No More Hiding

Summary: It's Raven who finds the single flaw in his theory, and asks the innocent question that changes everything. "When you say no more hiding, Erik, do you mean that for everyone? Even . . . Charles?"

Rating: K+ (mentions of child abuse)

Genre: romance ; angst

Canon Character(s): Charles Xavier/Professor X ; Erik Lehnsherr/Magneto

OC Character(s): none

Set During: X-Men: First Class

Notes: My best friend demanded a fluff fic for X-Men. Happy New Year, Crazytenor42!This was what it ended up being. It's going to be told from Erik's POV in present tense and third person (which isn't what I normally write in, so I apologize for any mistakes.)

Hmm. It also ended up being . . . very different than what I intended. I don't think I quite followed with canon!Erik here . . . oh well.

~ Erik Lehnsherr ~
The team of half-trained mutants that Charles and Erik have assembled is exactly that – half-trained mutant children. Out of all of them, only Hank puts his to some good use and only Raven is on the path of full control – Alex still needs lots and lots of target practice, and Sean still needs more time to gain confidence in his abilities. But that may as well hold true for all of them, because Erik knows that Charles holds back, that there's still some things the telepath has left unsaid and untested, and he isn't quite sure how many more ways he can try and force the telepath to hold true to the same "believe in yourself" mantra that's driven the rest of the team.

So, instead, he focuses on the idea of hiding.

Raven, for instance. She's hid her entire life behind that blonde-haired, dark-eyed, pale-skinned façade. He works with the same bluntness Shaw used, but without the pain: "You want society to accept you. But you can't even accept yourself."

And then, later, he tells her that she's perfection the way she is.

She finally seems to be getting it, as she rises from his bed proud and blue-skinned and gold-eyed and red-haired, and he feels a sense of rising satisfaction. Here is one of the few areas where the telepath has failed, after all, and Erik feels perfectly all right with gloating about it, especially since it's Charles's own sister.

Until, as she's leaving, she hesitates.

Sometimes, Erik thinks, despite all the harm Shaw did to him, at least he gave Erik a sense of confidence, a sense of worth. Raven's lived high and mighty, and she's as insecure as a baby.

"When you say no more hiding, Erik, do you mean that for everyone?" Raven asks, turning to face him.

He keeps his eyes on her face. All her life, he bets, she's been objectified as something to hang off boys' arms and warm their beds; he won't do her the discourtesy of keeping her in that cage. And it's disturbingly easy to keep his eyes away from her body.

"Yes," he insists, standing. This is the essential point; if Raven gets nothing else out of his memory, it should be this. "We should never have to hide, because we should never have to fit in. Society should fit in with us."

Raven's eyes flicker from gold to dark and back to gold."Even . . . Charles?"

It's like someone's taken a match and lit a flame in his gut. Erik's hands twist into fists, and his face hardens, and the lamp beside the bed trembles ever so slightly.

Erik's known he has a tendency to be overprotective. It's a mixture of the way his parents raised him, to always be kind to everyone, and the fact that he's lost so many that he loved to brutal deaths. And Charles – Charles with his innocence and optimism and inability to mistrust – Charles had instantly struck Erik as someone to be protected. He won't stop Charles from making his choices, even if he makes the wrong ones; he will, however, make sure that he protects Charles's right to make those choices.

"Why does Charles have to hide?"

The words come out cold as ice and hard as granite. He works them carefully through his mouth; Raven is merely the messenger. But if anyone's hurt Charles. . .

Raven flinches anyways, and she flickers back into human form for a brief second. "Because we asked him to," she says.

Erik blinks. Out of all the responses, this was not the one he expected. "What?"

"I'm his sister, Erik, and even I ask Charles to shut off his telepathy around me," she continues, and it's a voice fraught with regret. "You did too. And Hank and Sean and Alex – we all asked him to dampen his abilities around us. Isn't that hiding?"

For the longest moment, Erik can't speak. For a half-trained, insecure child seven years his junior, she's . . . got quite a valid point.

Charles has been hiding.

And Erik made him.

The implications are like a bucket of cold water in his face. For all his speeches and confidence, for all his posturing and training, he couldn't even do the decency of applying his own philosophy to his best friend.

His first friend.

Raven sees his face, and she stops flickering. "Charles likes you," she says abruptly. "A lot. He makes friends very quickly because he's a telepath, but he doesn't ever relax with them, be himself. He can't. If he got drunk and lost control, he might very well brainwash them. I told him once that I was his only friend, and I wasn't wrong. If Charles is scared of anything, it's of being himself. But when he's around you . . . it's like that curtain's gone. He's just Charles Xavier."

The door opens and closes, and she's gone.

Erik sits down heavily on the bed. He'd assumed that Charles's over-friendly attitude and easy ability to charm dates and friends alike was something he always did. But now, he realizes, the telepath is lonely. Very lonely.

And if Charles never relaxes around friends . . . well, then what the hell does that make him?

He remembers Charles's easygoing manner around him, the fact that Charles doesn't hesitate to trust him, that Charles shields his mind against whatever Erik's thinking or intending. Hell, that Charles was willing to fall asleep right next to him, and more than once, and it would have been so easy – one twist of Erik's hands around that slender throat, and Charles would have died.

