Important: This is actually a series of stories set in one universe that will be written out of chronological order. Unfortunately, this site presently does not have proper support for this type of work, and thus, I have to post it as a multi-chaptered fic. As of right now, I don't know how much of this there will be and how timely updates will be. Review, make suggestions, inspire me. Let's see how much I end up writing in this verse.

Warnings: There will eventually be slash, although presently, they are just two friends being adorable children with warm and fuzzy feelings. Despite the genres marked, there is most definitely a plot, and it will surface soon enough. Little Charles is cheesy. As you can see from his flirtation skills in the movie, he doesn't get much better over time. Erik will turn out a little different from growing up with Charles, but I leave it to you to determine if it's too huge a characterization jump. Again, there will be slash. Just so you are duly warned.

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Title: To Catch A Thief

Summary: Charles goes to catch a burglar in his kitchen, barely escapes being killed, and gets a little lost.

Something foreign wakes him, and as he blinks at the dying embers in the fireplace, Charles Xavier isn't quite sure what. It's not the rain pattering on the windowpanes, of that much he is certain, and nothing else seems out of place in the dim firelight. The kitchen, he realizes as his mind picks it out, and he rises quietly, going to take his baseball bat out of the cupboard. A burglar is in the kitchen, and Charles fully intends to make his mother proud by catching him. Maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can distract her from Kurt and the mini bar in her room.

He tiptoes out of his room and down the stairs. The kitchen door is ajar when he creeps up to it and peers in.

He gasps.

It's a boy, a little bigger than himself, rifling through the fridge.

The intruder jumps at the sound and whips around, glancing at him, at the bat in his hands. Wild eyes cast around swiftly before the other waves his hand at the counter. Charles almost drops the bat in wonder.

A knife is sliding out of its rack, tipping over in midair.

Suddenly, it's flying at him, and he's in. Inside a mind as sharp as the blade that misses his ear by a hair's breadth. It's only too easy to slip off the edge, and he falls.

He's trying to move a coin on a wooden desk, but it refuses to budge.

"Drei."

A gunshot.

He jumps.

But Erik doesn't. He doesn't believe it, doesn't want to believe it's real as he slowly turns in shock.

Charles covers his mouth with his hands to silence a gasp.

Mama is crumpled on the floor, still and bleeding.

That's when it kicks in, the metal, the pain, the anger. The bell on the desk crumples as he snarls. It only makes him angrier, and he screams. Because, only seconds ago, it could have made a difference, but no. No. He takes it out on the shelves, the guns, the helmets, and screams some more. Because the tools and tables in the next room are flying wildly in the air now when only a minute ago, he couldn't even nudge one measly coin, and it would have mattered. He could have saved her.

Mama is dead because of me. I couldn't save her.

The realization drains him, and everything —the anger, the frustration, the pain— just dies inside, and it's cold. Cold, empty and broken.

I killed her. He hates himself, hates his powers, the coin, the doctor, hates everything. I killed Mama.

No! Charles tries to tell him through the tears. It's not your fault, Erik. It's not your fault! You didn't do anything!

But Erik can't hear, can't even cry as something cold and hard is pressed into his hand. That accursed coin won't even leave him alone.

.

The next time he opens his eyes, he's strapped to a table, and he can't feel anything but the cold. A white hand descends on him with a scalpel, and he can't make himself move away. He's afraid now, and Charles closes his eyes because he doesn't want to see. Then the pain comes, sharp and searing, blocking out everything. The metal won't move, and he can't even scream.

.

He wakes in a small windowless room, naked and shivering in a corner on a thin bunk. His entire body hurts —his arms, his legs, even his insides—, and he wants nothing more than a scalding hot shower.

.

The smell of death overpowers the scent of the grass beneath his feet. There's no one in this corner behind the doctor's building, but the air is still heavy with despair more solid and palpable than the dirt and ash all around. He's learning to sense the metal around him, even what he can't see, and he managed to move some bigger things today. Herr Doktor was delighted.

There's a discontinuity in the wire of the fence, and as he approaches for a closer look, it widens invitingly. He folds it back, marveling at the way it responds to his will, and crawls through the resulting hole. He closes it again, but it won't go back to the way it was, and he gives up shortly. He's still not very good.

