Disclaimer: X-Men: First Class and certain characters belong to Bad Hat Harry Productions, Donners' Company, Marv Films, et al., respectively. No profit is gained from this writing - only, hopefully, enjoyment.

He remains in that "place between" for what feels like many years, decades, an eternity of constantly walking the line dividing Heaven from Hell, love from hate.

Joy from sorrow. Regret. Guilt. Frustration. Anger. Fury.

But he never gives in to either extreme, not truly. His "place" is the middle ground of emotion, where he simultaneously feels it and yet refuses to acknowledge it.

His mutation centers around control, and manipulation, and he finds he is exceedingly suited for such a gift. His words become others', and his knowledge and certainty spread like blood through the body. "They" want you; "they" hate you; you will never be safe from "them."

Both here and there, and he is like the wind or the sudden breeze. He touches others, many more than any of them had ever thought to guess existed, but they, none of them, can ever hope to touch him. He remains in the "place between." He remains, and it is enough.

Great acts and terrible deeds and countless attempts to force the world to change, and neither it, nor he, ever does. Some of them, it has become clear to him, simply cease to evolve after that initial leap forward. Some are the same for the rest of their lives, while others change, sometimes drastically, but more often in small increments, a gradual shift over time. He himself is of the former sort, the same as he ever was - as he was made to be. Mystique too changes constantly in form but never in consciousness, and he doubts she ever will.

And Charles, he too abides. They have become locked inside themselves, they three. Others will come and go, be found and lost, grow up and depart, but Mystique never wavers. She is not "there" unless they have arranged it so. She is "here," by his side, his right-hand man, his beauty and queen and herald. He knows her, inside and out, right-side up, and downward bound.

He would wager he knows her better than Charles ever did, or can ever hope to again.

He would wager he knows Charles better than Charles does. He certainly knows himself better, and the two of them were never all that different.

And so it is the minutes pass, and then the hours. Soon, it is a week since the missile crisis, and his feet begin to forget the feel of shifting sand beneath them. Two weeks, it becomes, and he continues to reach for the "place" and finds it again and again, using memories gone bright, veritably bursting with color and feeling, and now as bittersweet to recall as those featuring his family, his dear mama. Cars are his to toss, and then tanks. The silverware rattles on the table if he is not careful, where before even that would have required conscious effort.

Then, a month after the fact, there is a "message," and the following morning they are leaving yet another "base of operations." That time, though, they leave nothing behind, as even the old birch tree in the front yard has fallen prey to flying debris, the debris from the house itself as he destroyed it, leveled it, slammed it into the very earth and then heaved it heavenward. Mystique said not a word the entire time, nor the others, but from her lips he would have listened to, in fact craved, the useless platitudes, reassurances, calls to arms. Yet she gave none, gave him none, and that in and of itself was recrimination enough from her.

She has forgiven him, he knows, but she is too much like her brother to ever be able to forget. It was by his hand, his very hand, that an immense amount of potential was ripped from the world forever. Never would he have wished that fate upon even the weakest, most pathetic of mutants, and Charles was far, far from being the weakest, and never had he been pathetic. Even now, in a terrible situation for the rest of his life, Charles is no doubt making the best of it, persevering with endless pithy pieces of insight and small, enduring kindnesses to spare.

No doubt.

They relocate, this time to the southern continent, and yet blessedly far from the memories Argentina would call up. The air is hot, at times nearly unbearably humid, and it is in no way like the States - or Westchester. Mystique begins experimenting there, in that miniscule village which dares to call itself a town, and seems to derive great pleasure from impersonating bigger and better known figures. She is the mayor of the small town they inhabit, and then she is the head of the Catholic church there. Then once when he is out with Emma and Riptide, in passing he is winked at by an important and elderly matron. After they move again, this time to a city, to the sprawling and both mesmerizing and overwhelming Rio de Janeiro, Mystique undertakes even greater masquerades. She is a newscaster for over two weeks, and he does not think to ask where the real person she was imitating remained for this period of time. It is not as interesting to him as the fact that following the ruse, there is another "message."

