Archive of Our Own

The cafeteria at the CIA facility was by no means the worst place where Erik had taken his meals, but it was also by no means fine dining. It was the kind of cafeteria that served gray meat patties drowning in lukewarm, lumpy gravy and called it 'sirloin steak'. The food was edible but disappointing and the people were nameless, faceless suits as far as Erik cared.

Often Erik could slip in, eat his meal, and slip out without uttering more than a few words, usually something along the lines of "the napkin dispenser is empty," "I prefer to eat alone, thanks," or "this is not sauerkraut, please stop labeling it as such."

So the cafeteria was by no means the worst place where Erik had eaten, but it was perhaps one of the least memorable. Of course, Charles had a way of making things memorable.

"Pineapple, Erik!"

Erik glanced up. Charles stood across from him, cheerfully balancing a tray laden with tea, chipped beef on toast, and yes, pineapple. "They're serving pineapple today." He sat down in the chair opposite Erik's. "And not the canned kind," he added, as if Erik had been about to ask. As if Erik cared enough to ask. "This is fresh and delicious."

Erik raised an eyebrow at Charles's enthusiasm, but the pineapple did look good. Perhaps that was due to its proximity to the cafeteria's chipped beef. Compared to that, anything would look appetizing.

Charles was watching with a smile. He'd caught the gist of Erik's thoughts, somehow. Erik was certain of it. Maybe he'd been using his telepathy, or maybe they'd spent enough time in each other's pockets these past two weeks and Charles could simply read Erik's expression. It was startling how close they'd become in such a short amount of time.

The thing was, Charles had suddenly and completely become Erik's partner in the mission to destroy Schmidt. Erik had never had a partner before - not a true one - and it was exhilarating. They spent hours planning, mapping out ways to keep the CIA's resources and favor without bending to their authority. They met off-base in random locations to discuss the trustworthiness of McCone, of Moira, of Hank.

When they sat with heads bowed together, conspiring, any dive became a worthy headquarters for their mission. In one particular bar where the light barely bled through heavy red lampshades and the smoke made everything hazy, they had poured over the results from Cerebro and picked the first mutant they would attempt to recruit.

Angel. Charles had claimed that he'd felt her mind, bright and bored and waiting for an opportunity to shine. She, along with a scattering of others, were the ones Charles had felt they actually had a chance at recruiting. Erik and Charles had known that their first attempt needed to be a success, so it could bear the weight of future failures in the eyes of the CIA. And Charles had wanted to start with a woman, a young woman like Raven who wouldn't intimidate the agents. He'd thought it important to ease the CIA into the idea of mutations without coming off as threatening.

Erik had voiced his doubts. He'd felt it was wrong to pick their first recruit based on her vulnerabilities. It was a disservice to her, he'd said, and all just to spare the feelings of some damned humans. Charles didn't see it that way, of course. He saw it as compromise, as diplomacy.

"She knows she's strong, and we'll know she's strong," Charles had argued, his eyes bright points in the otherwise murky room. "Isn't that what matters? You don't consider the CIA allies. At best you consider them a resource to be used. Why would you care if they underestimate her, and underestimate us, especially if that promotes their cooperation?"

"I care because it's dishonest. You do consider them allies, and you want them to believe falsehoods. Do you treat all your friends that way?"

Charles had sighed. "Erik..."

He'd waved that point aside. He'd known he was being disingenuous. He trusted that Charles was honest to him. "You want them to see us as harmless, as something that can be controlled. Nothing will change until we assert our power, use our full potential. That's what we need to do, even if it scares some humans in the process."

"And what about the mutants whose powers won't protect them? Or the ones who can't or won't use violence? Are they just collateral damage when we provoke men with guns?"

"We provoke those men with guns just by existing, Charles. Being meek spares no one. No, we'll protect any mutant who comes to us. We will have that ability, if we're brave enough to use it." He had frowned at Charles. "I hope you're not including yourself with the ones who can't or won't use violence."

"I'm not some saintly pacifist. I've been in fights."

He'd suspected that Charles wasn't a pacifist, but it had still been a relief to hear it from his mouth. Erik had wondered what kind of fights a recent Oxford graduate got into, but had decided to ask that later. He had a different line of conversation to follow. "That's not what I meant, actually. You're quite willing to use your mutation to control minds, and from what I've seen, mind control is much like violence."

"No," Charles had replied slowly, picking out his words carefully, "not always. The opposite is more ofthen true, I think. It's violence that's like mind control."

Erik had crossed his arms. "Tell me you aren't arguing semantics. If you are, my opinion of you is going to suffer, so you'd better explain yourself."

"Well, if your opinion of me is on the line..." Charles had flashed him a grin, a beacon in the dim bar. He'd been in his element and was undeniably pleased about it. "How do you want to define violence? A force that causes injury? Would you say, for the sake of this discussion, that if a man punches another man it's a violent act, but that manhandling a drunk out of a bar is not violent, as long as it doesn't cause injury?"

Erik had considered this and nodded.

"I can and have used... well, the telepathic equivalant of a punch. But the majority of times I've used my telepathy to control a person, it was more like manhandling - nudging him in the other direction, or freezing him without injury."

"How do you know you don't cause injury?"

"I'm not saying I can know for certain all of the time, but injuries have symptoms. Fear. Pain. Avoidance of the thing that caused injury. If the symptoms are absent, if the mind is left in the condition in which I found it, I would assume the act wasn't injurious."

"You make mind control sound so benign," Erik had said, dryly. "But alright, I'll accept that for now. So how is violence more like mind control than mind control is like violence?"

