It’s a cold night in Westchester when Magneto lands outside the window of Charles’ study. He’s almost grateful for what little warmth his helmet offers, but can’t embrace it, knowing the look it will garner from Charles. He shivers.
The light is on in the study. Erik smiles to himself and chooses to take this as an invitation. He easily flips the locks on the back door and climbs the familiar staircase. With a deep breath in the darkened hallway, he pushes open the study door.
Charles looks up and tries to hide his surprise at Erik’s arrival by shuffling the papers on his desk.
“Good evening, Erik,” he says, sparing a small, polite smile. “What brings you here tonight?”
Erik walks towards Charles and allows himself a moment to take him in. He admires Charles’ button-down shirt, a pale blue to match his eyes. It’s rumpled at this hour, but the effect is stunning all the same. Charles’ biceps bulge against the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, and while he’s always been a relatively fit man, it looks almost like he’s been working out, as if he’s focusing on strengthening his arms. Erik finds this odd in a man who was once so dedicated to his daily run he’d go out in snow and rain to have it.
A few feet from the large, oak desk Charles’ eyes flicker from the floor to Magneto, as if judging the distance. “Erik,” he says forcefully, bringing the taller man back to the moment. Erik stops walking and tilts his head.
“I feel something, Charles. Are you—” he begins to ask, confused. He senses a significant quantity of metal where it doesn’t belong. Around Charles.
Erik’s face hardens as panic sparks in his eyes. He strides quickly over to the desk and circles around, even as Charles protests, arms pulling his chair further under the safety of his heavy desk.
“Erik, don’t—” he tries to stop him, unable to keep the pain from his voice.
Erik looks as though the sky has fallen. He stares at Charles’ wheelchair, chest heaving.
“Charles,” he says as he drops to his knees on the floor. His hands reach for his hair and find only the cool, unforgiving metal of his helmet. He yanks it off and throws it as far as he can, into a shelf of texts on evolution. He clutches his head as if pained, breathing erratically.
Charles wheels closer and reaches out.
“My friend,” he says softly, “please, don’t upset yourself.” His hand hangs in the air between them but he can’t bring himself to touch Erik without his permission, afraid to betray what fragile trust they have left.
“How?” Erik asks, pleading. “Why?” he nearly shouts, even though he already knows the answers. He needs to hear the words from Charles’ gentle mouth to compound the guilt he feels, the grief, the never-ending beat of my fault, my fault, my fault, thrumming in his brain.
“Charles,” he growls as the telepath’s eyes slide closed in concentration. Erik can feel his pain being smoothed over and replaced with a sense of calm he hasn’t felt in months, a soothing balm only Charles can apply to his heaving mind.
“Erik,” Charles whispers, “there’s no need for hysterics. The time for rending my breast and screaming into the night has come and gone and I’ve taken care of all that, believe me. There’s no need for you to suffer as well. What’s done is done,” he finishes, opening his eyes.
Erik stares from the floor in wonder. “Can’t you at least yell at me?” He offers. “Hit me? Swear never to speak to me again? You can’t be this calm, Charles, your legs—” he all but shouts, sweeping his arm through the space between them.
Charles allows himself a small smile and locks eyes with Erik.
“No,” he answers. “Because none of it will bring my legs back, and,” he hastens to add when he sees the stricken look on Erik’s face, “I wouldn’t want them back if it could.”
Erik gazes at his friend, his partner, the only man to ever understand him and love him anyways, and begins to question just how much he had taken away from Charles. Had he lost his sanity?
“No, my dear Erik, I haven’t lost my mind. You see, by taking away my legs—however accidentally—you have bestowed upon me a most treasured gift.” He wheels his chair at an angle where he can reach for Erik’s hand and holds it.
“You once told me,” he continues, rubbing his thumb over Erik’s dexterous fingers, “that I didn’t understand the true plight of mutants. You said I couldn’t appreciate Raven’s suffering as she hid herself from the world because my particular mutation doesn’t manifest itself physically. No one could tell I was different just by looking at me. But now,” he releases Erik’s hand and grasps at the arms of his wheelchair, “I can hear the thoughts of everyone I pass, pitying me, or scorning me for my supposed weakness.”