This time, and this time, and this time, he thinks, it will be different. Things will change, and only for the better. There will be no more division, no more infighting, no more sides. They are alike, much more so than they are different. That should be the most relevant factor, their common goal of unification, not the methods of how to realize it.

Yet the message that "enters" is essentially a warning - pleasant, even amiable, but a warning nonetheless.

"You are not alone in your struggle" was one part of it, though, and he knows both him and himself well enough to smile at that phrasing. Deliberate and calculating as ever, dear Charles is no fool. He is ruthless when it is called for, and hesitates, yes, but his delays are measured in microseconds, the additional benefit of his mutation. Charles is possessed of a singularly unique mind, in that it is interconnected to all other minds.

Now and again, deep in the night, when all others around him have departed for their respective rooms, he sits forward in his chair and shuts his eyes tightly. In those times, it is not darkness that surrounds him then, but firelight, and it is also warmth, but not the heat of the equatorial region.

It was a warning, and yet the tone was not one of animosity. Instead, it reminded him of nothing so much as those few times, many lifetimes ago, when as a child he had been rebuked by his parents for some manner of mischief or wrongdoing. In it is disappointment and sadness, and yet there is hope there too, as well as something else, and it is that last which warms him at night, deep in the night, when doubts surface and try to take over his mind, and all the world is against him, them, all mutant kind, all Jews, all who are different and refuse to pretend otherwise.

Charles' mental scolding is too much for Mystique, who, before his very eyes the next morning, shifts and ripples into that ersatz shape of hers, that pretty and soft and innocuous American girl. No one comments, not even he, but as the girl, the child, then leaves the room, it is clear something must change. Mystique, Raven, for all that she is as accomplished in the use of her ability as any of the rest of them, is a good deal less secure in her principles. She is full of doubts, more than any other among them, and when next they uproot their base of operations, he quietly asks her if perhaps she would not prefer to go home.

She slaps him, and in her fit of temper her form flutters and flashes, different people sliding into and out of view at a fast pace, and at one point, at the brief appearance of one particular person's image, he very nearly slaps her back.

"You regret it as much as I do," she hisses at him. "You're a hypocrite, Erik. Quit pretending to be all self-righteous!"

"I simply meant- "

"I know what you meant," she sneers, and it is then that she once more slides fully into herself. Gold eyes literally flashing at him, and yet all he sees are those blue, blue, blue as the sky ones in their stead - bluer than this naïve little girl's true skin, bluer than the Atlantic Ocean.

"Fine," he snaps back, taking a step closer to her and forcing her, by virtue of his height advantage, to look up at him, "stay, but make sure to grow a backbone next time you morph." And as her mouth falls open in outrage, he narrows his eyes and grits out, "You chose this, Raven. You chose me. Remember that the next time he comes calling in your head. No one forced you into this."

With that, he moves back, and for one thrilling moment thinks he's successfully driven the point home.

Then, she opens her mouth.

"You're so full of shit," she says, and it is not anger this time, but something distinctly worse. "You don't even believe the things you're saying, do you?"

He narrows his eyes at her once more before summarily leaving the room, and his departure no doubt signals both the closing of the door, and the end of the discussion.

No doubt.

His patience and tolerance stretch for less than a year. By the end of March, he gladly bids farewell to Emma and Riptide and Angel as they part ways. The White Queen attempts to lure Mystique away as well, but Erik will not allow it. He convinces Azazel to remain, both due to the nature of his so-called mutation and the man's own temperament. Azazel is a quick route of escape from any life-threatening situation, a generally personable being, and, if nothing else, Mystique seems oddly fond of him. Perhaps it is due in part to the man's appearance, so otherworldly and strange, much like Raven's own.

He himself now finds he would much rather be alone in his endeavors, as even their small number grates on his nerves more often than not, but Mystique will not leave, and so Azazel must remain, in order to safeguard her. It is the only way to be certain she will not come to harm.