With a slight crease in his brow and his lip caught between his teeth, Charles had paused to organize his thoughts. "There are, of course, many reasons for using violence. But the most common motivation I've-" Charles had tapped his temple, "-noticed, is the desire to control someone. Control their actions, their body. Their mind. And it works. All too often. It shuts down ideas, dims bright connections, creates false... hmm." Charles had trailed off, trailing his finger along the rim of his glass.

"Hmm?"

"Two agents from the base are just outside the door."

Erik had stiffened, sitting up straighter and scolding himself. He'd let his focus dwindle to just their dark and intimate booth, and he knew better, he really did. How many times had Erik taken out men who sat, lazy and unsuspecting, simply because they were among friends? And yet there he'd been, falling into the same trap. Thankfully Charles had still been vigilant. "Are they looking for us?"

Charles had shaken his head. "Just looking for a drink. We have maybe half a minute before they come inside. I'm sure you've taken note of any possible exits, hiding places, and weapons. How do you want to play this?"

And just like that Erik had relaxed, stopping his self-recrimination. They had been playing this; it wasn't a matter of life or death. It had been, if anything, an exercise to test the strength of Erik's new partnership. He had found himself grinning. "I believe you'd just mentioned manhandling drunks out of bars?"

A smile had bloomed on Charles's lips, slow and wicked. "Indeed I had." His eyes had slid shut as he'd pressed his fingers against his temple. "How about something a bit more subtle?" He had said, as if to himself, and then, "Yes, that should do."

"It worked?"

"Like a charm. One of them had been trying very hard to remember a woman he had chatted up while he was drunk last weekend. I looked through his memories - which was like trying to pick out fish in a muddy pool, by the way, he really was quite drunk - and found a likely candidate, who he'd met at a bar across the street. I don't know if she was the woman he fancied, but I made the possibility stronger in his mind. He convinced his friend to switch bars, thinking he might bump into her again."

"That's surprisingly... elegant."

"It is, isn't it?" Charles had smiled. "Much better than my plan B."

"Plan B?"

"Why, that distraction technique they do in the movies. Push you into a corner and kiss you, so that the agents would avert their eyes and pass us by."

Erik had made a noise that was both a surprised cough and a laugh. He had suddenly noticed how close Charles was across the table, his lips slightly parted as he waited for Erik to comment. And Erik had plenty of things to say, but Charles's mouth had become distracting. "Do you think about kissing me often? Really Charles, you're always so preoccupied with sex."

"I could be post-occupied with sex, if you'd rather."

He had shot a disbelieving look at Charles. "Sometimes I wonder how you're not a virgin, with lines like those."

Is that a no, then? Charles had asked, mind to mind. He'd rested his chin on his fist, his elbow on the table next to his empty glass. It was such a casual pose.

Erik had felt a rush of desire. Charles - with his flushed skin and rumpled clothes and slightly messy hair - well, he had looked attainable. Getable. Beautiful. "No," he'd answered. His voice had come out husky. He'd cleared his throat and tried agian. "That's not a no."

Excellent. There's a motel down the street that several of the patrons here have found to be discreet and clean. Well. 'Reasonably clean.' Take that as you will.

They had found the room reasonably clean. Left it less reasonably so. Erik had been disappointed by the thinness of the walls. Charles had assured him that no one who could hear them gave a damn, but even so Erik had stopped moving any time Charles had started getting loud. Charles had learned quickly, and soon he was muffling his moans against Erik's skin and panting his pleasure like a desperate animal rather than cry out. Already it was one of Erik's favorite memories.

Yes, it was surprising how close they'd become in a few short weeks. The planning and plotting and secret meetings had helped. So had the sex. And then they'd gone on the road together, and they'd grown even closer. The days and nights they'd spent together in the car and in shitty motel rooms had built a language between them, so it was entirely possible that Charles could read him without peaking inside his head.

"I know it's appetizing. Would you like some?" Charles asked, pulling Erik out of his thoughts.

"What?" He replied, not very eloquently. He realized he'd been staring at Charles's lips, and unbidden, his mind supplied, yes, they are appetizing.

Charles laughed. Thank you. "I was offering to fetch you a bowl of pineapple, if you'd like some."

Before he could anser, Raven appeared, sliding gracefully into a chair next to Charles. "Oh, could you get me some, too?"

"Of course." He stood and leaned over to kiss the top of Raven's head, one of his hands briefly resting in the blonde waves of her hair. "I haven't seen you all day."

"That's because I've been out. Angel and I borrowed a car, and-"

"Borrowed?" Charles raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, we got permission from Moira. She had us sign a form, so it was all very official. Anyway, we caught a movie."

"Let me guess..." Charles hummed in thought. "Bye Bye Birdie?"

Raven laughed. "Very close! The Birds."

"Oh," Charles looked taken aback. "That wasn't too scary for you?"

Raven's expression soured. "Charles, I'm not a little child."

"I know that. But you've never done well with horror films. You refused to sleep alone for a week after seeing that movie about the wax museum."

"Yes," Raven replied, clearly irritated. "And how long ago was that? Ten years?"

"It can't have been that long..."

Erik decided to step in before Charles dug himself in deeper. "Weren't you fetching us some food?"

"Oh, yes. Of course." He cast a baffled look at Raven before leaving.

In the wake of Charles's departure, Erik and Raven regarded each other quietly. He didn't know her very well yet, but he wanted to. What he saw of the sibling relationship between her and Chales - even when it was tense and rocky - made him yearn for something similar. He knew he could never have the familiarity borne of a shared childhood, but he knew Raven respected him and perhaps in time she could see him as family, too. She would learn, sooner or later, that he wanted her to be safe and happy, and that those were things he could teach her to fight for.

But right now all they had in common was their existance as mutants and their ties with Charles. And Erik didn't want to talk about being a mutant in the cafeteria, surrounded by government agents. The only topic of conversation left to him, then, was Charles. "Has your brother always been so enthusiastic about pineapple?"