He thinks of Raven's blue skin, and realizes that he doesn't have an issue with not looking at her body because he associates Raven with Charles, and Charles is untouchable, and therefore so is Raven.

Charles is untouchable because Erik's hands are stained with a river of blood, and if he touches Charles, he'll ruin Charles.

But God, does he want Charles.

Abruptly, he remembers that Charles once warned him that particularly strong emotions could leap out to Charles and break through his shields whether he was willing or not, and frantically he tries to recall the method that the telepath lectured them all on how to keep telepaths at bay.

But of course, not being a telepath himself, he can't tell if it worked.

Charles? he calls tentatively.

For a long moment, there's silence, and Erik breathes a sigh of relief. If Charles had been reading his mind, he would have responded instantly – and guiltily.

Then there's a flicker, like someone shining a light on him, as Charles focuses on him. Erik? His voice sounds slightly . . . off. Distracted. Not drunk-distracted – Erik's experienced that voice, during their recruiting drive, more than once, and it was not an experience he'd care to repeat. Just distracted, as Erik had interrupted his musings on his thesis or something. What is it?

A word?

Charles pulls away, but not before an image of the kitchen flashes before Erik's eyes.

Erik pads down to the kitchen, frowning the whole way. Charles usually refrains from speaking in Erik's mind – one, because Erik asked him not to, and two, because generally it tends to startle Erik when he hears a voice in the back of his head. He's gotten better at controlling himself, but still. And Charles, the gentleman that he is, saw Erik's discomfort and, of course, made himself scarce.

Maybe Raven isn't the insecure brat, he muses. Maybe that's just something she picked up from her equally infuriating older brother.

He's not expecting to see Raven huddled outside the kitchen door, and in fact walks right past her before his mind registers her presence. And he's immediately distracted from that fact by the sight of Charles drowning a shot of scotch with an absent-minded frown on his face.

He's never seen Charles drink like that.

It's a measure of how distracted Charles is that Erik leans against the kitchen wall and watches Charles drink for almost a full three minutes and the telepath doesn't notice.

Finally, Erik clears his throat. "Who taught you to drink like that?"

The telepath starts, whirling around and nearly dropping the bottle. His eyes are focused, though, because of course as a telepath Charles has superior control over his body and gets drunk and sober much faster than Erik or anyone else.

"My mother," Charles says reluctantly, after a moment, his eyes skidding away from Erik as if ashamed.

Erik doesn't move, but he can feel the storm of confusion inside him growing. Charles's mother, like Charles, was a high-standing member of society; the mansion and estate is a clear testament to that. And high-standing members of society did not get as obscenely drunk as Charles's method of drinking was going to leave them.

Something is off.

But Charles is moving to sit at the table, arms crossed. "I take it you've just had a lovely heart-to-heart chat with my sister?" he says sourly.

Erik blinks, thrown. "What?"

"She came storming in here – without any clothes, I might add – in her natural form," Charles informs him, eyes impassive. "And preaching about the fact that we shouldn't hide, and that I was an idealistic ninny."

Erik stares. Raven all but adores her older brother. She would never have said something like that.

Would she?

"Oh, she did indeed, my friend," Charles says, and there's a snap to his voice, an inflection on the my friend that makes Erik wince. "Your magic is working wonders already, Erik. Congratulations."

Erik rallies, finally. "She's right."

"And when the humans see her and attempt to rip her apart, how do you plan to defend her?" Charles fires back. "Mind-wiping an entire mob, besides probably making me unconscious from the strain, is not the way to get society to accept mutants."

"You'd let Raven be hurt?"

"No."

"So let her be free, then. Stop holding her back. Stop – " holding yourself back, is what he intends to say.

But Charles interrupts.

"Raven can wear any form she wants," he insists. "I wouldn't care if she was green and purple. But society isn't ready for her yet. It's not even ready for me yet, and I look perfectly normal. And I'd rather they go and beat me up over my mutation than start rounding up pitchforks because of hers. Although I would prefer if you would encourage Raven to at least do me the favor of wearing clothes. I'm her brother, for God's sake; she wouldn't want to see me prancing around naked in my 'natural form'."

It sounds like Charles has been practicing this speech for sometimes, and Erik lets the words wash over him. It's so against everything Erik believes, yet it sounds so right.

He's forgotten, he realizes, that if he's overprotective of Charles, Charles is a thousand more times so of his little sister. Charles would die to save Raven, and he's a fool for forgetting that even if Charles's way of protection is not Erik's preferred method, it's something Charles did because he loved Raven and, until Erik, didn't know there was any other way to go about protecting her.

He can't blame Charles for that.

Erik rubs at his face. Everything seems wrong, tonight, and he hears the swish of cloth that means Raven's gone.

"Charles . . ."

But he doesn't have anything to say.

The telepath's shoulders slump, and the fire seems to drain away from him. "But what can I say?" he says bitterly. "Raven'll believe you over me any day. You're not the old fart, after all."

"Charles," Erik manages to say finally, "you're drunk."

The telepath fixes his blue eyes on Erik. "Oh, really, I hadn't noticed," he says scathingly. "I do thank you for telling me."