And it is the very least he can do for all their sakes.

So it is for the rest of that year, and on into the next. The three of them move around and through the world much more easily than ever before, than even he had on his own those few years ago, when his only thought had been of Shaw and the manner of that monster's death. Now, one of his companions is a man, a being, as he has his suspicions regarding Azazel's origins, who not too long ago carried out the wishes of that very monster whose death he so desperately craved. Now, it is he who commands this same being, he who briefly also commanded the other two, Emma and Riptide, and the irony, the absurdity of this fact is lost neither on him, nor on Mystique, nor, truthfully, on Azazel and the others.

It does not go unnoticed by Charles, either, as two days following the initial split in their ranks, another one of those little "messages" comes barging into his head.

"Is it everything you had dreamed it would be, my friend?"

He does not respond, and yet, with his silent refusal to engage in conversation, he in a way answers Charles' question.

In search of the truth behind rumors of a powerful mutant, they enter first Germany and then Poland, and are barely ten minutes within the latter's borders when Charles starts badgering at them - or, rather, at Mystique, as he himself is not the target of this particular message, it seems.

There is snow on the ground, and it is cold, and white, and he is wearing black and red but easily can he see the stripes, and feel it, feel the way of things, and he will not think of it or put a face to it, or to them, or recall exactly, but the-

Distantly, he feels himself being shaken, but it is not until the slap across his face that he looks and sees Mystique, Azazel, the snow of midwinter some 20-odd years later, and not the grime and savagery and misery of the camp those many years before.

Mystique stands in front of him, very close and with her hand still held aloft, and he immediately thinks to raise an eyebrow in amused response, perhaps remark about her inclination towards physically assaulting him in this manner.

Yet he finds himself unable to go through with such actions. He blinks, and even that feels like quite the undertaking.

Her face contorted in worry, confusion, some other emotion he is either unable or most definitely unwilling to decipher, Mystique slowly stretches her hand out towards him once more, this time wrapping it tightly around his arm as she maintains steady and cautious eye contact.

Next, he thinks to himself, will be the soft voice of reassurance as she undoubtedly proceeds to spew inanities at him - words designed to comfort and reassure.

"We should leave," is what actually falls out of that mouth. It is then quickly followed by the somewhat confusing, "You shouldn't be here, right?"

At this point, he does manage to lift his eyebrows, but his unvoiced question is soon answered in kind.

"Surely the circumstances are not as grave as to warrant you being here, of all places, Erik."

"You needn't suffer needlessly," Mystique says aloud, but the words are not hers.

For several seconds following that, all is cold heavy overwhelming silence, and then he blinks once more.

Then, he narrows his eyes at Mystique, shoots a quick glare over at Azazel for good measure, and forms quite carefully in his mind the words "Stay out of my head, Charles."

"We have work to do," he says aloud, and though their time in Poland is brief, the three of them do not leave until the mission is indisputably complete.

He keeps his helmet securely on his head for the duration, and feels no regret for its necessity.

It first becomes apparent following the incident in Hong Kong, where they all are lucky to even escape with their lives. It is not a point of contention, however, until later that year, roughly three years to date from the crisis on Cuba. They are back in Russia, and stealth had been the key to this particular mission.

Stealth is not something he personally excels at. His mutation is flashy, and he has never sought to hide the truth of his existence. This fact once more very nearly costs him not only his own life, but also his companions'. It is a grave error indeed, and serves as something of a wakeup call.

He has underestimated this need of his for proper motivation, and, when the guns zero in on them and he is unable to instantly turn them away, he is overcome with shame and remorse and anger, anger at his own weakness and his attempts to lie to both himself and the others about this glitch that is rapidly increasing in magnitude.

His well of inspiration has dried up.

"Erik!" Mystique screams, just as the first human fires a shot from his gun, and although he draws on his power full-force, with everything he has, nothing comes of it. Instead, there is a quick flash of red, the lingering smell of sulphur, and suddenly in Mystique's place naught but the rapid circulation of air.