Like magic, her expression softened. "It's been his favorite as long as I've known him. Well, it's his favorite most of the time. He doesn't eat it when he's in a bad mood, though."

"Why not?" That didn't make sense to Erik. Favorite foods were supposed to be comforting. If anything, people sought out their favorite foods more when they were upset.

Raven shrugged. "You can ask him if you want." Erik didn't know whether that meant she didn't know or simply didn't want to tell. He was going to ask for clarification, but at that moment she started waving to someone across the room. "Angel," she called, a smile blooming on her face, "Over here!"

Angel was apparently taking fashion cues from the Rat Pack, but he had to admit that the fedora looked good on her. She sat down next to Raven, casually, and her countenance was friendly and open, but there was a wariness that never left her eyes. Erik wondered if she saw something similar when she looked at him.

"What are you two up to?" She asked, tipping her hat back to better see the taller girl next to her.

"I was just whining about my over-protective brother. He seems to think I won't be able to sleep alone after watching The Birds."

"Did you tell him that you weren't planning on sleeping alone anyway?"

Raven laughed. "No, but I wish I had! Don't worry, Charles," she said in a mock-innocent tone, "Hank will protect me from the nightmares."

Angel adopted an equally sweet voice. "And if Hank gets up to wash his face, I'll still have agent Platt in bed to comfort me."

Erik listened, amused, as Raven amassed a collection of imaginary bed partners. It was easy then to forget his curiosity about Charles's eating habits.

He forgot about Raven's enigmatic remark until much later, after he and Charles had apprehended Ms. Frost in Russia, after Shaw attacked the CIA compound. That Shaw had outsmarted Erik, that he'd killed Darwin and stolen away Angel, it gnawed at him. It was a cloud that followed him to their new base at Charles's childhood home. To train and plan and live without the constant supervision of the CIA was a pleasure, probably, but Erik barely felt it at first through the knowledge that he'd lost to Shaw yet again and failed two of his brethren in the process.

It helped to stay busy. He and Charles split the responsibility of training the children. Charles's supportive nature seemed to be the only way to get results with Hank, but Erik's sharper methods had a place with the others. He spent time each day with Sean, Alex, and especially Raven, who grew more eager to train each day.

On top of that, he had his own conditioning to maintain. He ran early in the morning when he wouldn't run into Charles or Moira or the children. He liked being alone with his thoughts as he paced himself through the estate's grounds, finally pushing his body as fast as it would go as he passed the side of the mansion where Charles's bedroom sat, its windows glinting in the pre-dawn light. They chased Erik with their blank regard as he panted and sweated and sprinted.

He couldn't say if he was trying to impress those windows or escape them with that final burst of speed, but the man behind them was probably still asleep, so it shouldn't matter. Erik tried to keep his mind on the mission and off of Charles. If he felt uneasy - as if he was missing something that was just beyond his vision - he attributed it to the pall of upcoming battle.

He ran in the morning, trained most of the day with one or more of the children, and lifted weights before supper. They all ate supper together, trading off cooking and cleaning duties. After supper he and Charles sometimes worked with Erik's control of his mutation, or sometimes they all watched television together. By nighttime he was so exhausted that he usually went to bed early and slept surprisingly well. He had to turn down most of Charles's nightly invitations for chess and nightcaps - which also meant he avoided any invitations to Charles's bed - but Charles took it gracefully.

It was a comforting routine. There were breaks in it, occasionally. One particularly warm autumn day saw him tapped for grocery-shopping duty.

"Would you like me to come along?" Charles asked when he caught Erik's grimace.

Erik considered for a moment. "No, you'll befriend all the grocery clerks, who will then wonder why we're buying enough food to feed a small teenaged army, and then there will be questions."

Charles huffed a small laugh. "Fine. I did promise Moira we'd finish the requisitions today and ad lib some kind of progress report."

Erik suspected it was jealously that made him want to change his mind and take Charles along, so he ignored it. Instead he gave a nod and turned to leave.

Truthfully, he didn't mind that Charles chatted with strangers in the supermarket, but he did prefer that Charles stayed behind. There was something about going out, knowing that Charles would be keeping an eye out at the house, protecting everyone with his powerful mutation, and that Erik would be coming back to them, soon, with the food for their supper... well, it warmed him. Made him feel grounded and useful in a completely foreign way.

He had a use; he had honed himself his entire adult life for that use, and it certainly wasn't feeding and caring for a group of young misfits. Surely he was faltering in his mission if this was how he was spending his time. And yet it didn't feel like faltering. It felt comfortable. He turned back as he reached the door, hoping Charles hadn't caught those tumultuous thoughts.

Charles was standing where Erik had left him. He was staring absently at the floor, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. When he felt Erik's gaze, he glanced up and stopped biting his lip. "Would you be up for a game of chess after supper?"

Erik hesitated. The grocery shopping would set back his schedule. He still wanted some time on the free weights, and Raven might need a spotter. "I'll see how I feel later and let you know."

"Yes, very well." Charles smiled and stuffed his hands in his pockets, fidgeting as the silence stretched on.

The sudden awkwardness baffled Erik. He shook his head. "Have a good time with Moira," he said flatly, in lieu of goodbye.

The supermarket was surprisingly busy for a Tuesday afternoon. Every time a fellow shopper smiled in Erik's direction he was reminded of Charles's easy and natural interaction with strangers. He regretted not taking him along, Erik decided. It didn't make sense but it was true. When he saw that the pineapple was on sale he set one in his basket without a second thought.