Erik sighs, and strides forward to confiscate the bottle of scotch and stow it safely away. Charles is already starting to project now – that's why Erik feels slightly drained, for absolutely no reason – and if he drinks anymore, the entire house'll be dreaming tonight about Charles's fight with Raven, and really, Alex and Sean and Hank don't need the eyeful. Erik doesn't need the eyeful, not in his dreams, because if Charles catches him, friend or no, Charles will thrash him.

He grasps the telepath's arm and starts to wrestle him upstairs. It's slightly disturbing that he knows exactly where the telepath's room is, but he doesn't dwell on it.

Until, that is, the telepath stumbles against him, and Erik feels a brush of desire that has absolutely no connection to him.

Erik halts, abruptly, and Charles crashes against him again.

Raven had said that Charles was hiding. And she had said that Charles never really made friends. And that he never relaxed around them. And that he liked Erik. Charles likes you. A lot. It's like a curtain falls away when he looks at you, and he's just Charles Xavier.

There's more than one way to hide. And society will condemn Charles in more than one way if they realize he's not only a mutant, he's also –

"Erik?" Charles asks blearily, staring at him with confused eyes.

Even worse, Erik realizes, looking down at the telepath he's practically holding in his arms, whenever he looks at Charles, his own curtain falls away, and he's just Erik Lehnsherr, and God help him because he wants this man more than he's ever wanted anyone and more than that, he knows that sleeping with Charles will ruin him for any other person, and suddenly he finds that he just doesn't care.

At this point, Erik realizes that the telepath has stiffened in his arms, hands coming up to press lightly at Erik's chest.

He releases Charles as if he's on fire – but then something changes.

Suddenly, Charles's eyes are bright blue pools of light, pinning him in place, and his hands are fisted so tightly in Erik's turtleneck that even as he edges away, Charles pulls him back to him, and there's a whisper of desire growing ever stronger in the back of Erik's mind that isn't his.

"Charles?" he asks hoarsely, fearfully.

Sometimes, when Charles is drunk, he can't tell the difference between his own emotions and others, and Erik refuses have his heart crushed so brutally if and when Charles wakes up and realizes that he was only acting on Erik's desires, not any of his own, and no longer wants anything to do with him.

And Charles, the cheeky brat that he is, laughs.

"Silly," he says, and his voice echoes in Erik's mind. "I know the difference between when I want someone – " he leans close, eyes disturbingly bright and intoxicating " – and when they want me."

"Charles – " Erik tries again.

Shut up and kiss me. Charles grins at him. I know you want to.

And if Erik's kiss is a little too forceful, too dominant, too possessive, and if Charles clings to him with a grip so tight it's bruising, neither of them care.

Erik wakes to a warm body curled sleepily into his side, light streaming through the curtains, and a pleasant exhaustion ringing through his body. He turns his head to find Charles still sleeping, nuzzling at his chest, relaxed and supine and warm. For once, he can't quite bring himself to sigh at Charles's trusting naivety, because Erik would quite frankly rather cut his own hand off than hurt Charles and anything else who tried would have to get through him first, so instead he pulls Charles closer, pressing a kiss to the dark hair and stroking a light hand down Charles's spine –

And freezes.

There are strange ridges of skin, faint yet present, on Charles's back. And they feel like scars. Lots of them.

Erik raises himself carefully, and keeps his mind calm. It won't do to wake Charles.

And he curses. Aloud.

There are scars on Charles's back. Small and slender and shockingly white against Charles's pale skin, and anger flashes through Erik like a thunderstorm, because there should have been no opportunity for Charles to accumulate scars like that.

Like Erik's.

He isn't aware that his grip is tightening on Charles until the telepath shifts uneasily and wakes.

He looks at Charles, and his expression must be baneful, because Charles looks at him, for the first time, with unease, which really is saying something considering how Erik treated the telepath after they boarded the CIA boat in Florida.

Erik?

Erik places a deliberate hand against Charles's bare back. "Explain," he says, harshly. "Now."

"It's nothing much of a story," the telepath says lightly, too lightly, his blue eyes a shade too innocent. "I had an unfortunate encounter with a window. Obviously, the window won."

Erik narrows his eyes. He's always been good at reading people, and Charles, for all his telepathy and experience with minds, has never been that great at a poker face anyways. Charles shifts uncomfortably against him. "Erik – Erik, ow," he says, tugging against his hold, and Erik releases him automatically. Charles rubs at his arm, blankets pooling around him, hair sticking up in every which direction, and eyes looking everywhere but Erik. Erik sighs and lightly tugs at Charles, and the telepath warily surrenders to lean into Erik's embrace.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes. "But . . . Charles, why didn't you tell me?"

Charles settles against him. I don't like being pitied, he says quietly, closing his eyes, and God, even when he's uneasy he's so damn relaxed around Erik, like he has no sense of self-preservation.

Despite everything, Erik has to smile. "Isn't that my line?"

Do you want this story or not?

Charles's tone is flavored with . . . impatience and . . . fear. Erik's heart twists again, a solid twist that leaves him almost winded, like a physical blow. Charles never snaps. And especially not at him. And Erik has tried, oh dear lord, has he tried his very best to provoke it. So for it to come out, now. . .

Whoever's hurt you, he thinks, slowly and carefully and deliberately, I hope they are no longer among the living. Or I might fix that.