Yet, as he swallows his pride and begins running in the opposite direction from the troops, the truth of the matter will not leave him - that, were it not for Azazel, Mystique would now be shot, potentially dead.

And he again would have been the direct cause of one of his own coming to harm.

His seemingly waning power is officially a problem, and he knows, knows, knows somewhere deep inside where the root of this difficulty lies, and yet the only way to address it is lost to him.

He cannot turn back, and if there now is no way forward, what path is left to him?

He sits that night in a hotel room, a small ratty affair that, even years ago with little money to his name beyond that of loathsome Nazi gold, he would not normally have tolerated, let alone paid for. This is a different time, however, and after the incident in the Square today he must lie low, even though it grates, this hiding they must always do following the completion of any operation.

He does not know where Mystique and Azazel are now, only that the agreed meeting place is always Switzerland. Perhaps, the two of them are already there, holed up in significantly finer surroundings than his and waiting for him. Perhaps, though, they are somewhere else entirely, and his actions, or critical lack of such, today signify the severing of ties. Perhaps, there is no coming back from this mistake.

It would not be the first time, and, if such is the case, is not likely to be the last either. He has never truly got on well with others, even before the War.

There are only a very small number of exceptions, and as he sits in his shithole of a hotel room he does not allow himself to think of them, of him, the root of his current problem.

He keeps the helmet on, as well.

Two months later, four days past the third anniversary of the Cuban missile crisis and the humans' first public encounter with mutant kind, he waits at the appointed location, at the agreed upon time, and stirs his plain coffee manually, spoon in hand.

He does not wait long.

A bell chimes in the café, and he knows the identity of the person, persons, entering without a doubt. As they draw near his table for two, he feels for the metal caps on the other chair's feet and pointedly pushes them, and the chair itself, out in a gesture of goodwill.

"Such a gentleman," she retorts, gracefully dropping down onto the seat, and without further ado casually waves off the other two. Angel and Riptide each send steely looks his way, but off they go, farther into the café and out of earshot.

That leaves the two of them, and not even five seconds pass before he's aching to see that smug smirk of Emma's disappear.

He instead calmly, slowly, lifts his cup to his mouth and sips at it, and when she comes poking at the edges of his consciousness, he calls to mind that second meeting of theirs - the screeching of a metal footboard, pained gasps, and the decided willingness on her part to cooperate.

It does not have the desired effect, though, as in response he "sees" the same encounter from her perspective.

"Such recklessly brave men," she mentally comments as the scene unfolds again. "So devoted to. . . those principles," he hears next, and now sees himself through her eyes, as he and Charles catch her and drag her back to the bed frame.

He is witness to his own face as he forces the metal to bind her in place, wraps it around each wrist and squeezes. "So then you can just tell us. Where is Shaw?" he demands, and then forces a rod to tightly coil about her throat. Then Charles is saying, "Erik," in a low voice, as the metal constricts, and another post bends around either of her upper arms. "Erik, that is enough," Charles tells him, and it is a whisper, a plea, and a warning all, as he turns to look at Erik and stands, stands, right by his side.

"Stop it," he now orders aloud, and, as the vision dissipates, it is true he did not intend to shout that, but neither did he mean for the words to come out strangled and breathless - like they have.

Emma is simply smirking back at him unrepentantly, and reaches across the tabletop to claim his coffee as her own. Just prior to taking a sip, she says with the cup at her lips, "You make it too easy, Erik."

"Magneto," he instantly corrects, and then immediately regrets it as Emma's eyebrows raise and he realizes the tone of his voice had left something, strength, to be desired. He rallies himself, though, unwilling to be bested by this cruel, petty, selfish woman, and says in a deliberately low pitch, "Don't presume to know my mind, Frost. I am not Shaw."