The sun had already set by the time he got back, making it feel later than it was. He immediately started preparing supper. As the teenagers began wandering into the kitchen - drawn by their stomachs, no doubt - Erik delegated various tasks. Soon Raven was chopping vegetables, Sean was stirring the pot on the stove, and Alex was setting the table, so Erik moved over to some empty counter space to peel and slice the pineapple.

The clock in the dinning room was striking seven as the four of them gathered at the table. "Where's Charles?" he asked, unhappy that Moira was also missing. He hadn't thought that she and Charles would spend the whole afternoon together.

"Here, we're here," Charles called as he came through the doorway. He was with Hank - and only Hank - Erik noted with satisfaction.

The two of them had their sleeves rolled up and Hank was scribbling in a notebook as if his life depended on it. "I'm starting to think that its destruction was beneficial, the way it's forcing us to start from scratch," Hank was saying. "It's given us the chance to fully incorporate all the data from the initial run." Charles shot Hank a look that was probably meant to shut him up, but the young scientist was oblivious.

"Cerebro?" Erik asked.

Charles smiled at him. "Nothing to worry about, Erik. We were just doing some very preliminary ground-work. Mostly speculation, actually." There were small dark spots on Charles's forehead, like residue from adhesives, almost hidden by his hair.

"So it would be reasonable of me to assume that at no point were you attaching electrodes to your head?"

"Ah, well..." Charles stammered. "that does sound like a reasonable assumption, doesn't it?"

Erik sighed. "Where's Moira?" He'd misjudged. Clearly she was the lesser of two evils.

Charles latched on to the change of topic. "She headed off to Langley to receive further reports on Shaw and the missile situation. She's also going to check in on Ms. Frost for me. I'll admit I'm curious about how she's doing in... well, in telepathic isolation, if you will."

Although Charles's manner was casual and unconcerned, something about the way he said 'telepathic isolation' chilled Erik. It seemed almost automatic to picture Charles in Frost's place, a telepath for a telepath. He forced his thoughts away and turned towards the table. "Dinner is ready."

"Oh yes, sorry if we kept you waiting. It looks fantastic." It was only after sitting down that Charles noticed the small bowl of fruit at each place setting. "You bought pineapple, Erik! Thank you." Were you thinking of me?

The correct answer to that was yes, obviously; yes, to an embarrassing extent; yes, to a degree that was borderline obsession. "It was on sale," he said instead.

"Good find, then." Charles saluted Erik with his still-empty wine glass. Erik grinned at him and reached for the wine bottle so that he could pour it for Charles.

The others had already started in on their meals, and the conversation drifted to Alex's increasing control over his abilities. He wanted to start practicing on moving targets. Raven suggested dusting off the trap for launching sporting clays - apparently sharp shooting was a traditional Xavier family pastime - while Hank began brainstorming targets that could move unpredictably.

Erik tried to focus on them. He approved whole-heartedly of their enthusiasm to improve themselves. At his side Charles was unusually subdued, eating his meal quietly. He finished first, standing up. "I'll do the washing up tonight."

Raven looked up. "Don't be ridiculous, Charles. It's Sean's turn to do the dishes."

Sean scowled. "Thanks a lot."

Charles hid a smile. "I'll be in the study, then. If anyone needs me." He stacked up his dishes and carried them off to the kitchen.

Erik stared after him. He'd expected to be asked again about the chess game, but he supposed the invitation was a standing invitation at this point. It was just as well. Now would be the best time to get some weight-lifting done.

The younger ones were engrossed in their conversation and barely noticed as Erik cleared his dishes a few minutes later. He set them in the sink next to Charles's dishes, and then paused.

He wouldn't have noticed, except it should have been two matching sets of dinnerware in the large sink; two glasses, two sets of silverware, two plates and two bowls. But there was only Erik's bowl. He suddenly realized he hadn't seen Charles eat any of the pineapple Erik had served him. He glanced around at the countertops, scattered with the detritus of their meal, but there was no bowl.

He strode over to the refrigerator and pulled the door open. There on the center shelf sat Charles's bowl, still full. It looked as if Charles hadn't touched a single piece of his supposedly favorite fruit.

Now he was vividly remembering Raven's words. Charles didn't eat pineapple when he was unhappy. But that still didn't make sense, first because that wasn't how comfort foods worked, and second (and more importantly) because Charles wasn't unhappy. Erik would have known if that were the case. Wouldn't he?

The pineapple stared back at him like an accusation of failure, causing more unease than any bowl of fruit had the right to cause. Erik shut the refrigerator forcefully.

The weightlifting did little to clear his head. After the third time he realized he'd stopped doing reps and had been staring into space, he gave up on his work-out. He headed to Charles's study, swinging by the kitchen first to grab the pineapple. The halls and the stairs leading to the study seemed darker and quieter than usual.

There was a huge oil painting outside the study door - thick, textured strokes depicting a man on a horse. It had always struck him as unnecessarily dour, but tonight the horse's stare seemed downright contemptuous. The rider's face was shrouded in the shadow of his top hat, but Erik imagined it to be equally judgmental.

"Yes, well, I'm not the mind reader," he snapped at the pair of smug bastards. "I'm going to find out what's wrong now, so you can kindly fuck off."

Excuse me?

Erik started, almost certain for a split second that the horse had answered him in that primly-affronted voice. But of course not. He knew that voice.

"I wasn't talking to you, Charles."

I see. You were talking to... a painting? And with fairly heated language I might add.

"Yes, but to be fair I didn't start it."

What did poor Mr. Plimmswood do to you?

"No, it was the horse that insulted me."

Mr. Plimmswood is the horse.

"Oh. In that case, Mr. Plimmswood dared to impugn my character."

I say! The words felt perfectly deadpan in Erik's mind, but beneath them he could feel the hum of suppressed laughter. You'll have to take that up with Dasher.