Erik looks into Charles’ eyes. “Charles, I—”
“No, my friend, I won’t have it. There’s no need for an apology. I wouldn’t trade this sense of clarity for the world. You’ve opened my eyes. And while I still don’t necessarily agree with your methods of attaining your goals, I do see where you’re coming from. Now,” he broke off, audibly shaking the emotion from his voice, “if you would get off the floor and stop sending waves of guilt at me, I would be much obliged.”
Erik stands and laughs, nearly startling himself with the sound. He hasn’t heard laughter in he doesn’t know how long and oh, God, when was the last time he’d seen Charles smile and how can he be expected to leave? He watches Charles’ face in the dim light from the desk lamp and is warmed to see that the telepath’s hair is flopping into his eyes just the way Erik remembers, and he positively aches.
“You don’t have to leave, you know,” Charles states plainly. “And no, I’m not in your head. Your mind is practically screaming to stay.”
He wheels towards the door and calls over his shoulder to Erik, who stands frozen, shocked, in the middle of the room. “Things don’t have to be this complicated, Erik. While we may have different methods, we want the same things. You don’t have to keep up this distant, woe-is-me act forever.”
Erik’s mouth is agape at this blunt assessment of their situation. Surely there’s more to it than that?
“I can’t just drop everything and come back, Charles. There are people relying on me. I’m something of a figurehead now,” he reasons.
“Wonderful!” exclaims Charles, still wheeling into the hallway. “But I’m going to bed. If any figureheads should care to join me—prepared to leave their ideological life missions or otherwise—they’d be more than welcome.”
Erik allows himself a moment’s hesitation for the Brotherhood gathering he would surely miss the following day but, as always, followed Charles where he led.
***
At first, it’s more than a bit awkward. The boys aren’t exactly thrilled to take in this known terrorist, the man who left their beloved leader paralyzed. The man who’d given them strength and taken it away.
It didn’t help that Erik’s guilt washed across him at odd moments, causing Charles to lose focus and shoot a glance at Erik, adding a thin layer of embarrassment to the guilt.
One morning, Charles reached for a can of fruit cocktail on the kitchen counter and Erik sprung up from his seat, nearly knocking into the wheelchair in his haste.
“Let me get that for you,” he spluttered, taking the can and spooning out some fruit into Charles’ bowl. When he finished and looked up, he found Charles quirking an eyebrow at him.
“I’m not a child, you know,” he said, somewhat lightly, despite the earnestness of the statement.
“I know that,” Erik said. “I just want to help you. I want to—”
“To right your wrongs? To be my legs, my height? To make up for what you’ve inadvertently taken away?”
Erik looked down at his hands. “I know I can’t do that,” he said quietly.
“Of course you can’t. And besides, there’s nothing to make up for. I’m perfectly happy. I’ve discovered more about myself in this chair than I had in decades on my feet.” He smiled.
Erik’s lips moved automatically into a half-smirk, but his heart wasn’t in it.
“Get that hangdog look off your face, Erik. Look, let me show you.” And with that, Charles wheeled away towards the large room they used as a gym. Erik followed.
“Alright, my friend,” Charles said. “Go ahead. Lift something.”
Erik stared at Charles, a puzzled look on his face. “I don’t really feel like it right now, Charles.”
“Go on,” Charles urged, with the same look on his face as he had when he was teaching the boys. “Just pick up a weight, the heaviest you can handle.”
Still baffled, Erik wandered over to the dumbbells. He selected a weight and curled it, using only the strength of his muscles. It took discipline to rely on his body rather than his powers as the metal called out to him, but he knew that wasn’t what Charles was asking for.
“Very good, especially after all this time on the road. Not much exercise equipment in hideouts, I should imagine,” Charles said, coming over to where Erik was already feeling the strain of the flex. It had indeed been a while.