He turns and walks away from it, looks back after a few steps. Where will I go? he wonders. He doesn't know what's out there.

He keeps walking. It has to be better than this, he tells himself. It has to be.

People are shouting behind him. He breaks into a run. Bullets whiz past, and he speeds up, doesn't even glance back. He can't feel his legs, can barely breathe, but I can't stop now, he knows. I can't stop.

Herr Doktor is yelling now. The gunshots stop. The doctor wants him alive. He doesn't slow.

Suddenly, it's quiet, and he can't see anything but trees on every side. Still, he keeps running.

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They find him in the forest. He snatches their guns and either shoots or bludgeons them. He feels dirty when it's over. He drops the weapons and steals their travel supplies. He walks towards the metal until he finds their vehicles and kills the guards with their own weapons. It doesn't take long for him to figure out how to drive.

.

Eventually, the car won't move any further, so he continues on foot and steals another —and more supplies— at the next checkpoint. He doesn't know where he's going, but the ground tells him this is the way, so he keeps going. He's almost out of food when he reaches the water, but it doesn't matter. He's tired, so very tired. He falls in gracelessly, letting himself float along with the current.

I'm going to see Mama again, he thinks, and that sounds nice. Peaceful. I get to tell her I'm sorry. He closes his eyes.

An anguished grunt brings him back to himself.

Erik is curled up on the floor, his head in his hands. "Wer bist du? Was tust du mir an?"

Charles frowns. He doesn't understand the language, but they're still connected, so he searches for Erik's intention. He finds it, and he thinks he can convey his meaning telepathically as well.

I'm sorry, Erik, he says, moving closer to kneel down beside him. My name is Charles Xavier. I was only trying to defend myself. I didn't mean to see all that. He wipes Erik's tears away with his fingertips and helps the older boy sit up. Did I hurt you?

Confused eyes search his face, distrustful. Eventually, Erik seems to arrive at how they are communicating through the language barrier and warily thinks, How are you doing this? at him.

"Oh." He wipes his own tears on his pajama sleeve and offers a reassuring smile. Calm your mind. I'm like you.

The other shakes his head in rising panic. "Nein. Nicht so wie ich. Nein."

He winces. Please, Erik, calm your mind. Please, y—you're hurting me.

This surprises Erik enough that he temporarily forgets his paranoia. Tentatively, he touches Charles's cheek with some curiosity. Charles carefully reaches up to cover Erik's hand with his own smaller one.

It's all right. I promise I won't hurt you. I always knew I couldn't be the only one, the only one who was...different. You can control metal with your thoughts?

Erik nods once, hesitant, suspicious.

I can...connect my mind with others', is the explanation he settles for. I'm like you.

Erik studies him intently, staring. At length, he seems to accept that they are alike. He looks down at his other hand. He's shivering. "Ich dachte, dass ich allein wäre."

Charles shakes his head and takes hold of Erik's other hand as well. You're not alone, Erik, and you don't have to steal. We have plenty of food; take as much as you want. In fact... He smiles, tightening his hold on those long, cold fingers. If you want, you'll never have to steal again.

It takes Erik several moments to catch his meaning, and aquamarine eyes widen in surprise. You... You want me to stay?

"Yes!" Charles blinks and quickly looks away as if at once surprised and abashed by his outburst. "I mean..." Well, only if you want to, he amends sheepishly.

Erik pulls his hands away, still wary. Why? I almost killed you.

Charles chuckles wryly. To be fair, I almost clobbered you senseless with a baseball bat and called the police. He holds out his hand. Let's call it even?

Erik wants to argue that they're not nearly the same, but he's hungry. And in a world he'd accepted as being cold, dark and ugly, Charles and his house are the warmest, brightest, most beautiful things he's ever seen. He shakes the offered hand. You want me to stay? he asks again. Because he can't believe it, can't believe he's being offered a place, a home, in this stranger's unimaginably luxurious abode.

"Yes." Charles rises and helps him up. Do you want to? It sounds too good to be true, and he's afraid to even want it, but "Bitte," Charles tries, and Erik thinks he's gleaned enough to give the right answer. Charles lights up like the sunrise before he can even wrap his tongue around the words.

"I want to."