Charles lies still and quiet in his arms, eyes closed, breathing shallow. He doesn't react, and that scares Erik a little more, and without even thinking about it, the metal in the room reacts to his fear.

The door to the bedroom clicks shut, and locks.

The telepath's eyes flick open, and then to the door before settling on Erik, so very blue, curious even in the face of fear. Really, Erik, was that necessary? he says, trying and failing to sound nettled, but at least no longer as afraid.

Erik meets his eyes deliberately. The telepath may find it easier to communicate via minds, but Erik knows that Charles favors the spoken word. Thoughts, after all, are so easily put aside and forgotten; spoken words, though, they are thoughts that have been acknowledged and expressed, and so much more valuable to someone like Charles, who reads minds and sometimes gets annoyed when he can read them but not understand them.

"Whatever shadows are in your past," he says gently, quietly, "I will not turn you away for them." He laughs, a little self-depreciating. Only Charles would fear someone like Erik turning away in disgust. "I'm not letting you escape so easily, schatz." To emphasize the point, he tightens his grip around Charles.

The telepath quirks an eyebrow, and Erik feels the warm touch on his mind, like sunshine breaking through clouds, as Charles attempts to understand his German.

Then he blushes.

"It's not . . . quite . . . anything that bad, Erik," he murmurs, squirming slightly as he attempts to get comfortable. "Just . . . not quite as . . . glamorous and pampered as you thought, once, that's all."

Erik nuzzles idly at the dark hair, smiling to himself as Charles arches into the contact without hesitation. For someone who reads minds, Charles is awfully tactile. And then the smile drops, because one explanation is, of course, that the telepath is touch-starved from his youth – although Erik never really developed that symptom, he knows it exists – and that is a thought that has Erik vacillating wildly between wondering if Charles was simply neglected and wondering if Charles was never touched with a loving intent.

The two, after all, would prompt – do prompt completely different reactions.

"Erik?"

"Hmm?"

"Would you mind? If I . . . well, we . . ."

Erik wonders, for a second, if it's a big indicator that he knows exactly what Charles is asking without even looking at him. Then he thinks about the question for a scant second, and says, No.

Why bother holding back? Charles's shields are strong, to keep him shielded and sane against the hubbub of general life. But they can't protect against everything; strong emotions, loud thoughts, they are enough to break through, as Charles's finding of him in Florida are strong evidence of. And Charles has glimpsed a lot of his mind already, in flashes here and there, and they've shared emotions too, like, well, the night before.

Charles drops his forehead to Erik's shoulder and tucks himself firmly against him. Then there's that sensation of warm sunshine and happiness and trust and affection, and Charles is saying, almost wistfully, My father died when I was very young, you know. I never knew him. And my mother . . . well, I never really knew her that well either, I guess, considering that while my telepathy manifested quite early, it was not before she met Kurt. Kurt was . . . He was, originally, my father's partner, I guess you would call it. He ingratiated himself with my mother, for our money, and I was . . . young, then, too naive to know that most people don't hear the thoughts of their mother's potential suitors and most certainly do not question their mother about it in front of said suitor. No, Kurt never figured it out, Charles assures Erik quickly, sensing the question. I had learned how to blur memories by then, anyways. And I wasn't much of an interest to him anyways.

His mistake, Erik thinks possessively, because he looks at Charles – well, once he gets past the nerdy, grandfatherly cardigans and suits – and sees a bright light that the world doesn't know it has but should be damn well glad it does.

Why, Erik, I didn't know you thought so highly of me, Charles teases.

Erik nips him on the ear. Go on with your story, he says roughly. Erik doesn't like being overly sentimental.

Charles rolls his eyes. There's nothing wrong with it, he thinks, almost petulantly. Then his tone switches. Anyways, Kurt brought a son with him, Cain. Cain . . . He never really liked me, but he also never really noticed me. That is, until Raven. Kurt was . . . I had to blur their minds, you see; I needed Raven to stay, but I also needed them to think she was my sister, and I was inexperienced and Kurt and Cain never really fell for it. Kurt – he got so suspicious that I couldn't stand being in the same room with him, sometimes. And Cain, Cain realized that I'd do anything to keep Raven, and most certainly keep my mouth shut if he . . . well . . . if he . . .

He hurt you.

The telepath winces. Not . . . immediately. Or that badly.

Erik straightens and glares straight at Charles. A beating is still a beating, schatz. And scars . . . He traces a hand over the telepath's back. They are still scars.

Charles snorts. You would know. But there's affection in his tone, and a lingering bite to it, because Charles has a hero complex and thinks Erik needs saving and is completely blind to the fact that he's the one who needs protecting. Oh, and because he's not that fond of Shaw anyways, after he saw whatever Emma showed him.

Continue, Erik prompts.

After my mother died, Charles says after a moment, she . . . I don't know, but she was somehow sober enough to leave the estate and the mansion and the money to me.

He pauses, and Erik feels the dread grow inside his chest, an ugly creature ready to lash out and crush the metal around him and destroy anything, anyone that dares to approach him and Charles, his Charles.

Kurt . . . was not amused. I . . .

And then there's a vague impression of a bottle breaking over his neck, of glass shards, so shiny and deadly, shimmering on the floor and in his hands as he picks them carefully out of his skin, of an angry, drunken voice and fists slamming against pale flesh and blue-black bruises and blood.