Charles reached out and took up a short barbell, fat with pre-attached weights on either end. The numbers on the side indicated that it was over a hundred pounds.
Charles balanced his grip in the middle of the bar and lifted it over his head with one hand. He repeated the motion for some time as Erik stared, hypnotized by the flex of the telepath’s bicep.
“I used to rely only on my mind, on my appearance and what I could convince people into thinking of me. And though that ability has improved as well—wait until you see me in Cerebro—I’ve grown to appreciate the capabilities of my own body. Now,” he finished, placing the barbell back on the shelf, “would you like to go head to head on pull-ups?”
Erik looked at Charles smiling at him, hair slightly tousled from the start of sweat exercise brings, arms hardened under the sleeves of his shirt.
“Actually,” Erik answered, unable to tear his eyes away, “I think I’d like to take you back to bed.”
“Oh would you?” Charles began to answer, before he was cut off by the crash of Erik’s lips on his.
After that, they had regular sessions in the gym together. And Erik didn’t spoon Charles’ fruit out for him.
***
Slowly but surely things returned to some semblance of normality. Erik joined Charles for chess games, where they’d discuss plans for the school and begin sketching out the next steps for the X-Men. Hank and Sean gradually let Erik back into their lives, willing to share research and meals and nights in front of the TV.
Alex took longer to come around, and Erik couldn’t blame him. The young man was heated, and fiercely loyal to Charles. He’d been hurt and wasn’t quick to forget it, but eventually came to the conclusion that Erik made the professor smile, and so was allowed to live, however grudgingly.
Sometimes Erik and Charles would team up and test the boys’ powers, a form of training more like combat, which gave Hank the idea for the Danger Room. There they could shape their reflexes with impunity, not to mention how much was saved in property damages.
On several occasions, Erik found Charles looking out the window at the boys running around outside, playing touch football or some other excuse for pushing each other around. Erik could see the way Charles watched them, especially Hank, who had really come into his own now that he’d accepted his transformation.
Hank grew confident as Beast, running laps around the mansion to startle Sean and Alex, pushing his body to the limits in his new form. As much as Charles could lift with the best of them, he would never again have that sense of the air filling his lungs as his body pushed past its comfort levels, running around the grounds he’d learned to love now that they belonged to himself and this makeshift family.
On one of these days, Erik made a decision. “Charles,” he said, disrupting the telepath’s reverie as he placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I think I’d like you to teach me more about mental shields.”
***
“You’re thinking too hard,” Charles said gently.
“Well I don’t know how to think softly,” Erik mumbled, clearly frustrated despite his closed eyes and blank expression.
“Just empty your mind. Allow the thoughts to come to you, but don’t hold onto anything for long. Grasp them just long enough to acknowledge them, then dismiss them, like you’re releasing them into the wind.”
Erik took a deep breath and did as he was told. Charles was in his mind, just enough to witness the construction of several walls.
“Nicely done!” he exclaimed.
“It isn’t much,” Erik said, although Charles could detect a small glimmer of pride in his voice, “It won’t keep anyone out who’s really looking.”
“Yes, well, you’ll get stronger over time. This is excellent progress, my friend.”
Charles felt excited about Erik’s willingness to work on his mental shields, putting time and effort into something he once dismissed as unimportant. It meant he was more open to telepathy in general, and he was quickly developing a better understanding of Charles’ mind and how his power worked.
Of course, Charles hadn’t fully entered Erik’s mind since they began this new avenue of training. He didn’t want to blow down the delicate framework of walls Erik had built up, and he didn’t want Erik to feel the telepath was invading his privacy, if that’s what he wanted.
Still, Charles found it difficult not to delve into the fascinating mind of his dearest friend and partner. Sometimes, he admitted to himself, he just wanted the reassurance of knowing that he was loved, and that Erik wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, wouldn’t use these newfound skills against him.