The cup, his cup, comes clattering down to its saucer with a loud clink, and all humor is wiped from her face. "That's unquestionable," she declares with utter contempt. Then, she goes on to add, "He was no coward, no hypocrite, either."

Her chair suddenly topples to the side, sending her sprawling to the floor in an undignified heap of pale limbs and even paler clothing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Angel and Riptide peremptorily stand up across the room, but pays them no mind as he too gets to his feet. He takes two steps around the small table, and distantly notes that already people are turning their heads to stare.

As he towers over the White Queen, as he meets her pathetic glare with calm resolve and resignation towards his now unavoidable course of action, he finds himself smiling.

"You're pathetic," she hisses up at him. "You don't even know what you want."

He crouches down next to her, and most would deem her beautiful, lovely, someone worthy of attention, but he sees the world how it truly is, with no delusions as to the order of things. "Perhaps, you are right," he admits, "but at least I have the power to get it once I decide."

Emma Frost is cold and calculating but inept and a minor nuisance. He was wrong to ever seek her assistance, and is only proven correct in his conclusion when, at his words, she drops her eyes to the floor and does not look up as he takes his leave.

He exits the café and turns right, towards the hotel room where Mystique and Azazel are hopefully still lodged, and knows without question that Emma Frost is a poor, poor substitute for the real thing.

"You want to go where?" Mystique asks, and he gives in to the urge to smile at the incredible amount of astonishment in her face and voice.

"Azazel will take me Westchester," he repeats calmly, "and what follows will be no one's concern save mine."

"And Charles'!" she retorts, nonplussed. She quickly jumps to her feet from where she had been sitting on the bed - the single, large, hotel room bed - and stalks over to him as he stands near the window. "You really think this is a good idea? How?" Here, she throws up her arms, and increases the volume of her voice, and he does nothing in response, refusing to spur her on, or himself. "He's not going to want to see you, Erik, and, even if he does for some weird Charles reason, you don't really want to see him." Mystique takes a step back and crosses her arms over her chest defensively. She then eyes him with something very much like scorn. "You've made that pretty damn clear the last few years."

There is something hidden in her words, be it the tone or the phrasing or even simply the cadence, that causes him to replay them over in his head. So, while she glares at him from a foot away, and while Azazel, her now obvious lover, mirrors her stance across the room, it suddenly dawns on him that there is more going on here than he has anticipated, that more seems to have been going on for quite some time.

"Do you still speak to each other?" he eventually asks, and Mystique's instant response is reassuring in its normalcy. She scoffs loudly, and rolls her eyes at him, but her posture relaxes somewhat, even hunching into what he would describe as a slouch. It is interesting. He does not think he has seen her stand so, in such a noticeably self-conscious manner, for a long time, years, perhaps. He half expects her to shift into that bland blonde girl he first met those years ago, for the body language she now exhibits is nothing so much as what Raven had displayed back then.

"Do you?" he presses, and at his insistence she in turn abandons all pretense.

Her head drops down, along with her crossed arms, and she says in a quiet yet brittle voice, as she stares at her feet or his feet or the carpet, "No."

He frowns because that is definitely not the answer he expected, but she does not appear to be finished. Suddenly, her head lifts, and she meets his eyes squarely, if still with some trepidation.

"I talk to. . . Hank, sometimes," she confesses, and he again smiles at her, and it is no doubt just as humorless as the one before. Of course she talks with Hank, trades letters with him, perhaps, or even does as he hopes to do and has Azazel teleport her to some agreed upon meeting place. Although, a meeting place Hank would be able to hide away in, looking as he does, large in stature and with blue fur, is difficult to imagine.

"Of course you do," he says to her, speaking his thoughts aloud. Her eyes narrow as though she expects some taunt or rebuke from him, but he simply waits her out, keeps his eyes and face empty until her suspicion has once more receded.

"You're not mad?" Mystique asks him quietly, and out of the corner of his eye he catches movement as Azazel noticeably shifts position where he leans against the back wall of the hotel room.

"No," he answers her, easily. "Truthfully, I had expected something of the sort."