Erik snaps back to himself, and warns, Charles, you're projecting.

The telepath winces. Sorry. But, with my mother gone. . . It's true, she didn't pay much attention to us. But even she would have noticed if we turned up with broken bones and bruises. And with her gone, Cain went after Raven.

Erik inhales, a sharp snap of breath. That dread is a beast trembling in rage at its cage, halted only by the need for the story to finish to its inevitable conclusion.

I stopped him, of course, but I wasn't experienced. The results were . . . not pretty. Raven was safe, though, and that was all I cared about. And Kurt . . . went after me. Charles blinks. I don't remember much. My control was gone, my telepathy was out of control, and I was so busy trying to keep myself from ripping his mind into shreds that I almost did not notice until . . .

Hands pull roughly at his pants, hands force him to the carpet, hands grasp for his legs, he struggles, a window breaks, in the distance, and glass shatters and slams into his back and causes lines of jagged fire to race up his back before the ground comes up to meet him, and his breath leaves him, and his vision goes red-orange-yellow-green-blue-purple-black-white, and Cain and Kurt and Raven and Charles, they're all the same person, mixed into one, thoughts of freak and hurt and useless, all screaming in his agony until the whole world goes silent and a face, white walls, a man with too-large glasses, oh poor dear and must be hallucinating and in shock and might need to be transferred to an asylum and –

Erik comes back to himself.

Charles is shaking him, his eyes wide and worried.

He pushes Charles's hands away, and tries not to vomit. Shaw tortured him, yes, but he never tried to dominate Erik that way. He tore Erik's mind and body to pieces, but, God, at least Erik was allowed the dignity of hating Shaw for it while Charles was . . . Charles was . . . Charles . . .

Erik reaches up blindly, seizes Charles, and pulls him down for a brutal kiss. Mine, mine, you're mine, he thinks frantically, hands tightening over Charles, no one will ever lay a hand on you, no one will hurt you, no one will ever touch you, not until they're coming over my dead body, no one, no one, no one.

Charles looks at him, a sweet little strange smile on his face, and says, I know.

Silence falls, for a moment. There's no need to speak.

But there's a growing tension in Charles's body, Erik can feel it under his hands, sense it against his skin, he's a trained killer, he can feel when his prey's uncomfortable.

"What is it?" he murmurs, soft as he can, but it comes out rough with the memories Charles accidentally projected.

And Charles looks at him, for the first time, with fear, pure and unadulterated fear, in his eyes, in his face, and Erik feels the quickening tattoo in the telepath's chest, a steady murmur of don't leave please don't leave me don't like being alone please don't leave in the back of his mind that is Charles's shields slipping again.

Erik presses kisses to his forehead, his lips, his head. "You're mine, schatz," he reminds the telepath. "I don't let go of what's mine. Ever."

A normal person, he supposes, might be disturbed at the possessiveness and the viciousness in that statement. Perhaps it's an indicator of how strange they are that Charles, instead of running, relaxes and relief pours off of him in waves, and really, Erik's unsure of why Charles thinks he of all people might run.

"I'm spoiled goods," Charles mutters by way of answer.

"That's me, you idiot."

"Shaw wasn't part of your family."

"Thank God for that," Erik says. "And I do believe that Shaw stunted my emotional development far worse in that department than your stepfather did, Charles."

Charles huffs a laugh. Liar, he says, warm and gleeful. You have no problem finding those to warm your bed.

Erik tugs at a strand of Charles's hair in retaliation. Brat. He sighs. "I don't see how what Kurt and Cain did to you would make me leave you, schatz. It wasn't your fault. Even if it was . . . no one deserves what happened to you." And I will never let it happen to you again.

Charles nuzzles close, content seeping out of him. You didn't deserve it either, he says sleepily.

"Get some sleep."

'm not tired, Charles protests, even as he curls closer to Erik's body, warm and supine and radiating content.

Erik only has to wait three minutes before Charles's breathing peters out into the steady inhales of sleep, and then he rests his chin against Charles's hair and thinks, In for a penny, in for a pound. But out of all the people he's seduced to his bed, Charles is the one he will never regret, so he can't find it in him to care.

When Charles wakes up, he goes from being too sleepy to care to being too shocked to move that Erik is still lying beside him. It would be amusing if Erik didn't know the reason why.

But he does, so he growls in annoyance, rolls them over, and proceeds to go about giving the telepath another reminder about the fact that Charles is his, that no one will ever lay a hand on him that he does not wish to have on him again, and that Erik will never leave him.

And Charles, the cheeky minx, nuzzles against his chest afterwards, and thinks, Yours.

Sometimes, Erik thinks with amusement, it is all too clear that Charles really does need protection. And more exposure to the real world.

He may be the world's most powerful telepath, but he can't figure out to get into a jumpsuit.

That amuses Erik probably more than it should, so after ten minutes of watching Charles fight with the straps and buckles, he finally rolls his eyes, steps forward, and bats the telepath's hands away. A wave of his hand, and the buckles move smoothly into position, and Erik blinks at just how much metal is in this jumpsuit. Almost too much, really. Charles's suit is more of a weapon than the knife Erik is carrying.