"Dasher?"

The man in the top hat, of course.

"Of course."

Were you coming in to see me, Erik? The humor faded quickly, the words instead washed in a brine of doubt.

"Yes. Am I interrupting?"

No, not at all. Erik got a flash of Charles alone at his desk, working on a letter. Pushing open the door, Erik stepped inside.

There was music playing in the study, despite the absolute silence in the hallway. The thick walls of the mansion did their job well. The music - a grandiose harpsichord piece that was by turns both graceful and discordant - seemed better suited to Count Dracula than Charles Xavier.

Charles shrugged. "The top 40 station wasn't coming in."

"I could look at the radio for you."

That earned him a smile. "Thank you, maybe later. I do enjoy this music too. You don't have to be a vampire to like harpsichord, although I'm sure it does help."

Erik paused at the casual proof that Charles was reading his thoughts. "You're slipping inside my head an awful lot tonight," he said. The easy smile slipped off of Charles's face, and Erik instantly regretted his words. He didn't mind, usually. But he had so many pathetic, half-formed worries whirling around, and he didn't want Charles picking up on that maelstrom and getting the wrong ideas. Or right ideas; it was probably all equally damning.

Charles lowered his eyes, gazing at the pen in front of him. "I'm sorry. I didn't intend to pry."

Erik shook his head. "No, it's... I didn't mean it like that."

"Then I don't know how you meant it." Some impatience, rare as it was, was edging into Charles's voice. "Perhaps you could tell me."

Erik considered the things he could possibly say as he stood before Charles's desk. Charles was leaned back in his chair, looking up at Erik with curiosity and frustration. Finally Erik admitted, "It's not that simple."

Instead of irritating him further, the admission seemed to deflate Charles. "The more mysterious you are, the more tempting telepathy becomes, you know."

It was the resignation in Charles's eyes - as if Charles fully expected Erik to walk away without explanation - that moved Erik to act. He placed the bowl of pineapple on the desk.

Charles eyed it. "That's not helping with the mystery, actually."

"It's your favorite food. Raven told me. But you didn't have a single piece."

Charles raised an eyebrow, the picture of innocent confusion. That was how Erik knew not to trust whatever Charles said next. "I don't see why that's bothering you. I was saving it for dessert, but I was full by the time I finished the main course. Which was delicious, by the way. You're a better cook than I." Well, okay, Erik wouldn't disbelieve everything that Charles said. That didn't mean he wasn't still suspicious.

"You can eat it during our chess match."

"You want to play chess tonight?"

"Yes." Erik frowned, wondering why Charles sounded so surprised. It had been a while since they'd played, granted, but they'd been so busy.

He set up the board while Charles put away his papers. When he came over and sat down on his usual side of the board, Erik placed the pineapple on the table where Charles typically put his glass of liquor.

Charles rolled his eyes. "Are you planning on hand-feeding me?"

"What?" The idea of slipping his fingers into that warm, wet mouth lit a fire of arousal in his gut, all the more wild for how long it had been absent. And Charles probably knew it too, damn him. "Why would I do that?"

"It's just that you're so oddly insistent that I eat this, yet you didn't bring a fork. Look, why don't we start the game now and forget the pineapple and I can... Erik? Are you... please tell me you aren't levitating a fork all the way from the kitchen!"

"Quiet, I'm concentrating."

"What if someone is in the way? You can't possibly know if someone is in your path. Dear God, you're going to stab one of the children with a fork!"

"Serves them right if they're still up." Erik knew the others were safely out of the way; his increased control meant he could track anyone in the house by the bits of metal on their clothes or in their teeth, and he was even starting to think he could sense the hum of iron in blood. But it was more fun to watch Charles squirm. "They should be in bed by now. Who was it who said 'early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise'?"

"Benjamin Franklin. And you're... what, proposing the young men in our care learn that 'early to bed, early to rise, or you'll get a fork in your thighs?'"

"Mm, powerful motivation. We'll raise them respectful and responsible yet."

"If they live until morning!"

The door was open just a crack, and Erik navigated the fork through. It scraped the wood too lightly to leave a mark. From there it was effortless to call it to his hand. "Here's your fork, Mother Hen. I don't see any blood, do you?"

Charles glared, but there was a smile lurking behind it. "Shut up."

"Who was it that lead Sean up on that satellite dish?"

"Shut up."

"And took Alex into that bunker?"

"Are we playing chess or not?"

"And gave Hank lab equipment?"

Charles grabbed the fork from Erik's hand. "There. Are you satisfied? Now make your move or I'm going to bed."

Erik smiled and moved his pawn.

Charles began his gameplay aggressively. Usually he played with reservation, holding back for the cleanest, most surgical moves. Tonight he seemed perfectly satisfied to have lost three pieces in a row to Erik.

The harpsichord music provided an eerie, clanging background as Charles lost a rook, picking it up before Erik could and examining the pale marble of the piece before setting it aside.

They played in silence. Usually there was conversation. Silence suited Erik - Charles's chatter generally managed to engage Erik despite himself, distracting him - but tonight the silence was just as distracting. Charles was unbothered, if his intense focus on the game was any indication.

Erik leaned forward to consider his move and Charles leaned back without taking his eyes from the board. Whatever strategy being mapped in his head had all of his attention, apparently. Charles absently lifted the fork with a chunk of pineapple to his mouth. When the fruit touched his lips he winced and dropped the fork.

Something about Charles shifted in that instant, the way the drifting of clouds across the moon shifted a moonlit landscape. The change was slight enough that it could only be noticed by eyes that had been open all night, looking for it.

The hair on the back of Erik's neck stood on end.

"What just happened?" He demanded, unease making him harsh.