Charles continued with the lessons, shaking off his doubts as insecurity, happy to continue this new start with Erik. At least, that was how he felt until he noticed Erik gone from their bed most mornings, sometimes in the middle of the night.
Alex had noticed too, often patrolling the house in late hours when he couldn’t sleep. Alex needed activity, and often burned off his excess energy by pacing the large mansion while reading a comic book, swiped from Sean’s room.
“Professor, I know Magneto—I mean, Erik,” he corrected, seeing Charles’ raised eyebrow, “has been back for a while, but don’t you think it’s weird that he just disappears at all hours, never saying where he’s been or why?”
“Until he gives us reason to believe he’s doing wrong, he deserves the right to privacy, Alex. He’s been welcomed back under this roof and as such, will be afforded the trust we all give each other,” Charles answered, shoving his own lingering fears to the back of his mind.
Erik had become more guarded recently, even declining to come down to the gym and work out with Charles. Charles often woke in the middle of the night to see that Erik had gone. He’d reach out to the empty half of the bed, cold where Erik had once lain, and longed to be allowed into the depths of the man’s mind.
He worried, but he kept it to himself. Erik must have known that Charles was feeling strangely, however, or felt he needed to make up for his absence, because Charles would often find Erik staring at him over the chessboard or as they were falling asleep. Erik would reach out gingerly and stroke Charles’ face, or lift up the telepath’s hand and plant a kiss on his knuckles.
“My love,” he would whisper into the space between them, and Charles was once again a slave to his feelings.
***
Charles blinks awake, his head pulling instinctively backwards when he sees that Erik’s face is hovering above him, his whole body wrapped delicately around Charles’, like a bridge.
“Well, I’d say good morning but the sun isn’t even up yet,” Charles says, his voice groggy with sleep, a small smile playing on his face.
Erik gazes at him intently, a mix of marvel and concentration on his face. When he doesn’t answer, Charles begins to wonder if something’s wrong.
“Erik, is—” he begins to say, but Erik silences him by placing his thumb in the middle of Charles’ lips and dragging it slowly, gently, to the side.
“Shhhhh,” he murmurs softly. “I just want to look at you for a moment.”
Charles squirms a bit—well, as much as he can with Erik pinning him down and gazing into his face. “Alright, my friend.”
Erik’s eyes stroll along Charles’ face beneath him. They begin at his hair and lower leisurely down to his chin, casually taking in the features he’d seen a thousand times before, in no hurry.
Erik leans down and presses a kiss to Charles’ forehead. Charles’ eyes flicker closed. “Happy birthday,” Erik breathes softly.
Before Charles can answer, Erik pushes off the bed, somehow managing to fling himself onto the floor without hurting Charles in the process, and bolts out the bedroom door. In the blur of motion, Charles catches sight of Erik’s clothes—a set of grey sweats and white sneakers, nothing like the fine silks and plush cashmeres he was usually drawn to.
“Erik?!” Charles calls after him, pulling himself up against the headboard.
Erik continues thundering down the stairs, but calls over his shoulder, “Get in my head, Charles!”
Charles frowns, but begins probing at the familiar mind all the same, cautiously at first. He is met with warmth and an openness he hasn’t felt in weeks, and digs in deeper, greedily. Erik has at last lowered the shields he’d been maintaining (too well, Charles thinks) for nearly a month, and Charles is too thankful to get past them, to wrap himself in the smooth, cool feel of Erik’s mind, to ask questions.
You’re here, Erik thinks. It isn’t a question, but Charles answers all the same.
Yes, I’m here.
Good, Erik thinks back, and Charles can feel the smug glow emanating from every corner of Erik’s mind. Now look through my eyes.
Charles doesn’t answer in words, merely sends a pulse of confusion back to the man. It ripples through Erik’s mind and Erik thinks towards him, Just do it, Charles. Trust me.
Charles closes his eyes and brings his hand to his temple, out of habit more than focus, and occupies the part of Erik’s mind that allows him to see what Erik’s seeing.