Charles makes a face. "Oh, do shut up," he says crossly. "It's not like we'll wear these in public."

"Why not, Professor?"

"Because I say so, Magneto," Charles fires back, his sweet tone almost enough to hide the poisoned petulance laced among the words.

Erik laughs at him, and raises a hand and drags Charles to him. The telepath makes a short, shocked noise before relaxing in his arms. Erik takes the opportunity to revel in the sheer amount of trust Charles has in him, and to bask in the knowledge that of everyone Charles knows, only with Erik has he relaxed enough to reveal what he has, and to breathe in the scent of Charles and know that in this moment, he is safe, safe, safe.

And he thinks, with no small amount of glee, You need to wear more metal.

Charles huffs against his chest, but doesn't object.

Erik doesn't expect the same amount of . . . guilt to twist into Charles's mind, echoing at the back of his mind because Charles doesn't bother to shield as much with him anymore, and Erik's stopped caring about it at some point although he doesn't remember when, and perhaps he should care that he doesn't remember, but he just . . . doesn't.

"Charles?" he says, alarmed.

"I . . ." Charles shifts within his arms. "Were you . . . uncomfortable? At always being at the mercy of my telepathy? I could teach you, you know, like I taught Raven, to keep me out . . . if you . . . want, it wouldn't be difficult, it's just that you have to – "

Erik presses a finger to Charles's lips and a kiss to his forehead to end his rambling. You never have to hide around me, he thinks. And besides . . .

He thinks about his mother, and the candles, and the menorah, and Charles gasps.

"Erik?"

Erik grins at him again. "You're the biologist, Charles. I manipulate magnetic fields. What's a very magnetic mineral in your body?"

A smile lights up Charles's face – literally, lights it up. Sometimes, Erik's sure that if they could only figure out to wring power from Charles's unflagging optimism and smiles, the mansion would never have to pay for electricity. Ever.

"Erik, that's incredible," Charles says, and immediately sets off pondering all the uses of his new find.

Erik kisses him to shut him up, and wonders vaguely when he became so sentimental to think of such a move that way, because really, there seems to be no other way to shut Charles up when he gets going but he really shouldn't think of it that way, because Charles does shut up.

Sometimes.

Rarely.

I sleep talk sometimes, Charles offers. According to Raven.

Erik rolls his eyes and drags Charles to join the others so that they go to the army base and get this over with.

When Charles asks if he's ready, it's all Erik can do not to blurt out that he's been waiting his whole life for it, training his whole life for it, wanting it his whole life. Instead, he merely tugs off his gloves, gets on the landing gear, and, without a bit of shame, asks silently, Are you with me?

He gets a burst of pure emotion – happiness and content and attraction and devotion and love – and, somewhere in the background of that, Charles says, Yes.

Erik finds the submarine easily, once he has a general location. Its metal sings for Erik, calls for him – there's no way he can miss it. But it's just so damned heavy, and even when Erik moved the satellite he wasn't trying to lift it, against all the pressure of the water and the push of the gears and rotations of the propellers. He feels his heart pick up and his face turn red and his breaths turn into shallow gasps as he struggle to lift the submarine, a reverse Atlas.

And then sunshine touches his mind, a subtle reminder of the point between rage and serenity.

Erik's known rage. He's known it since he was fourteen and saw his mother get shot because he couldn't move a silver coin. He's known it since the war ended and he came to America and saw the blatant racism. He's known it with every Nazi he's ever gone after and killed. He can feel it too, hovering at the edge of his awareness, a constant companion – his mother, gasping reassurance one moment, gone the next.

Serenity, however, is a stranger.

But if he were to guess, he thinks that he might have come close last night or this morning, Charles snuggled in his arms, trusting and sweet and warm, and if Erik's ever loved anything since his mother's death, it's Charles, with his bright blue eyes and warm, ever-present smile and tendency to ramble and apologize for nonsensical things.

He holds them, weighs them, studies them.

His mother, dying; Shaw grinning.

Charles, smiling so trustingly, so lovingly.

Erik looks down at the submarine, and pushes away the image of Shaw, and chooses Charles.

No one's more surprised than him when the submarine rises, suddenly so lightly and swiftly and easily, as if it's no more than a feather.

Except, of course, Charles, who grins like a child and cheers and says, I knew you could do it.

Charles is an idiot.

Erik doesn't think he can ever say this enough, because Charles really, really is.

As he very gently releases his magnetic field and lowers them back to what was the jet's ceiling, he's almost annoyed enough to snap at Charles when the telepath looks at him, gratefulness and worry mixing in his eyes. Instead, he settles for, What on earth inspired you to do such a fool thing as nearly falling out of the plane?

Charles picks himself up with a few winces. I knew you would catch me if I fell.

Erik sighs, and stands. This optimism of Charles is amusing and is something that makes Erik treasure Charles, but, honestly, sometimes he really is tempted to dash a bucket of cold water in the telepath's face.

You wouldn't dare, Charles warns, edging away and moving to get Moira out of her constraints.

You wouldn't stop me.

Erik gets Raven and Alex out of their restraints, checks that Charles isn't going to faint, and then eyes the mangled submarine that he accidentally dropped onto the beach when he looked up and realized that Charles was about two inches short of falling out of the damn plane and had a minor panic attack.