Charles scooped the pineapple off his lap, examining it like he had the lost chess piece, before setting it back in the bowl. "It stung. It startled me."

Erik leaned in further still. "Why would it sting?"

Now Charles examined the tiny damp mark on his slacks. "The juice stings if it gets in a cracked lip."

"Your lips aren't cracked, though. I would see it."

Charles grimaced.

"I would see it. I would see it, unless..." Erik trailed off. He remembered sitting in a cold truck, Charles beside him, fingers pressed to his temple. Dogs barking at what the humans couldn't see. "Show me," he said. His voice had gone flat and cold, which was better, he supposed, than shouting in rage.

Charles closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, and the clouds shifted again.

The change was both subtle and startling. There were dark circles under Charles's eyes, puffy and bruised-looking. Instead of the healthy flush from before, his skin had a chalky pallor to it. And his lips - bright and unblemished a moment ago - were marred with fading marks where the skin had been bitten away.

Erik breathed, nausea climbing in his throat. "You're ill."

"No, I'm just... I haven't been sleeping well."

"You look ill," Erik insisted. It made sense to him, suddenly. Why would a man who had successfully hidden his mutation his whole life reveal himself to the CIA? Moira had come to Charles for help, and the pleas of a pretty woman might be persuasive, but an illness - something that would make Charles devalue his own well being, take risks, change his life plans - made the whole thing more plausible.

Besides, Charles had come into Erik's life, filling - in a small part - the gap left by the death of his family. If Charles was dying, well, that was only the continuation of a pattern. Inevitable.

"I'm not," Charles insisted, and Erik very much wanted to believe him.

"Is it Cerebro?" He asked, angry but almost hopeful. Maybe Charles was just injured, not dying. Maybe there was a physical thing Erik could blame.

"No, this has nothing to do with Cerebro. Like I said before, we weren't doing anything dangerous or invasive. We were just taking some electrical readings while I used my telepathy."

"But you look ill," he repeated, trying to convey how dire it seemed from where Erik sat. "You look awful."

"I know. I'm sorry. I know it's a disgusting habit."

"What?"

Charles gestured to his lips. Erik now noticed that his nails, previously neat and trim, were actually jagged and bitten, low enough that there were spots of dried blood. "Biting my lips. I know it's a horrible habit, but I can't... I've tried everything to break it, but when I'm stressed I just start up again."

"I don't give a damn about you biting your lips or your nails," Erik said, and Charles glanced at his ravaged nails and grimaced. Erik continued, "I give a damn that you look unwell and that you've been hiding it from me! From everyone!"

"I'm sorry."

"I don't want an apology. I want an explanation."

Charles nodded jerkily. "Like I said, it's a horrible habit."

"Projecting a false image into my mind is a habit?" Erik hissed. He hoped he was wrong, that Charles was referring to his lip-biting again, but it didn't sound that way.

"It's not... you, specifically. I project out generally, at anyone close enough to look at me... God, I know that doesn't make it better, but yes, that's what I meant. When I'm under particularly horrid stress I bite at my nails and lips and I've been doing it since I was a child. And I learned to hide it as a child, so hiding it has become just as automatic. I'm sorry. I know you don't want my apologies but I am sorry." Charles gazed down at the chess board. He crossed his arms, his posture miserable. "I never set out to change what you saw. I hope you believe me."

Charles was clearly distraught. That, coupled with his haggard appearance, made Erik feel a flare of sympathy. It mixed uncomfortably with his anger and fear. "If I believe you didn't intentionally change what I saw," he began slowly, voice uneven, "then I believe that you changed what I saw reflexively, without thought or control. Which is worse?"

Charles glanced down again. His fingers were moving restlessly against his leg, and Erik wondered if they were itching to pick and peel at skin. He wondered what comfort there was in such an action. Charles finally spoke. "When my father died my mother dealt with her grief privately. That is to say, she dealt with herself privately - I rarely saw her for months - but her grief permeated every room, always where I could-" Charles tapped at his temple, "-feel it.

"I don't remember starting to bite my nails, but I do remember how it upset my mother when she finally started leaving her room. She had decided to move on as best she could, and I think seeing me resort to such a childish habit... it reminded her..."

"That she had a child?"

Charles glared, but because he was still gazing at the board, the glare only hit some unconcerned game pieces. "That she had something from which she had to move on. I destroyed the illusion. It bothered her even more when she started having guests over. I tried to stop, but when that didn't work it was easier to hide it. Especially when she began seeing Kurt. And when Raven came... we were hiding so much. You wouldn't believe how small a thing a minor cosmetic projection seemed amidst it all."

Erik understood how different the world seemed to a frightened child than it did to an adult with autonomy. He also remembered Charles mentioning a paranoid step-father. "This Kurt married your mother?"

"Yes. It was..." He frowned, looked away, tried again. "I had a beautiful home. I never went hungry. I had the best schools." His pallor faded into a healthier complexion, and the cracks in his lips smoothed over.

"Charles," Erik warned.

Charles blinked, confused for only a moment. "Oh." The dark circles around his eyes emerged again. "I'm sorry."

Erik nodded his acceptance of the apology. "But you must have grown out of it. When things got better. When you left for Oxford."

"Kurt was dead before then," Charles said. It was an admission: my life was better when he was dead. "But yes, to an extent. When I was younger my nervous habit was an almost constant thing. Later, and at Oxford, it was only rarely."

"That's not the habit I'm concerned about. Like I said, I don't give a damn about you biting your lips." It seemed that point wasn't sinking in. "You should have grown out of hiding it. I've never been to Oxford, but I imagine students with nervous habits are a dime a dozen. Yet you would exert all that effort and worse, risk revealing your telepathy just to cover up yours!"