Charles sees Erik’s feet, squeaking along the kitchen floor, as Erik’s long arm reaches for the doorknob, elegant fingers wrapped around it. Can you see?
Yes, I’m here, Erik.
With that, Erik yanks open the door, barely pulling it closed behind him, and begins tearing across the grounds. His feet pound against the earth, arms and legs pumping in time.
Charles watches through Erik’s eyes as he makes a circuit of the mansion, tracing the route Charles used to run with Hank. The shrubbery flies past in a blur of green and wind. Once Erik has completed this lap, he breaks off and begins jogging in the direction of the lake, careful to turn his head at intervals to project the whole scene to Charles back in his room.
Charles wants to ask him Where are you going, Erik? You don’t run, and some sense of the thought must get through to Erik, because no sooner does he puzzle at Erik’s newfound athleticism than he is met with images, memories of Erik quietly pulling on his sneakers by the back door and slipping out into the early morning. He sees Erik grumpily getting into workout clothes after removing himself reluctantly from Charles’s side in bed. He sees the sprinting, the panting, the frustration as he pauses to catch his breath, unable to go as far or as fast as he’d like.
He sees Erik mounting shields inside his mind each time Charles looks him over, wondering where he’s been going at odd hours. He sees the small area of Erik’s mind where he’d placed all thoughts of running and training behind a dark curtain, tucked neatly away in a sealed metal box. But more vibrantly, he sees the inscription emblazoned on the box that reads “For Charles.”
Those visuals are interrupted by thoughts coming through, focused and direct. Head up, eyes on the horizon, breathe in, step 1, 3, 2, exhale, 4, 5. Shoulders back. Almost there.
Charles is shocked, unable to send any kind of coherent thought, so he allows the love he feels to radiate into the connection, flooding Erik with warmth and gratitude.
Erik smiles, even as his body protests as he rushes up a small hill, gazing out at the lake spread below. He timed it just right. The sun is creeping over the horizon, light suffusing the lake and the grounds, peeking through leaves and branches. The dew on the grass sparkles like so many diamonds. Birds chirp, swooping through the air, spreading their wings and reveling in the warmth of the sun.
Charles gasps. Oh, Erik.
Can you see all of it? Feel it? Erik thinks eagerly.
Yes, I can. It’s wonderful.
Erik pushes himself a little harder, even as his thoughts become peppered with the complaints of his physical discomfort. Ow, who put that rock there? My ankle shouldn’t be clicking like that. God, this is awful. Why would anyone do this for fun? But through it all the thought that comes through loudest is For Charles, for Charles, for Charles with the image of his face, confused and innocent beneath him in bed.
Charles laughs, feeling tears spill over onto his cheeks, trailing down his face. Erik, come back, I want you here.
Are you sure? Relief and determination war in Erik’s mind as he turns around the lake, casting his eyes over the glimmer of sunlight on water. I can go further, I’ve made it further.
Yes, Charles answers, I’m sure you have.
Erik completes his circuit around the lake and turns homeward, sparing a long look over his shoulder at the sunrise once more. He jogs steadily back to the mansion, gradually slowing his pace so his heart-rate can return to a more normal rhythm.
Charles smiles, listening as Erik’s mind supplies a litany of curses regarding the burning of his lungs and the stitch in his side, as he feels a complex mixture of accomplishment, pride, and love wrap around Charles’ own consciousness.
Erik re-enters the house through the door by the kitchen, toeing off his trainers as he hurries sloppily up the stairs to Charles’ room. He bursts in, all exhausted limbs and sweat-streaked clothes. He plods over to the bed, sitting down beside Charles with his hands on his hips, doubled over, taking large gasps of air.
“Did you like it?” he gushes, an expression on his face that looks oddly like a triumphant grimace.
Charles reaches out and runs a hand through Erik’s sweat-soaked hair. “I loved it. That was the most beautiful gift anyone’s ever given me.” Thank you, Erik, he finishes as he brings the panting man in for a kiss.