Okay, major panic attack.

At least Charles is safe now. He hopes.

You're staying here, he tells the telepath firmly as Charles issues instructions to the rest of the team. I'll handle Shaw. And he thinks of a certain coin that he's carrying with him, not caring that Charles is listening.

Worry spikes in Charles's mind, and he sees him worry his lower lip.

But Charles doesn't stop him.

Of course Charles wouldn't. It's Charles.

Erik ignores the panic that races through his veins as he reaches for the helmet, telling himself firmly that it's not his panic. It's Charles, who is once again projecting, but then Erik puts the helmet securely on, and just like that he's free.

His mind is entirely his own now.

It's not that he doesn't trust Charles. He'd follow Charles to the ends of the Earth. But this . . .

This, he must do for himself.

Shaw has to die. Charles has already indicated, more than once, that he doesn't approve. So he has to do it now, before his nerves fail him and what's he set out to do sinks in, because for all of his raging, when he faces Shaw, the trembling starts almost immediately.

So he brings out the coin and sets it rolling forward.

He notes a new set of cuts along his arms and hands as he raises his fingers to send the coin, and thinks idly that at least these scars will have been created with Shaw's death.

Scars.

And, his mind, the betrayer that it is, flashes back to this morning, and Charles, warm and trusting and scarred and –

The coin trembles and halts in mid-air, half a centimeter from Shaw's forehead.

He promised Charles he would never let him go, never push him away, never leave him. He promised. And in all his thirty-two years of life, Erik has never broken a single promise, except, of course, right now.

Right now he's caught between two of the most important promises in his life.

I will kill you for what you did to my mother, Shaw, one day.

I don't let go of what's mine. Ever. You're mine, Charles.

And a tiny little voice in his head whispers, maybe it's time to move on. He's spent eighteen years worrying about Shaw – isn't that enough wasted time? Maybe now it's time to focus on the future.

On Charles.

Charles, scarred yet so innocent, hurt yet so trusting, neglected and beaten but more loving and accepting than anyone who's read Erik's mind should ever be.

And Erik finds that he can't do it.

The coin drops to the floor.

Erik takes a long, shuddering breath and pulls the helmet from his head and thinks, Charles?

Sunshine bursts into his mind so fast that he actually staggers, and Charles is there, strong and worried and oh-so-scared, but even as he babbles and rambles and struggles to express his words, Erik notes that he's still there, standing, of his own free will, he could so easily move his fingers and send the coin through Shaw anyways, Charles isn't stopping him –

Please don't, Charles begs. Please – I – Don't leave me, Erik – I can't lose you – please, Erik –

Erik takes another long breath, and says, out loud, "Charles, come here."

It might take minutes or hours, Erik doesn't know. He stares at Shaw and Shaw stares at him, and they wait.

Then Charles staggers into the room.

Erik's heart sinks. Normally, Charles wouldn't hesitate to come over, to smile, to snuggle into his arms. Normally, Erik would simply have to look at him, and seconds later Charles would be safe in his arms, warm and comforting. Now, Charles simply stands there, lost and scared and confused, fingers pressed to his temple as he holds Shaw still for Erik.

Erik says, again, "Charles, come here."

Charles comes to him like a skittish youngling, halting as if he doesn't know what to do, doesn't know Erik anymore.

"I can't do it, Charles," Erik confides in a rush. I can't, I don't know why, but I can't, Gott, I'm so weak –

Charles looks at him, and his gaze softens somewhat. You're the strongest person I know, he says gently. And you can move on, you're proving it right now. You're not weak. You survived Shaw, and still came out as you are today.

Damaged, Erik thinks.

Charles's eyes flame at that, and displeasure lashes through Erik like a rainstorm. Never damaged, he insists vehemently. Never, never, never. Then he takes a deep breath and steps back and holds out the helmet. If you still want to take vengeance on Shaw, I will not stop you. I can't exactly argue that he does not deserve death. But . . . you said it yourself, we're the better men. You are better than Shaw. And you can prove it.

Erik looks at the helmet, at the sleek grey and blue lines, and thinks of Charles's blue eyes, and idly thinks that there's really no way that the helmet's color and Charles's eyes belong in the same family, because really the helmet is so dull.

He says, "I don't want it, Charles." No more hiding, he adds, and drops what little barriers Raven's taught him to erect, the mental equivalent of baring his throat in submission.

And then Charles is in his arms, kissing him, hands fisting in the jumpsuit.

What are we going to do with him? Erik asks, after a moment, resting his forehead against Charles's and turning slightly on instinct to keep his body as a barrier between Shaw and Charles, knowing that Shaw is frozen but unable to prevent himself from acting instinctively to place himself as a barrier between potential threats and the telepath currently within his arms.

Charles looks at him, and the light in his eyes dims somewhat. I think . . . I'm going to put him to sleep, first, and then try and shut off his mutation. I think I can. And then he can stand trial and rot in prison for all I care.

Erik blinks. The viciousness there was . . . slightly disturbing. Certainly out of place.

He's hurt you, Charles thinks by way of explanation, as Shaw drops like a stone, and I'll never forgive him for that.

Erik kisses him, gently, and wonders, Does Fate hate me or love me?