She blushes, ducking her head again, and he takes a step forward to place a hand lightly on her upper arm.

"You once called me a fool," he begins, and immediately her head jerks up, her eyes wide from shock. "Then, you said I was a hypocrite," he adds ruefully, at which point the blush coloring Mystique's cheeks increases, but so too does the small smirk twisting her lips ever so slightly.

"I did," she agrees, in a low, deep voice, and he chuckles when, in response to that sultry tone, Azazel promptly stands up straight from his lean, even taking two slow steps towards them.

He meets the other man's eyes, and pointedly removes his hand from Mystique's skin. Then, looking into her eyes once more, he says what's been building inside of him for years, for a lifetime, for the space of time between that cursed beach and this too cramped hotel room.

"I do regret it," he tells her, and it is, to all three of them in this room, a whisper.

Mystique doesn't respond, not vocally, and he isn't the one who'd be able to discern what her thoughts at the moment are, but she does nod at him, and that smirk of hers shifts into something a little more tender, and a great deal more understanding.

"We all do," she says, and this time it is her hand on his arm, and her example he admits he wants to emulate, "even him." She takes another deep breath and he notices, but does not comment on, the fact that there are now tears making her gold eyes shine and, when she speaks again, a tremor to her voice. "Especially him," she confides, and there is a world of guilt and shame in her expression.

And it is not even a fraction of what he feels must be written on his own skin, carved in deep, just as painful and disgusting as the number he bears.

It is the certain knowledge that he paralyzed his only friend, then betrayed him, and now must go and face him so he can ask his help for purely selfish reasons.

It is the knowledge that, in this assuredly, he is a coward, and has been for more than three years.

If not his entire adult life.

Over the years, he has become accustomed to Azazel's unique method of travel, but he doubts he will ever feel truly comfortable moving via teleportation. In truth, the only form of transportation he finds consistently free of potential snags is the simple act of walking, and that is due to the fact that, for all that it's chiefly comprised of metal, a plane or train or motor vehicle of any sort also in turn seems to set off a chain reaction within him, almost a defense mechanism really. He instantly and without exception reacts to the presence of the metal in the structure, subconsciously, even instinctively it seems, and thus spends the remainder of his time within any sort of vehicle actively trying to control his urgeneeddesirewish to touch it, mold it, hold it, transform and manipulate it until it is something entirely different from its original form, something of his own making.

Azazel's way is more abrupt and disorientating, but much better suited to him in the long term. He has no wish to unintentionally crash a plane, or sink a ship, which, when considering his destination and the circumstances surrounding his "visit," is not far from the realm of possibility.

He steps close to the man, reaches down to tightly grasp the offered hand, and his last image before they disappear is Mystique's face, simultaneously open and closed to him, much like a book he had read some years ago and is now struggling to recall specific passages from.

In a word, her expression is foreboding, and then-

He staggers, tripping on the suddenly thick and unexpected grass beneath his feet, and Azazel is kind enough in that moment to brace him up while he attempts to regain his equilibrium. Although, as he lifts his head up finally and takes in the picturesque exterior of the estate, he is certain any stability he now achieves is short-lived.

It is relatively early in the morning here in New York, and the air is still chill enough that the fog has not yet lifted from the grounds. The view is like something out of painting, or a fancy postcard, and all at once he wishes he were anywhere but here.

"Thank you, Azazel," he says quietly, and puts space between them before he can reconsider. "I will call the room when I'm ready," he then confirms, and receives a nod of agreement in response. There is another flash of red and the lingering traces of sulphur which signal Azazel's departure, both completely at odds with the surroundings and the mood of this Westchester manor, and then he is alone, standing on this slight hill in the dawn of a new day.

He breathes in and out several times, reaching for calm and composure and the silence of his mind.

Then, he takes off the helmet he put on back in Switzerland, back with Mystique and Azazel, back where he is not seeing this familiar and yet untouchable land, back where he is in control, back years and years before, back on that beach, back in that mirrored room, back when he had permanently severed a great many things, including an irreplaceable friendship and a spinal cord.

