mistake of looking up at Charles, who's wearing a look of pure devastation. "You can't go," he cries, eyes filling with tears yet again. "Please don't go."

"Charles, I—"

"Please. I won't wake you up again. I won't cry anymore."

"You're crying right now," Erik says, because it's the only thing he can think to say.

Charles wipes his eyes quickly. "No, I'm not. I promise."

Erik looks at him helplessly, "No, you can cry. That's not what I meant. I just mean… I have to leave, and that has nothing to do with you." The furthest thing from the truth, but not in a way that Erik could explain.

"You're lying!" Charles says, voice shrill. "I know you are!"

"Calm down," Erik says, glancing at the door. "Trust me, you don't want me here, anyway. When you're… you again, you'll be glad I'm not."

"No, I won't be," Charles says, voice wet.

"Yes, you will," Erik says, more forcefully than he intends. He shakes his head once, because he's not going to argue with a child. "Look. It's not up to you. Whether you believe me or not, I know that you won't want me here when you go back to normal. And I don't want to be here, either."

"You're lying."

Showing remarkable restraint, Erik resists the urge to put on his helmet. "I think it's time you go to bed," he says instead.

"You don't want to leave," Charles says stubbornly, voice rising as he speaks. "You just think you have to because you think I hate you. But I don't, and you don't hate me, either. You miss—"

"Stop it!" Erik snarls, leaping up and away from Charles, who's staring at him, wounded.

Erik's wearing the helmet again—he must have instinctively put it on, but his heart is still thundering painfully in his chest. To calm himself he also builds a thick mental wall between them, using every shielding technique Emma Frost had taught him. He suspects she'd left a gap in his defenses for her benefit, but he's certain it's sufficient to protect himself from a child. When he's done, he exhales a measured breath and says, "This conversation is over. You need to go to sleep."

Charles doesn't reply.

It's probably for the best, if Erik's finally managed to convince him that he's not someone to be relied on. Erik's not heartless enough to let a mutant child think he's clinically insane, but that hardly makes him a safe haven. Adding yet another unfinished game to the score, he puts the chess board back where he'd found it, closes the window and draws the curtain.

"Mr. Erik?" Charles says meekly, when Erik's about to leave.

Erik stops.

"Could you—will you sleep here tonight?"

The words drift in the darkness. Erik could still leave, pretend he didn't hear him. It would be the smart thing to do, to go back to his room and leave first thing in the morning. Clearly, his presence here is making things harder for Charles. Raven's here for anything he needs, anyhow, trying to make up for the depth of guilt in her heart—still thinking she can make up for it.

But Erik can't get that jarring dream out of his head. It's ridiculous, because Erik has dreamt worse—he's lived so much worse. He's known loss and terror and pain that Charles has never known, will never know—and still, he remembers the acute dread Charles felt, the way he'd smiled at his father and said, I'm eager to get started. Always so polite, so well-behaved, so sickeningly happy to please, even at his own expense. His unrelenting need to be liked, to be praised. To be loved.

He's just a child.

Erik removes his helmet and trudges back over to the bed. "Move over," he grunts, and slides in before he can change his mind.

"Does this mean you're staying?" Charles asks, nauseatingly hopeful.

"No. I'm leaving tomorrow."

There's a long pause, and then a hesitant, "Will you say goodbye before you go?"

"Go to sleep, Charles."

"Okay. Goodnight," Charles whispers, and then as if he thinks Erik won't notice, he moves carefully until he's just pressed against Erik's side.

Erik lays there with his eyes closed, hands folded on his stomach until Charles' breathing evens out into soft, rhythmic huffs. Only then does he say, "I will."

In the morning, three things become very apparent.

One, Charles had rolled over and put his arm over Erik's chest while he slept.

Two, Charles had returned to the correct age at some point in the night, and has the shreds of pajama fabric to prove it.

And three, the begrudging affection that Erik had started to harbor for nine-year-old Charles was just that, and the animosity he bears for adult-Charles rushes to take its place. He clings to it like a life raft, like it will save him from drowning.

Still, Erik doesn't move for several long minutes. He hasn't seen Charles in seven years. Somehow, he looks even less like himself than he did as a child. Dark circles sit below his eyes, and an unkempt, scraggly beard lines his jaw. His hair is long and stringy, plastered to his unflatteringly flushed cheeks. He looks like shit. What little Erik can see of his body is angular and gaunt—Charles had never been particularly muscular, but he'd had an easy strength nonetheless. Even taking his paralysis into consideration, Erik hadn't expected this level of malnourishment—though perhaps he should have, if the obvious signs of addiction littered around the mansion were any indication.

It fills Erik with revulsion, thinking of Charles moping around his obscene inherited wealth, drinking himself to death and shooting up with those syringes containing god-knows-what. Perhaps the serum Hank had mentioned, or perhaps something far more insidious—Charles clearly has a deplorable capacity for self-destruction.