Who cares if Fate cares? Charles demands, all jealously and fire and petulance.

I don't, Erik thinks. Not anymore.

They leave Shaw broken and trapped – Erik's twisted the metal into a cage and restraints, and Charles has locked away his mutation (permanently, he said, although words failed when him when he tried to describe how) – and emerge triumphant and when Charles runs over to play mother hen with the team, he turns to quietly detail exactly what he will do the teleporter, Angel, and the tornado maker if they even think of hurting Charles. The teleporter and tornado maker seem less than impressed, but they make no move against him or Charles; Angel merely pales and backs away.

That's when the bloody fleets decide to launch missiles at them.

Erik raises a hand, instinctively, and thinks of Charles, and suddenly it takes almost no effort to freeze the hundreds of the missiles in place. Then he hesitates, and Charles comes immediately to his side.

The Erik of before-Charles would have not hesitated to launch the missiles right back at the humans who had dared to fire on them, to declare war on them after they had saved them from nuclear war – but Erik also knows that to do so would be to declare war on the humans in turn.

Erik's lived through a war. If he can help it, Charles never know war – never know the grief of seeing loved ones die, of hungry bellies starved of food and love, of fear and shame and pain. It's true, the telepath's probably gotten a sense of it through Erik's mind, but he's never lived through it. And Erik never intends to have Charles live through it.

A sense of I could stop you, but I won't and Do as you wish flashes through Erik's mind.

He looks at Charles – Charles who he loves and who loves him back so much that he's willing to, apparently, ignore his morals for him – and makes his choice to set his feet in the future and never look back.

"No more hiding," Erik says. "But we are not ready for war just yet. For now . . . compromise?"

Charles smiles at him, bright and happy, and as Erik dismantles the missiles and sends them to the bottom of the sea, he feels peace creep over his mind as Charles presses two fingers to his temple and systematically brainwashes the Russian and American fleets into forgetting what happened and leaving.

He reaches out to Charles. "Let's go home."

Charles tucks himself against Erik. Our home, now, he says, with quiet determination.

Erik gives up, and pulls him into his arms, and kisses him, and he can't think, for once, of any retort he could possibly make, because Shaw is dead and he's at peace and Charles is his, and for now – and, he suspects, for the rest of his life – that's more than enough.

They won't be hiding anymore, not Raven (so proud and glorious in her blue form with cherry hair and gold eyes), not Hank (now just starting on his true potential), not Sean or Alex (with their abilities finally mastered), not even Angel and Azazel and Riptide (the mansion's estate is big enough for them to run around without being seen, and Erik will grit his teeth for every moment Charles spends with them, but they are all mutants, all brothers and sisters, and he will not deny them a safe place to stay and live and be who they are).

And most especially, not Erik and not Charles. He's a metal-bender, Charles is a telepath, and they love each other, and, as far as Erik's concerned, society can go stick its prejudices about their mutant abilities and love for each other in some rather unspeakable places.

No more hiding. For any of them.

And that success, Erik finds, is far sweeter than getting rid of Shaw, and he knows exactly who's responsible for that.

I love you, Erik thinks.

Charles looks at him, and laughs, and kisses him. I love you too.

To have and to hold from this day forward – Erik's thinking of how nice it is to know that Charles is his, and will always be safe in his arms, because Erik will always protect Charles from the world.

For better or for worse – Charles is thinking of Erik's irascible nature and his own tendency to be arrogant, the arguments they've had over their philosophies, and, at the same time, the sense of peace and righteousness that floods them when they're together.

For richer or for poorer – Erik is thinking of the mansion and estate and the fortune Charles has, while all he has to offer is a cache of Nazi blood gold, but he knows, deep down, that Charles doesn't care, and Erik doesn't really care either, because they both know that money means little to their happiness.

In sickness and in health – Charles is thinking of Erik's hatred of Cerebro, especially when it drains Charles and leaves him grey and exhausted, and of Erik's willingness to nurse him back to health despite his hatred of the machine, and his utter trust in Erik to keep him safe when he's out for the count and practically defenseless.

To love and to cherish – Erik is thinking of Charles's neglected childhood, when he was beaten and degraded, and how he will never let Charles feel that despair or longing ever again, because he loves Charles and will cherish him until the end of time.

Till death do us part.

They think the last bit as one, and perhaps it's fitting, because they are one, Erik-and-Charles.

Commitment used to make Erik run far, far away. It was usually only giving other people one more weapon against him, one more hold over him, one more way to slip past his defenses. And usually the person or people only ended up dead. So he stuck with celibacy and then one-night stands and then paid affairs, never letting anyone get too close.

But he'll commit to Charles, because Charles is his and Erik is Charles's, and that's good enough for him. Metal-bender and telepath, sword and shield, queen and king – they are Erik and Charles, and they are one.

And they will never hide again.

A/N: As a side note, the bit about them being a queen and king is a reference to chess pieces, NOT Charles being more feminine than Erik, as my friend decided to tease me about, because the queen is the most powerful piece on the board and it's her duty to protect the king at all costs while the king is basically the whole point of the game (to capture him, that is, and I'm sure the CIA and Shaw would have tried their best to get their hands on him). My utter lack of chess knowledge aside, that was the general idea.