Charles stood up abruptly. The brittle energy of his agitation was tangible as he paced towards the fireplace. "So you don't give a damn about unseemly habits. Fantastic! Eccentricities don't bother you. But people do care about these things!" He picked up the iron fireplace stoker and prodded at the nearest log. Flakes of black and white ash fell, and the golden embers beneath burned brighter. "I was younger than the other students. It was already an uphill battle to be taken seriously, and I know what I look like when I look like this. Desperate. Unreliable. Unbalanced. More suited to an asylum than a school."

Erik was on his feet before he'd decided to stand. "Was it Kurt who said that?" Charles was silent. "Did you hear those things in the thoughts of your peers, or only from the mouth of your step-father?"

Charles stabbed harder at the logs. The fire flared up, party to his irritation.

"You know what you look like when you look like this," Erik threw his words back at him. "But you don't know, do you? You've hidden this your entire adult life. You've never witnessed an honest reaction to this!"

"Why risk it? Why invite questions? Why make anyone doubt my competency for even a moment? Especially now, when the CIA could stop sharing information with us without a moment's notice?" With another vicious jab, the top log unbalanced and spilled off the pile. It landed half in and half out of the fireplace as sparks scattered out in all directions like a flock of birds disturbed from their bush.

Erik used his mutation to tug the poker from Charles's hand. "You're going to burn this place down," he snapped.

Charles snorted. "Yes, but I imagine Alex will be the instrument of that disaster, not the fireplace poker."

Erik moved the poker further away, anyway.

Charles sighed, staring down at his now empty hands. "Image isn't superficial. It's substantial. When I'm changing my image, it's so I can be the person we need me to be."

"No." That was vehement, absolute. "What I need is your honesty. I don't need the CIA, and neither do you."

"We would never have crossed paths without them. Nor would we have found the others."

"I can be thankful for a few of their actions without swearing allegiance. Charles, they cannot be a part of our future. They don't know us. They don't accept us. They use us and we should use them too, and then cut ties before they change their minds and lock us up. Do you think they would mind tossing you in with Shaw's telepath?"

Charles swallowed. "No, many of them wouldn't mind. You're right, many of them don't accept us yet. But they could. Already Moira does, and she's not some singular exception. Minds can change in either direction. If they come to know us--"

Already Erik was shaking his head. "If they want to hate us, they will hate us. There is no escape by being nice enough or by being respectable enough--"

"--and I'm saying they don't want to hate us! As the telepath in the room, I assure you that the agents at the CIA facility are not some monolith that wishes to see us destroyed! Many of them, in fact, want to find out who we are and help us!"

"And when you say that, are you speaking as a mutant or as a homosexual?"

Charles paused, his marred lips pressed into a thin line.

Erik stepped forward, cupping Charles's cheek and tilting his face up, looking him in the eye. "You're so fond of masks," he said softly. "Whatever the CIA might accept of you will be a sanitized half-truth. It's only your own people who will care for you and fight for you. Me, Raven, the people in this house - you owe us honesty because we are the only ones who will know the real you."

Charles leaned his head against Erik's palm. Erik had never argued so intimately before and it was thrilling to feel anger at Charles while the other man nuzzled his hand. Charles laughed, low in his throat. "You say that, yet you act like you'd rather put space between us. I was surprised you came tonight, as I'd gotten the impression you were avoiding me."

"What?" Erik dropped his hand and stepped back. He hadn't expected Charles to try to pin this on him. "I haven't left your side."

"You took a room on a different floor, Erik. I hear you running in the mornings and your thoughts get stormy when you pass my window. We rarely play chess and we... we sleep together even less. Forgive me for thinking you might be ready to leave."

"I-- Charles, we're getting ready for a possible war! I've been preparing-- we all have!" Even as he said it he knew it wasn't fully true. He hadn't been preparing to leave, but he hadn't been prepared to stay either, not really. Life after Schmidt's death had never seemed so close, and this close it also felt strange and untrustworthy. He didn't want to chase after fool's gold.

Not too long ago he'd been content to die in the pursuit of killing Schmidt. That was changing now, but the idea of death as the price of achieving his life's goal clung to him, sticky spiderwebs that he couldn't sweep off.

Charles sighed. "I know. Don't you think I know? There are so many minds out there convinced this is the end of the world, and they don't even know about Shaw's involvement. We could all be dead very soon. I know that. I just thought it would be a reason to be closer together, not further apart."

Guilt was curling in Erik's stomach, squirming and sour. He made a final attempt to push it down. "You haven't said. How could I know what you wanted if you haven't said?"

Charles leaned against the wall, and then slid down to sit. The width of the fireplace separated them. The fire was slowly dying, pulling in the warmth and light of the room with jealous arms. "You want me to tell you? Fine. I want-- I want to use my degree. Teach. Challenge notions on what is genetically natural. Help others like us. I want to save the world and I will risk my life to do so, but I don't want to live in a war zone. I don't want to go through what you've gone through."

"We won't," Erik insisted. He knelt down in front of Charles. "If we fight this we can win. We're the better men."

"I'm sorry." Caught in the firelight, Charles's eyes held a storm's worth of hues, transient and turbulent. "I'm not better. Tonight I'm barely any good at all."

Erik leaned in closer. "You're the most powerful man I've met."

Charles smiled, angry and sad and amused. "I'm rushing headlong towards the end of the world, hoping to prevent a nuclear armageddon, but I can't sleep at night because my sister is increasingly angry with me and the man I've fallen in love with pushes his thoughts away from me. Meanwhile, mass panic is not as exciting as it sounds and is, instead, slow and creeping and painful and hard to avoid. I'm anxious and a mess and I look every inch a basket case, which you wouldn't even have known except for a bowl of pineapple. If you call me a better man one more time I'm not sure if I'll laugh or cry."