Nonetheless, Erik can't deny the overwhelming sense of gratitude that Charles is back. Though things will certainly never be the same between them, the thought of being the only one to remember what they once had was unbearably lonely.

Charles starts to stir, and Erik takes that as his cue to go. He slips out of the room wearing his helmet, and finds Hank and Raven, sipping coffee in the kitchen and looking for all the world like a domestic couple. "Charles is back," Erik says shortly, and leaves for his room before the shock wears off their faces.

Faced with the certain reality of facing Charles as an adult, Erik needs to get out of here. He doesn't care that he doesn't know where he's going, or that part of him has once again softened irreparably for Charles. It was only an illusion, he tells himself, and it's comically unfair that he's had seven years to stoke his fury and now it threatens to come undone because Hank fucked up royally and Erik had to reconcile with a goddamn child. He'd been thrust into Charles' trauma, into his sad, wretched life where somehow he was the one that Charles could trust, had confided in.

He had never wanted to come here. Not seven years ago, and not now. It had always been a mistake.

Erik's too busy ruminating on the cruel absurdity of it all to notice Charles until he's standing in the doorway. "You're leaving," Charles says. It's not a question.

"You're walking," Erik says, staring at Charles' legs—which are, no doubt about it, working.

Charles smiles mirthlessly, something soulless that looks wrong on his face. "Well spotted. You can take off that ridiculous helmet, by the way. I don't have my powers."

"What?" Erik asks, reeling. Maybe this entire thing has been a long, particularly excruciating hallucination.

"The serum I take to repair my spine," Charles says, walking into the room, looking around dispassionately. "It affects my DNA."

Erik recoils, revolted. He's going to kill Hank. "Why would you do that?"

"I don't expect you to understand," Charles spits, looking at Erik with clear disdain in his eyes. It's a welcome sight after the last few days.

I want the voices to go away, he'd said, even if they are thoughts. Erik shoves the memory down.

"Good. Because I don't. Is this why you came here, to show me that you're a human now? Where's Moira, have you told her? Or did she only like you when it made her feel special? The thrill must be gone when you're both ordinary," Erik sneers, and exhilaration rockets into his veins at the rage on Charles' face.

"You're a fucking prick," Charles snaps.

"Well spotted," Erik mocks, and zips up his bag. He makes to leave the room, but Charles blocks the doorway.

"Wait," Charles says, grimacing like he's tasting something foul. "You don't have to go."

"Right," Erik says, shouldering past him.

"Erik."

It's been a long time since he's heard Charles say his name that way. Erik stops.

"I mean it. You're still—I still don't—we're not friends. But Raven's staying for a while, so you might as well, and… where are you going to go, anyway?" Charles huffs a laugh, "I mean, you're wanted for assassinating the president—"

"I didn't."

"Yes, I'm aware of that. Raven filled me in."

"I'm glad you two have made up," Erik bites out. Raven can go back to being under Charles' thumb, and Charles can have the family he'd always wanted, Erik thinks darkly, though the notion has lost its barbs, having met the sad, lonely boy from thirty years past.

"Jesus, Erik, will you stop? I'm trying to thank you, here," Charles snarls, grabbing Erik's shoulder and whirling him around.

"This is you thanking me?" Erik says incredulously. Charles is glaring at him like he'd like to punch him in the face.

"Yes, actually. It's incredibly hard to thank someone who's such a prick."

Erik barks a laugh, unable to keep it in. "I can see that."

"Just—look. I had a… vulnerable few days, and you were far kinder than I would have expected. So… thank you." Charles is still wearing the expression of someone who smells something foul—and it very well might just be his own stench, as he looks like he hasn't showered in some odd weeks—but the words ring true with his characteristic sincerity.

Erik swallows. "You remember everything?"

"Unfortunately," Charles says grimly. "Not my finest moments."

"A good deal better than you've done in recent history, it seems," Erik says, glancing down at the ratty brown robe Charles is wearing.

"Don't make me change my mind," Charles warns, though there's little heat in it. He sighs and rubs at his face, looking suddenly exhausted. "I'm not going to beg you, Erik. I just wanted to say thank you, and that you have a place to stay, if you want it. But if you'd rather leave and wind up in prison again… well, I don't have my powers. I can't make you do anything."

Charles gives him an indecipherable look and ambles away, and Erik stands there, watching until he's out of sight. Like everything else about this place, Charles is changed; broken where he'd seemed unbreakable, a ghost of himself, the only remnants a hollow reminder of who he'd once been. And despite it all, still enough himself to offer a home to Erik.

He thought he'd buried it, that spark of miraculous, ill-advised hope, and yet it seems to have sprung up again out of the dead ground. Unearthed from a pair of painfully blue eyes. 

The last time, Erik had left in an attempt to leave his guilt behind. It had followed him nonetheless, an unforgiving shadow. Redemption is far off—for the both of them—but for the first time, it seems possible. Perhaps this time he'll try something different.

Perhaps this time he'll stay.