And, even though it takes a minute or two more, he is still unprepared when it finally comes. . . back.

"Hello, my friend. Won't you come in out of the cold? We have a great many things to discuss, I think."

No doubt Charles sees him before he sees Charles, but he himself can't have changed even a quarter as much in appearance as Charles has. More than three years have passed since he last saw this man, and if he did not know better he would think it was someone else entirely.

He stares openly, even stops mid-step on the gravel of the drive in his confusion and astonishment and. . . horror.

Then, there is a quirk of those lips, and the recognizable lifting of eyebrows, and he is able to move forward once more.

When they are in front of each other, when he stands directly in front of Charles, "Erik," is spoken aloud, and the shock of hearing Charles' actual voice causes him to draw in a quick breath.

"Charles," he answers in kind, and there the quirked lips widen into a smile, and the eyebrows relax and lower.

"Go ahead and say it," Charles tells him suddenly, and although there is humor in his voice, the underlying message is surprisingly bold, and aggressive.

"You look awful," he states, and at Charles' lack of reaction merely continues with, "though I doubt I'm the first to remark upon it."

"No," Charles agrees, and then with practiced, practiced, habitual, casual, ease, he lowers his hands down to the large rims of the wheelchair wheels and smoothly about-faces. As he then easily begins propelling himself inside the house, he says, over his shoulder, "And I daresay, you won't be the last, either."

He himself remains on the threshold for another few seconds, admittedly savoring the feeling of being here once again, in this country, in this exact place, in this very moment, until Charles spins himself around again and, like he'd done years and years before, speaks aloud what Erik is thinking.

And still, like years and years before, he's not sure whether that's Charles' telepathy at work, or simply. . . Charles.

"Don't like the new style?" he asks lightly, reaching up to glide a hand over his completely bald head.

"What on earth made you shave your head?" he asks in return, and realizes only after the fact that his tone of voice was perhaps a bit brusque. Attempting to deflect any mental peeking on Charles' part in response, he then decisively steps into the mansion, focusing solely on moving forward and shutting the door firmly behind himself.

When he turns around again, the humor is gone from Charles' face, replaced with something a little more wistful. Although, his voice is oddly upbeat as he answers, saying, "Hank finally managed to convince me." At Erik's no doubt puzzled reaction, Charles chuckles briefly, before adding, "Oh, quite a bit has changed, my friend, but one thing remains certain: Hank's ingenuity knows no bounds. You didn't think a little thing like an explosion would prevent him from resurrecting Cerebro, did you?"

There is an awkward silence that follows, as he is at a loss for words in the face of such seemingly goodwill. There is no animosity here. Where is the blame? Surely by now Charles should have said something, something, anything about-

But then suddenly there is a hand held out before him, palm up and open. It is closer to the ground than it was before, yes, but still the same hand, the same man, for all that his appearance now - too thin, too small, bald, deep circles under his eyes, and a sadness and gravity that wasn't there before, before, before the world went to Hell - stirs up uncomfortable and painful memories of Erik's own so-called childhood.

But it is still Charles, and his hand remains open, and his house, and in return Erik allows his thoughts to flow wide.

The lips purse, and the brows draw near each other and down, and now that he knows what to look for he has no difficulty recognizing Charles.

"Come, Erik," he is told, and as he yearns to reach forward and grab a hold of that hand, but instead settles for taking a few steps closer, a thought slides into his head that is not his own, "let the past rest. I hold no grudge against you.

"I never have. My friend."

Charles is the point between rage and serenity. He is the very embodiment of light, the presence of all shades and colors, all emotions and experiences across the spectrum, at once and in infinite number.

Erik is the absence, the black hole into which everything is swallowed into screaming silence, but next to Charles, at his side, with him in mind, he too is full. He too is calm and at peace.

Nothing is black and white, except them, and even they, together, are gray.