It was the honesty that Erik had demanded. Whether Charles had intended to give it or not, Erik now had what he'd been asking for, and he knew he couldn't afford to be anything but honest in return.

Only in that moment did he realize that his own past words and actions were also skewed away from honesty. Speeches that had seemed simply curt on his part now seemed cursory and censured. He hadn't meant to mislead Charles, but he wanted him on his side, and the truth - even now - might be bleak enough to drive him away.

That couldn't stop Erik. He had to trust that Charles was strong enough. "When I call you a better man, I'm not putting you on a pedestal. Quite the opposite. I'm dragging you down among the rats and the flies and the other survivors. Because that's what us mutants - us better men - will be. Mutants won't be heroes or celebrities or saints. They'll be survivors, and there is nothing as dismal as surviving. You're right to claw at yourself. If we don't stop Shaw you'll be surviving a nuclear winter. If we do stop Shaw, you'll be surviving a very different armageddon. It will be fueled by politics and propaganda instead of nuclear bombs, but it will be armageddon just the same." He leaned forward and grabbed Charles's hands in his own. The fingertips were cold, and Erik squeezed them gently. "But you'll learn. It's alright. Any horror can become mundane. You get used to the end of the world."

The heartbreak was visible in Charles's expression. "Was there ever a time when you thought we might avoid a genocide?"

"No," Erik said, but he was remembering Charles's easy smile. It was directed at the world and at Erik with equal matter-of-fact simplicity, and somehow it had given Erik some of the things that Schmidt had violently torn away. "Yes," he admitted. "Sometimes, when we're together. But in the morning my head clears."

Charles wiped at his eyes. "I wish it wouldn't."

"I know. Sometimes I wish that, too."

"Maybe your head is clearer when you're with me," Charles muttered, his voice tired and wet with tears. "Did you ever think of that? Maybe it's in the morning when you've gone off to run by yourself that your thinking warps. I'll go running with you tomorrow morning and see if that helps."

It should have been aggravating, that kind of self-assurance. Instead Erik found himself smiling fondly. "No, Charles. You said you haven't been sleeping well. The last thing you need is to be up before sunrise."

Charles smiled back through the exhaustion. "It would be for a good cause, though."

"Sleep in."

"I'd rather be with you."

Erik spread his hands, helpless. "Will you stop arguing and sleep in if I promise to sleep in with you?"

Charles's eyes widened. "Past sunrise?"

"Just this once, as late as you want. And then we'll talk more in the morning when we're both feeling clear-headed."

"That sounds wonderful."

Erik stood up, then held out a hand to pull Charles to his feet, too. Charles stumbled a little, and Erik steadied him with hands around his shoulders. He didn't let go even when the need passed, and Charles looked up at him questioningly. When Erik said nothing, he took a deep breath and began, "Erik, whatever happens with the CIA-"

"No more of this discussion tonight," Erik interrupted. "We reached a good enough breaking point, and you need to go to bed."

"Are you going to to let me go, then?"

"In a minute."

"That's fair." Charles stepped even closer, tucking his head against Erik's. The top of Charles's ear grazed Erik's chin, and he smiled against Charles's temple as he wrapped his arms more securely around those broad shoulders. In the silence the music from the radio seemed to get louder. He'd ceased to notice it during their argument.

Charles sighed and shifted into his arms more comfortably. "Who was it who said that harpsichord music sounds like skeletons copulating on a tin roof?"

"Sir Thomas Beecham." Erik rubbed a hand up and down Charles's back, and then paused. "You're thinking about us copulating on a tin roof, aren't you?"

"...your mutation could keep us from tumbling off."

Erik snorted. "If I needed any more proof that you're sleep deprived."

They made it up to the bedroom in a shuffle of tired legs and arms around shoulders. Erik grabbed the bowl of pineapple as he passed it on the way out of the room; if Charles couldn't eat it then he would. No point in wasting food. Besides, he could buy more later, after cracked lips had healed.

They prepared for bed slowly but without distraction. Erik tried not to be too noticeable in his hovering, but he was relieved all the same when he was able to usher Charles under the covers. He'd been holding his breath for some interruption from the others, some frivolous catastrophe that Charles would have to deal with, but nothing came.

He set the bowl down on the nightstand next to a book he'd found in the library. Unlike the other dust-covered books, this one had looked new. He suspected Raven had bought it, but A Wrinkle in Time was diverting and Erik liked reading fantasy before falling asleep. Maybe he'd finish it - and the pineapple - while Charles slept beside him.

He sat on the edge of the bed. Charles looked up at him and said, "I want to kiss you."

Erik leaned down and pressed his nose against Charles's nose. Charles smiled, but held Erik close when he tried to pull back. "A real kiss."

"It's never just a kiss with you."

"So?"

Erik grabbed a piece of pineapple from the bowl and bit into it, letting the juice coat his lips. "Sorry," he said. "Better not kiss. I wouldn't want to cause you pain."

Charles laughed and lunged forward to press their lips together. "You should know by now that a little pain doesn't scare me away."

Well, he couldn't argue with that. He gave Charles his kiss, long and slow and deep. But his body began to warm and pulled away before it got any hotter.

Curious blue eyes regarded him. "Another kiss?"

"In the morning, maybe."

Charles's smile softened then, blunted by uncertainty. "You really mean to sleep in with me tomorrow?"

Words seemed inadequate when actions would prove it in a matter of hours, so he slid into bed next to Charles and found the other man's hand under the blankets. Charles blinked at him, gaze warm and bright, and then shut his eyes.

Then again, Erik was learning not to skimp on words. It wouldn't hurt if Charles heard it from Erik's lips, here and now. "Yes," he said. "I'll be here when you wake up."